Page 25 of Not his Marchioness
Sometimes, she wondered if there was more to him. When he had invited her to promenade with him, after the contract had been signed, she had been tempted. One ought to know the man one was to wed, after all. But she had declined.
Distance, she had thought then, was best. For them both.
Now, she stood in the narrow space behind the curtain, waiting. The bells had begun to ring. The pews were filled with London’s finest, many of whom had been present the night she’d made her fateful announcement at the Swansons’ soirée.
She peeked through the curtain. There he was, standing at the altar. And he looked more like a man attending a masquerade than a wedding. Fawn-colored pantaloons, a purple waistcoat with gleaming gold buttons. Dashing, to be sure, but conspicuous.
She should have worn the scarlet gown, the one she had picked as an act of rebellion to announce her decision not to marry Lord Emery. Aunt Eugenia had forbidden it, of course. But it seemed her future husband had managed what she could not—rebellion, at least in fashion.
He was different. Strong-willed. Trapped by duty, like her. They had common ground. She would be free, but was that enough?
She turned around and looked at the door, beyond which lay a different kind of freedom. One that might end with her penniless, perhaps working as a scullery maid at some grand home.
She took a step toward the door, wondering if she should risk the future and ruin herself once and for all. She could run. She could be away before anyone noticed.
Then, she looked back at Rhys. Would she not be as free with him?
She rubbed her lips. He had not been unkind. Vexing, yes. Infuriating, sure. But unkind? No.
Still, this was not the life she’d chosen.
The vicar walked along the aisle toward her then, and she understood that he was checking if she was ready. Whatever decision she was going to make—left or right—was on her now.
CHAPTER 11
Charlotte walked down the aisle, entirely on her own, and Rhys watched her every move.
He had to admit he was rather disappointed that she had not worn her scarlet gown. He felt a little foolish standing there, dressed up like a peacock. But it was too late to change now.
He noted the appraisal in her gaze as she drew closer, her eyes looking him up and down. He stood straighter, his shoulders pulled back, chest puffed out. He might as well give her a proper picture of what she was about to marry.
Marry.
How strange it was that he should be wed now, here, this day, in front of what appeared to be the entire ton. In fact, it felt as though half of London had arrived, because St. George’s of Hanover Square was bursting at the seams. There were even people standing at the back.
No wonder they had both been written about and talked about so extensively—everybody wanted to see the notorious pair.
His lips curled into a smile.The kiss.
He hadn’t even thought of that. That ought to be very interesting, indeed.
“Are you expected at the circus after the ceremony?” Charlotte asked in a whisper when she joined his side, looking him up and down. “Those buttons are so shiny that I can see my reflection.”
“Good,” he uttered. “I had my valet polish them for that sole purpose—so you might gaze on your image while we wed.”
His biting tone did not make her flinch in the slightest.
“I can see that,” she replied dryly.
“I had rather hoped that you would wear your scarlet gown.”
“Well,” she drawled, “given how everyone who is anyone is here today, I did not want to cause a scene. There are quite a few elderly people here, as you might?—”
“I have noticed.” He leaned a little closer to her whilst the clergy flicked through the pages to get to the correct one. “I must confess I do not know a third of the people assembled here.”
“Neither do I,” she confided. “But I’m certain they will feel as though they know us intimately.”
“No doubt,” he muttered.
