Page 79 of Wedded to the Scottish Duke

“Thank ye,” Keith said, meaning it.

He was grateful that when things were running so behind, Xander thought about how much he wished his brother was there with him.

The vicar appeared from the vestry doors and moved to stand in front of the altar, drumming his fingers on the bible. Like everyone else in the small church, his eyes were fixed on the door, expectantly.

“She’ll be here,” Xander assured Keith.

“Ye’re sure of that?” Keith wasn’t convinced at all. “Maybe she’s taken the opportunity to run for the hills.”

“Violet says she was fussing over her wedding gown when she left her. Don’t worry, she’ll come.”

Fussing?

There was something rather heartwarming about the idea of Celia fussing over her gown, wanting it to be just right for their wedding, even if it was a hurried one.

“I fear ye’re wrong,” Keith said, sighing.

Abruptly, the door opened.

Like everyone else, he looked around in surprise.

Celia was hurrying down the aisle, practically dragging her father beside her. The organist struck up, but he quickly realized he was playing far too slowly for the speed with which Celia was walking. He had to increase the tempo of the music, only for it to sound absolutely ridiculous.

Keith had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh at the way the organist raced through the music. In the end, the thing that halted his mirth completely was taking in the sight of Celia.

She looked stunning. Made completely of lace, her dress was molded perfectly to her breasts and shoulders, offering the perfect sight of her delicate collarbone and cleavage. Her narrow waist compared to the curve of her hip was emphasized, and then the train of the dress trailed behind her, teasingly making him think of the long legs hidden beneath the skirt.

She gripped a bouquet made of white roses and purple lavender sprigs tightly. Her eyes weren’t on Keith at all but on her father. At once, Keith realized why they were late and why she had nearly run down the aisle.

The Marquess of Pembroke’s sickness was getting worse. He was pale, clammy around the hairline, and seemed to struggle to focus on the ceremony.

Keith stepped forward, taking Celia’s arm. “Rest yerself,” he whispered to the Marquess. “Please, I have her now.”

“Thank you.” The Marquess smiled. “I’m sorry we’re late.”

“Don’t worry,” Keith assured him, tucking Celia’s hand in the crook of his arm. He was so distracted by his fears for the Marquess’s health that he barely noticed just how close he pulled Celia.

As they stood at the altar, they both looked at the Marquess one last time as he sat down beside his wife, and then they shifted their focus to the vicar.

“Shall we begin?” the vicar asked, casting a sympathetic glance at the organist, who was now shaking out his sore hands after playing the music so fast.

“Aye.” Keith nodded.

As the vicar began the opening prayer, Keith felt Celia’s hand slip out of the crook of his elbow. With that movement, she became distant. The beautiful woman with the red curls teasing the nape of her neck was now cold as she stared ahead.

Keith found it nearly impossible to look at anything else but her as they repeated their opening words. He was imagining a world where they may have truly meant these words, a world where they could have been together completely.

That can never be. I’m my father’s son. I’d only end up hurting her.

“Now, repeat after me, Lady Celia,” the vicar said.

Celia shifted to face Keith, though he was painfully aware of the way her eyes were trained on the middle of his chest, rather than on his face.

“I, Celia Aston, take thee, Keith Lennox, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

Then suddenly, her eyes flicked up to meet his and her gaze softened.

Perhaps she does mean those vows, after all.

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