A Proper Wife
“Bridal jitters? Mother, what are you talking about? I’m not a bride, I’m a... a puppet, with you and the Kincaids pulling the strings.”
“Stop that! You’re talking nonsense.”
“I don’t even know this man,” Devon said, her voice rising. “And what little I do know, I don’t like.”
“Nonsense. Ryan is handsome, he’s wealthy—what more do you need to know?”
“Marriage is supposed to be about love, not—not promises and contracts.”
“Marriage is always about promises and contracts,” Bettina said coldly. “The only difference in this arrangement is that everything’s out in the open. Ryan’s told you what he expects of you and what you may expect of him. You should be grateful for his honesty.”
“It’s not honesty, it’s manipulation!” Devon flung out her arms. “How did I get myself into this mess?”
“Devon! Devon, you listen to me—”
“No. I’m not listening to anybody but myself this time.”
“Will you stop being such a fool? Who could have dreamed we’d come away with all this? A bit of cash, perhaps. That was the best we could have hoped for. Now we’ve got the house, a trust fund, a marriage that could last long enough to be profitable, if you play your cards right, and suddenly you’re panicking.”
“No,” Devon cried, “no—”
“Listen to Mama, Devon.” Devon spun around. Ryan stood just inside the doorway, his face looking as if it had been chiseled in granite. “You know she’s right. This is no time to turn tail and run, not with the brass ring just within your reach.”
Devon wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that she’d anticipated nothing from him or from James, but the denial stuck in her throat. He would never believe her; she would only end up sounding as if she were groveling and she’d sooner ride to hell on horseback than do that.
As if on cue, the soft sounds of “Oh, Promise Me” drifted softly into the room. Ryan smiled coolly.
“We’re on,” he said, and held out his arm.
“Go on.” Bettina practically hissed the words. “Just do it and get it over with.”
And with those tender words ringing in her ears, Devon put her hand on Ryan’s arm and let him lead her down the steps to become his wife.
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It was not the sort of ceremony that made for fond memories.
Bettina, her mouth drawn into a determined line, positioned herself just behind Devon as if to block her exit should she suddenly decide to bolt and run.
Frank, still looking shell-shocked at the news that had been dropped on him two days before, positioned himself close beside Ryan.
“To help you get out the door,” he muttered, “when you come to your senses.”
Agnes Brimley broke into sobs midway through the ceremony, surprising everyone, especially the judge, who’d started things off with a pleasant homily about man and woman and the joys of wedlock before looking into the faces of the couple standing before him. Then he’d cleared his throat and delivered the brief words of the civil code that ended with Ryan and Devon being pronounced man and wife.
“You may kiss the bride,” the judge said.
Ryan turned to Devon. The look on her face was unbelievable. Her lips were curled with disdain; her eyes flashed a message that only a fool would misunderstand. Hands off, it read; you’re not permitted to touch me.
It was the way she’d looked at him the day they’d met in Montano’s. But Ryan knew better now. Whatever she thought of him or he thought of her, he could drive that icy look from her pale, beautiful face in a heartbeat. All he had to do was take her in his arms, part her lips with his and she would make that little sound of surrender that drove him crazy. Her hands would lift and link behind his neck; her eyes would glaze with desire.
He could have her whenever he wanted her, and she knew it.
“You have to kiss your bride,” James said with a soft chuckle, “so that I can kiss her, too.”
Ryan gritted his teeth and put his arms around Devon. He drew her toward him, feeling the tension in her body. The look in her eyes changed, going from icy contempt to dark apprehension. Her mouth—that soft, rose-petal mouth—uncurled and began to tremble and all at once, he remembered what she’d said about this not being the Middle Ages, when marriages were arranged.
Was this how a bride would have looked at her groom all those centuries ago, with the terrifying fear of the unknown in her eyes? A woman would have known that the end of the marriage ceremony was only the beginning, that she had yet to face the night and the moment when her lord and master came to her in their bridal chamber and locked the door behind him.