“I knows where ye live, Miss Eliza Simpson,” he threatened while patting his pistol.
“I am well aware of that,” she acknowledged softly.
Spade shouted up at the coachman, “Drive on to the nearest inn, Sam. I’ll give you the story there.” He swung the door shut and the carriage shot off. Apparently, Sam only knew one speed.
With no firm idea of the time, Victoria doubted she could make it back to London by ten o’clock. But she would try. For Taviston. And for herself as well. She had completely forgotten how it felt to love someone—the joy it could bring. Except for Arthur, there had been no one to make demands on her heart for the last ten years. Not that Taviston made such demands, but still, she felt a vitality, a freedom that gave her hope. She wanted to focus on loving him, but it would be difficult if she never made it to the church.
Stepping off the road, she began walking south. After two minutes she was frustrated beyond all. Though the sun shone upon her now, it had rained last night. The hem of her dress was caked in mud soon enough and the blue satin of her slippers was a mere memory. A coach, heading north, passed her by and spewed mud spots over the rest of the gown. Twenty feet farther on, the fluttering hem of her skirt became entangled in brambles and she heard the sickening sound of fabric tearing. She wanted nothing more than to sit by the road and weep with frustration and relief and bitterness. Instead, she squared her shoulders and marched on toward London.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Impatience was not a rare emotion for the Duke of Taviston. However, ten minutes later it chafed his stomach with a perseverance that left him breathless. He still stood at the altar of St. George’s church, ten minutes later, with the cream of society staring at him and him alone. No bride drew their eye to the back of the church. Or to the altar. Because she was not there. His bride, the bride he had never wanted, had not arrived. Ten minutes had passed and Miss Victoria Forster, she who had taxed the small drop of patience he had been born with, she who had tried his iron control—with much success—was not there.
The impatience slowly began to give way to an ember of quiet fury, clouding his vision and strangling his chest. Nonetheless, he noticed that Jane was nowhere to be seen either. His mother sat in her seat, smiling serenely at him. Despite the desire not to show any concern to the audience, he glanced questioningly at Peyton once and received a small shrug in return. Northfield sat sprawled in a front pew, but for all his efforts Taviston could not catch his eye. Regrettably, he momentarily locked gazes with Louisa Browne. She had the audacity to wink at him. He ignored her.
Blinking his eyes twice in an attempt to clear the haze forming, he took a deep breath in anticipation of stepping down from the altar and exiting the building when a resounding clamor echoed through the church. Heads turned simultaneously toward the carved doors at the end of the aisle. Within seconds Jane peeked around the oak, surveyed the scene, and then withdrew
. Taviston took two more deep breaths. Leave it to the most vexatious woman on earth to arrive late to her own wedding. This unnecessary drama would be the first topic of discussion in their marital life.
When the door next opened, Jane emerged, smiling triumphantly, and promenaded down the aisle. Most eyes in the place gave her a cursory glance and then swept to the back again. Victoria, his bride, squeezed through the door at last. Barrett Browne, who had kept a surprisingly patient vigil at the opposite end of the aisle, moved into place and offered her his arm.
The tightness in his chest eased but his irritation did not fade. He would not—could not—overlook her inexcusable behavior. As she drew closer, he searched her face, trying to determine her demeanor but she hadn’t quite drawn near enough yet. His gaze traveled down to her gown. It fit her perfectly, but the bluish-white material seemed to sparkle in odd patches and appeared to be trimmed in brown, which he thought a peculiar choice.
Soon enough she and Browne halted their progression and Taviston found himself standing beside Victoria with her guardian still flanking her other side. Mr. Hodgson’s jowls bounced up and down as he began to intone in his most reverent voice, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here...”
Ignoring the man, Taviston slanted his eyes toward Victoria. She gripped her guardian’s arm tightly and had so far refused to look his way. He could see the top of her head and her hair was in disarray. It had, at one time, been arranged in a cascade of curls; he could still see the remnants of the style and he imagined the blue flowers now haphazardly dangling by her ears had once been intricately entwined with her sandy locks. Curiosity now mingled with his irritation.
Mr. Hodgson now asked any and all, including the bride and groom, if they knew of any reason they should not be married. Taviston cynically thought of at least ten reasons but held his tongue. He had agreed to marry this woman and since she had deigned to show up, he would grimly follow through.
Finally, the rector directed a question to Taviston, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Taviston paused. He had never contemplated the actual words of a marriage ceremony before. But, this was only a marriage of convenience—for whom he wasn’t sure—and the ceremony merely a formality.
“I will.”
Hodgson flapped his cheeks Victoria’s way and repeated the same question, with the additional words “obey him and serve him.” Taviston wondered if she would ever obey him. Perhaps just once, as a token of her affection? Ha.
Victoria paused in her answer as well. At last she replied in a quavering voice that banished the nasty smile from his face, “I will.”
He had never heard her speak thusly, not even after she had just taken that wild ride on the uncontrollable horse.
Mr. Hodgson had moved on to ask who gave this woman to be married and Browne had replied “I do.” With an effort the man pried Victoria’s fingers from his forearm and retreated.
Grasping her right hand in his, Taviston turned to face her, in anticipation of exchanging their vows. His infuriating bride’s hand trembled violently.
What was going on here? Could she really be this nervous about marrying him? He tried to take in as many details of her as he could but wasn’t capable of much since he had to repeat after Mr. Hodgson, “I, Charles William Maximilian Danforth, take thee Victoria Mary Forster to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse...”
About halfway through his vow she at last raised her eyes, wet eyes, causing him to stumble over the next part of his vow. Something, or someone, had clearly shaken Victoria. Imperturbable Victoria. He had never witnessed her cry. Not Victoria.
In turn she repeated the reverend’s words, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. Taviston squeezed her hand and felt a corresponding jab in his chest. After numerous pauses Victoria completed the vow, sounding miserable. Intuition told him marrying him wasn’t the cause of her distress. Something had happened to her before the ceremony.
Shuffling sounds from behind him signaled Peyton passing the ring to Mr. Hodgson. Taviston took it from the rector’s prayer book and slipped it on her left hand while saying, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
Well, those words were true at least. No prevaricating required with that vow. The rector led them over to kneel beside each other, with right hands still clasped, as he continued on with the ceremony.
Taviston rubbed her hand gently. Her trembling had subsided, and she had fought back her tears but she bit her lower lip and he knew she still struggled to maintain her decorum.
Their proximity allowed him to observe her gown in more detail. Mud, not brown trim, skirted the hem. Additional mud spatters formed a random pattern over the dress. He noticed one long tear near her right leg.