All About Passion (Cynster 7)

His mother hadn’t actually mentioned it; he’d walked into his countess’s bedchamber, the one beyond his, and been hit over the head with the fact. His mother had redecorated the suite in his bride’s favorite color-a vivid, intense emerald. In the adjoining sitting room, the emerald was tastefully muted by inmixing of turquoise and other colors, but in the bedchamber itself, in heavy silks and satins, the solid hue held sway. Touches of gilt and polished wood rendered the result even more decadent.

The room had sent his brows rising. He couldn’t imagine his meek, mild, and very fair bride in it-she’d be overwhelmed by the color. Yet if it was her declared favorite, as his mother insisted, who was he to argue?

He nodded at the ring as Devil tucked it into his pocket. “I hope it fits.” He headed for the door.

Devil fell in on his heels. “Can’t you at least give me a few hints? What does this paragon look like? Dark or fair, tall or tiny-what?”

Opening the door, Gyles glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll see in five minutes.” He hesitated, then added, “Just remember, I did warn you I’m marrying for duty, not love.”

Devil studied his eyes. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Marriages have a tendency to last a long time.”

“That,” Gyles acknowledged, stepping into the corridor, “was one of the aspects that swayed me.”

The chapel was in the oldest part of the castle. They reached it to find the guests already seated. Gyles continued around to the anteroom off the side. There, his father’s cousin, Hector, Bishop of Lewes, was settling his robes.

“Ah-there you are, m’boy!” Hector smiled.

Gyles introduced Devil.

“We met last night.” Hector returned Devil’s nod, then held up a hand as he listened to the music coming from the chapel. “Ah-ha! That’s our cue. The bride has been sighted and we must get to our places. Right, then?”

Gyles waved him on and followed, Devil at his back. Hector slowed as he entered the chapel. Gyles had to concentrate not to walk on his heels. He heard rustling, polite whisperings, but he didn’t look at the guests. Hector led them to the altar. Gyles stopped where he knew he was supposed to, before the single step. Lifting his head, he squared his shoulders. Devil stopped beside him; shoulder to shoulder they faced the altar.

Gyles felt precisely nothing.

Hector climbed the step, then turned majestically to view the congregation. The music, provided by Hector’s wife playing a spinet tucked away to one side, paused, then the opening chords of a bridal march sounded.

Gyles watched Hector. The prelate lifted his head, his cherubic face wearing its usual amiable expression, and looked down the aisle.

Hector’s expression changed. His eyes widened, then sparkled. His cheeks pinkened. “Well!” he murmured. “My word!”

Gyles froze. What the devil had his meek and mild bride done?

Skirts shushed as ladies shuffled about to see. The expectant hush was shattered by whispers-excited ones. A wave of gasps and smothered exclamations rolled forward. Gyles felt Devil stiffen, fighting the impulse, then Devil turned his head and looked. And stilled.

Temper rising-surely Charles knew better than to let the girl appear in anything outre?-Gyles decided he may as well learn what everyone else already knew. Lips compressed, he turned-

His gaze swept the front pew on the other side of the aisle, the one reserved for the bride’s family. An angular middle-aged woman sat smiling mistily, watching the bride approach. Beside her, pale blue eyes even wider than he remembered them, her mouth agape, staring straight at him as if she’d seen a ghost, sat…

His meek, mild-mannered bride.

Gyles couldn’t wrench his gaze from her.

He couldn’t breathe-his head was spinning.

If she was there, then who…

A frisson of awareness raced up his spine.

Slowly, stiffly, he completed his turn-confirmed with his eyes what his beleagured brain was screaming.

Even when he saw, he still couldn’t believe.

Still couldn’t breathe.

She was a vision to make strong men weak. A veil of fine lace edged with seed pearls was anchored across her crown, covering but not concealing the rampant lushness of her hair, black as a crow’s wing against the ivory. Behind the veil, her emerald eyes glowed, vibrantly intense. From where he stood, the veil’s edge hid her lips; his memory supplied their fullness.

Her gown was an old-fashioned fantasy in stiff ivory silk heavily sewn with pearls. She filled it to perfection, the low, square-cut neckline the perfect showcase for her magnificent breasts. The golden hue of her complexion, the darkness of her hair, and her vivid eyes allowed her to carry the ivory with dramatic flair; it wasn’t the gown that dominated the vision.