The necklace was more diamonds—they should take everyone’s eyes off her face, Ellie thought, blinking at their magnificence. Then the veil went on, secured by a matching diamond tiara. Finally she slid her feet into the shoes, wincing at the sudden strain the correction made on her hip.
Just for today, she promised herself. And at Court, if Blake arranges for me to be presented.
He had said he would, but that seemed so improbable that she could not really believe it.
She walked slowly up and down, accustoming herself to the painful pull on muscles that had adjusted to the shortening of her leg after the break. ‘I still limp.’
‘You sway elegantly,’ Verity said, prowling behind her to tweak at her skirts. ‘Time to go.’
‘Yes. Of course. I do not want to be late.’
‘Of course you do. It does men good to be kept waiting. Kept wondering. Veil down, now.’
Chapter Thirteen
Blake stood and studied the dark wood panelling behind the altar and willed himself not to fidget. Eleanor was late—the church clock had chimed the hour at least ten minutes ago—but looking at the time would only betray his anxiety. The whispering and speculation was bad enough without presenting the congregation with a picture of a nervous bridegroom. Beside him Jonathan stood silent and still, exuding competence and the aura of a man who knew exactly where the wedding ring was.
He had put up a spirited resistance to the request that he be best man until Blake had snapped that it would prove a welcome distraction for the gossips, and that speculation about exactly why his secretary looked so much like him would give the busybodies something to think about other than Eleanor.
‘Most of them know already,’ Jon had pointed out.
‘Yes, but it really irritates Great-Aunt Hermione.’
‘Oh, well, in that case I would be honoured,’ Jon had said with a grin.
Now he nudged Blake with his elbow.
‘Eleanor has arrived.’
Despite his resolution, Blake turned as though he was a trout on a line and looked down the aisle. There was a flurry of movement in the porch—probably inevitable when the Duke of Severingham was involved, because the man was probably the greatest fusspot in London. But he appreciated the gesture from Lady Verity in securing him to support Eleanor.
He had no idea what to expect when he saw his bride. She had told him she was leaving off mourning, which had been a relief he had tried to keep off his face. Marrying a woman in dowdy crow-black draperies really would have given the newspapers column inches of comment.
But this—this slender figure in a subtle shimmer of almost-colour coming towards him—this he had not expected. Then he realised something.
‘Jon, that’s not Eleanor—she is not limping,’ he said in an urgent undertone.
‘She is…slightly. She must have done something—her shoes, perhaps,’ Jon whispered back.
It was not a long aisle in St George’s, a relatively modern church, so Blake had little time to collect himself, but he thought he looked adequately solemn and composed when his bride reached his side and they faced the altar rail together.
Blake had studied the marriage service, in order to be prepared, but now it might have been chanted in Latin for all he knew. He must have made the appropriate responses in the right places, because Jon’s elbow did not come into play again, and he was aware of Eleanor’s voice making her responses, clearly but quietly.
And finally, ‘Man and wife.’
There was silence, as though the congregation was holding its collective breath. Then Blake turned, took the edge of the filmy cream veil, lifted it back to drape it over the scintillating crescent of the diamond tiara and caught his own breath.
For a moment he did not recognise the woman looking at him, and then he realised that the big hazel eyes were those he had come to know well, and that the freckles were still there, hiding under their own veil of rice powder, and the curve of the jaw and the simple undistinguished oval of the face was Eleanor. But her hair… The unruly tangle of curls had gone, replaced with a softness cupping her head, baring her face and emphasising her neck.
Not beautiful, his wife, but unique, striking, characterful. He lifted both her hands in his, kissed her fingertips, then drew off the big ruby that she had put on her right hand and slid it over the wedding ring, trapping it.
‘There,’ he murmured. ‘Mine.’
Brave girl, he added mentally, feeling the tremor in her hands, seeing the serene smile on her lips. She must be a mass of nerves, he thought, as he turned her to face the massed pews. All these people she did not know—all of them judging and commenting and pigeonholing her.
Eleanor held his arm firmly as they walked slowly down the aisle towards the double doors. Touching her like this, he could feel the effort she was making to walk straight.
What has she done? he wondered.