The Marquess Tames His Bride

Because she couldn’t help fearing that if she mentioned any of her fears, everyone might see she was correct and would call off the wedding. And then she’d be facing a lifetime of servitude to an elderly and probably cantankerous old lady instead of marrying the man who’d featured in far too many of her girlish dreams and having his child. And she knew it was selfish, but the prospect of having her own baby was just too precious to risk. In spite of knowing she was not fit to take Rawcliffe’s title, she’d stopped arguing when he’d pointed out that she could give him the heir he needed. And had avoided any sort of conversation that might prompt him to think of a way out of the proposal he’d fabricated on the spur of the moment.

So that now, here she was, standing beside him at the altar as he drawled vows he couldn’t possibly mean. Forsaking all other indeed? She would wager not a single person in the entire congregation believed he had any intention of doing any such thing. Particularly not her.

Which made her want to fling her own responses back at him like a challenge. Because she would, of course, stick to vows made in church. They were sacred.

But just as she was opening her mouth to speak she made the mistake of glancing at the other couple who were gazing at each other in a sort of smug mutual adoration. And her heart contracted painfully. Because Lord Rawcliffe was only marrying her on sufferance. And instead of sounding defiant and brave, her voice quavered with all the fears and doubts that she was struggling to control.

As though he knew exactly how she felt, and sympathised with her, Lord Rawcliffe kept hold of her hand after he’d slid the ring on to her finger. Which meant they stood hand in hand while the vicar intoned the blessing. The warmth and strength of his hand clasping hers was strangely comforting, so that she made no attempt to shake it free until the moment the vicar ought to have been joining their right hands together to symbolise their union     before God.

But Lord Rawcliffe would not let go. Instead he gave the vicar a very haughty look, as though declaring he’d already taken her to wife, thank you very much, and nothing the vicar could say or do would make any difference.

And once again, Clare was ready to sink through the floor.

After an awkward pause, the vicar turned to the other couple, who allowed him to join their hands in the prescribed manner, while she stood there fuming. What gave Lord Rawcliffe the right to think he didn’t need to observe the traditions that had been laid down by the church and adhered to for hundreds of years?

By the time they all turned to process down the aisle, as two married couples, she had worked herself up into such a state of righteous indignation that she scarcely noticed the rude stares and the wave of shocked, thrilled whispers foaming in their wake.

Until they were almost at the door. At which point she was glad he’d tucked her hand into his arm so possessively because it spared her the necessity of having to cling to him for support.

Because she couldn’t really blame anyone for being shocked at this mésalliance. If she’d been a guest at Lady Harriet’s wedding, she might have been speculating as to why on earth Lord Rawcliffe was getting married at all, let alone to a complete unknown. And in a double wedding to boot. The whole thing reeked of scandal.

As they stepped out into the colonnaded portico, she heaved a sigh of relief. Just before Lord Rawcliffe leaned down and put his mouth close to her ear. ‘Well done,’ he murmured.

‘What? What for?’ She blinked up at him in a mixture of confusion and reaction to coming into such a bright light after the gloom of the interior.

‘For bearing up so splendidly through the ordeal,’ he said in a tone she could only interpret as withering.

‘You mean the very opposite, I suppose. You think I should have skipped down the aisle, looking as radiant as Lady Harriet. And said my vows as though I believed I was the luckiest woman on earth.’

‘I should not like being married to a woman who thought it permissible to skip in church,’ he replied caustically, ‘no matter what the ceremony she was attending.’

Oh. Well, it ought not to matter, but she was still rather glad she’d managed to do something of which he approved.