“We won’t be married until our signatures are in the registry, puppy,” Will drawled.
He had gotten the special license easily; fifty pounds had seen it done. And now he stood in the small Christopher Wren church of Beatrice’s choosing, waiting for her to arrive.
Waiting was hard. If he slipped out the side door, he could be on the coast in a few hours’ hard ride. He could flee this hasty marriage and the way his feelings did not seem to be obeying his mind’s dictates.
Of course, he would never flee. He was not a coward, and he was a man of his word.
But neither he nor his bride were enthusiastic about this endeavor. That should have given him hope that this marriage was a good decision.
It did not. He prayed with more fervor than he had done since being a small boy willing his mother to return that this was not a mistake.
He drew in a long breath, forcing himself to patience, forcing himself to believe he would remain in control of his emotions as he always had done.
But if he was honest, standing at the front of the nave, waiting for Beatrice to arrive was testing his nerve.
Somehow, she seemed far more daunting than all of government or the king whose wits waxed and waned, leaving one wondering which George they were to meet with.
Now, that might sound ludicrous to some. Because obviously Beatrice did not have the power of kings, nor was she likely to skewer him with her hat pin upon joining him before the altar.
He should not have the unease that he did.
But this was probably now the most unexpected moment of his life, because he had not planned on wedding a woman as formidable as Beatrice.
Somehow, some part of him felt that there was absolutely no way it would come to pass.
She had agreed out of duress. He had proposed under duress.
The whole bloody thing had been under duress.
Kit eyed him like he was a stallion about to make for the stables.
He would not. He was made of stern stuff.
But perhaps in a fit of pique—not that Beatrice could suffer from such a thing—she might decide that the whole endeavor was a terrible idea and bolt to America.
He stopped his ever-escalating thoughts with a point of logic.
Women did not have rights in the newly founded republic, either. So, she might not leave and decide England, and himself, really was her best bet.
Still, it was all he could do to keep from shifting from one foot to the other like a schoolboy being forced to await an exam.
Kit slapped him on the back. “Now, now,” he said, “I have never seen you lack confidence, brother. Square your chest, man. Take a deep breath.”
Ben reached into his coat and produced a silver flask. “Would you like a nip of brandy?”
“I would not like a nip a brandy,” he ground out, giving his brother a suitably chastising stare.
He did not wish to reek of alcohol when Beatrice arrived. He could only imagine the meal she would make of that. And he did not doubt that she would comment, for she was not easily daunted.
No.
Drunkenness was not the state he wished to be in when he said “yes” to Beatrice.
She was, unfortunately, intoxicating enough without the aid of alcohol.
Ben elbowed him. “You know, we could slip through the side door if you’re deciding this is a terrible idea. Naples is always an option.”
“Cease,” he roared, and then he lifted a hand to adjust the enameled ruby pin in his cravat. “I am not running away from Beatrice. She needs me.”