She realized both the vicar and her bridegroom looked at her expectantly. They must have reached the part where she indicated her willingness to become the Marchioness of Burnley.
The vicar cleared his throat and asked again whether she consented to become Edgar Fanshawe’s wife.
She opened her mouth, feeling as though she flung herself off a high mountain. Foreboding shivered through her.
Another voice spoke before she could squeeze the words from her tight throat.
“This marriage will not proceed.”
Ashcroft.
For an incredulous moment, she stood stiffly, staring straight ahead. Had she dreamed that beloved voice? She must have. He hated her. He never wanted to see her again.
Burnley didn’t move either, although he tensed. “Go on, Vicar.”
The vicar, to his credit, looked perturbed and glanced past Burnley down the aisle. “I’m sorry, my lord, but if this man knows of some impediment to the match, I must hear him.”
“He doesn’t know of any damned impediment, he’s just here to cause trouble. Go on, I say, or find yourself another living.”
The vicar whitened, either at the language or the furious tone. “My lord, I protest.”
Their contending voices faded to a background buzz as Diana snatched her hand from Burnley’s and slowly pivoted to peer into the body of the church. Someone stood silhouetted against the light in the doorway. The contrast between the dimness inside and the sunlight outside prevented her seeing him clearly.
Only one man she knew stood so tall and straight, conveyed such leanly muscled power.
“Tarquin?” she asked on a frayed whisper. Her legs trembled, threatened to collapse as she realized he truly was here, not a phantom conjured up by her lonely heart.
“Continue with the service,” Burnley snapped, snatching her hand in a grip that hurt for all his physical weakness. He breathed noisily through his mouth as though mustering every ounce of strength.
“This is most irregular.” The vicar sounded worried and unhappy.
Diana stood puppetlike in Burnley’s grasp. She wanted to run to Ashcroft, fling her arms around him, but some force rooted her to the floor.
“Stop this travesty.” Ashcroft’s deep voice echoed off stone walls like a command from on high. He shifted from the archway and made his way toward her.
Immediately, Diana realized something was seriously wrong. He’d always moved with a crackling vigor that set her heart racing. Now he walked with a cane, slowly, awkwardly, as if every step pained him.
“What’s the matter?” She wrenched herself free and darted out of Burnley’s reach down the aisle.
“The result of a slight altercation.” Ashcroft’s wry amusement was so familiar it made her heart clench with longing.
She blinked away the burning tears distorting her vision. Her breath escaped in a shocked sob.
“Tarquin, what happened?”
She lifted her hands toward him, then lowered them to her sides. She still wasn’t sure why he was here, although surely if he hated her, he wouldn’t stop the wedding.
Or did he intend some warped revenge? Was he here to discredit her in the eyes of her neighbors and destroy her chance of marrying Burnley?
How could he do that? A scandal wouldn’t stop her wedding. Nothing could, apart from her anguished yearning for this man and not the man she promised herself to.
“Tarquin?” she repeated on a rising note.
“Ask your betrothed,” Ashcroft said savagely, and the look he sent Lord Burnley scorched.
“Shut your damned mouth, you mongrel,” Burnley snarled, and she heard the tap of his stick as he limped down the shallow steps.
“You’ve been hurt,” Diana said brokenly, losing her battle to keep her distance. She ventured a pace closer.