Page 27
Uncle Gideon guided her to Lord Warrick’s side. Her traitorous feet obeyed his gentle urging, but the whole while her mind screamed for her to turn and run.
Standing before the reverend, a squat, sallow fellow, smelling of garlic and brandy, Vangie almost smiled at the irony. It was somehow fitting this offensive cleric, whose dour countenance suggested that anything remotely resembling joy or happiness should be considered blasphemous, presided over the ceremony.
From the corner of her eye, she peeked at Yvette standing beside her, resplendent in a pale apricot gown. The false smile pasted on her lovely face didn’t diminish the unhappiness reflected in her eyes. Vangie looked away lest she give into the despair simmering beneath the surface of her own carefully-constructed poise.
A striking man she didn’t know stood next to Lord Warrick. His turquoise eyes—she’d never seen eyes that unique shade before—were riveted on Yvette, though her cousin didn’t seem to notice. Vangie cast a hesitant glance to Lord Warrick. His stern profile was marred by another large scrape on his jaw.
Whatever had he been about this time?
She presumed the other guests in attendance, no more than a score total, consisted of the powerful nobility who’d been called upon to dispel the gossip surrounding the hasty wedding.
Her gaze downcast, Vangie quietly recited her vows. The icy contempt in her future-husband’s eyes earlier had turned her blood cold.
To the assembled guests, she supposed, her lowered eyes bespoke modesty. But for her, a most reluctant bride, it was the means to stop the burgeoning tears from spilling onto her cheeks. Once they started, she’d become a blubbering fool. She bit the inside of her cheek prevent her lips from trembling. Sniveling females exasperated her, though she greatly feared she was becoming one herself.
Only once during the ceremony did she raise her gaze to meet Lord Warrick’s, as the rector intoned, “To love, honor, and cherish, until death do you part?”
The cleric’s monotone rendering of the vows mirrored the desolation in her heart and most likely, the black fury in the viscount’s. Would he say, “I do,” or would he spare them both from this catastrophe? Albeit, the humiliation should he do so, would be insufferable.
Which was worse, a forced marriage or being jilted? Or bearing the label of a demi-rep?
Lord Warrick’s silver-eyed gaze, brimming with cynicism, held hers captive. “I do.”
Even as he uttered the words, his piercing eyes shifted ever-so-subtly. Possessiveness reflected in their arresting depths. A slight tremor shook her. His lips twitched and slanted, inching upward, promising something she didn’t recognize—didn’t understand.
Surely, it wasn’t relief she felt that he’d uttered the vow. That and some other peculiar emotion she couldn’t identify tumbled around her middle, muddling her thoughts. They left her feeling strange and woozy, as if she’d not eaten in days.
Would casting up her accounts save her from the marriage bed?
