Page 56 of Thrones We Steal

“You just said he was a catch.”

“Of course. He was the Duke of Whitmere.”

“But—” Hot, angry tears warbled the room. It’s all a lie. She’s just trying to keep me from backing out. “Dad was a good man. There’s no way he would have married you unless he loved you.”

It’s too frighteningly plausible that Rosalind married him for his title.

“Theodore was a good man, yes. But he wasn’t perfect.”

“I never said he was.”

“Come on, Celia. It’s no secret you idolize him. But the danger in putting someone on a pedestal is that sooner or later, they always topple off.”

She hands me a tissue and I dab at the corners of my eyes carefully. Better not to risk the wrath of the team that just spent three hours on my makeup.

“I brought you something,” she says and holds out a small velvet box. Inside is a tiny charm, my father’s face framed in gilt. “For your bouquet.”

She helps me attach it to the ribbon wrapped around the flower stems.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“He would want you to do this,” she says and squeezes my hand. “Dry your tears and lift your head. You have a wedding to attend and a country to rule.”

* * *

A limousine waits to take me to the cathedral where all of Wesbourne will be waiting, breathless, to see if “Princess Celia,” will actually work up the courage to marry her nemesis.

Rosalind helps me lift my dress into the car, then climbs in after me. We ride in silence to the church, her seeming to sense I want to be left alone, and me too absorbed in the severity of what I’m about to do to pay mind to anything she might say.

The rain is still coming down in torrents. The sky occasionally cracks open in a bright flash. Water splashes up from the wheels as we drive, and we’re slowed by the blinding rain. The storm is a symphony in its final movement: loud, dramatic, and emotionally-wrecking.

As we pull up to the curb in front of St. John’s Cathedral, a fiery ball forms in my chest, and tears threaten to fall again. Thousands of people are gathered in the streets, dressed in slickers and hats, carrying umbrellas of every color. They seem incognizant of the storm railing against them. Many are also holding signs and at first my heart drops, thinking they’re here to protest the wedding. But I squint to read through the rain and realize they’re all variations on the same theme.

They’re congratulating me on my wedding day.

A few weeks ago, I was the Duchess of Whitmere and director of the Historical Society. My biggest achievement to date had been saving the old North Chapel from being leveled for an apartment complex. Today, everyone in Wesbourne knows my name and face and will be watching my wedding broadcast on live television.

I can do this for them.

I glance toward the church. A sidewalk canopy has been erected as protection against the rain, although it looks as effective as tissue paper in a hurricane. A soggy green carpet lies underneath it. PPOs hover near the car door with open umbrellas, waiting for my signal.

I take a deep breath and tap on the window. The door opens, and someone holds an umbrella above me as I climb out.

“We’d better hurry, Your Royal Highness, if you wish to remain dry,” the man with the umbrella says.

I’d like to see him hurry in a two-hundred-year-old, ten-pound wedding dress and heels.

“One moment,” I say and motion for Rosalind to hold my train inside the car. Then I turn to the crowd behind me, raise my hand and wave. They’ll never know the turmoil that has brought me to this place. To them, I am privileged beyond comprehension, about to be married to the most sought-after bachelor in the country, if not the world, and crowned queen of Wesbourne. It’s enviable really, when you look at it like that.

They cheer above the din of the rain and wave their own hands in return. Several women throw bouquets of flowers in my direction, which are immediately trampled by the downpour. What would they think of me if they knew how close I came to deserting them less than an hour ago?

“Okay,” I say, turning back toward the church. “I’m ready.”

My mother follows behind me and keeps my train from dragging on the wet carpet. PPOs flank me on every side as an innovative shield against the rain whipping under the canopy.

My throat tightens as I climb the steps where Beck and I had our engagement photo shoot a few months ago. I try not to think about what he might be doing today, whether he’ll turn on the television to watch the wedding, or if he feels as sick as I do.

Inside the dry interior of the church, hairdressers and makeup artists swarm me to ensure their work survived the trip. My train and veil are given a quick blow-dry. Rosalind has slipped away to her seat at the front of the church.

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