Page 26 of Not his Marchioness
He cleared his throat, and they looked at the pews. Surely the congregation had observed their every move and assumed they were whispering sweet nothings to one another.
If only they knew the actual exchange.
They did not stand on friendly footing; that was clear. But Rhys had to admit that there was a certain fire. A fire he could not deny excited him. Charlotte was witty, clever, and she did not shy away from confrontation. Perhaps life at her side would not be as dreadful and tedious as he had initially feared.
However, what was absolutely as dreadful as he had feared was the sermon that followed.
Why did Anglican church services have to persist until one’s very leg fell asleep?
He shifted uncomfortably now and again, noting that Charlotte did the same beside him as the vicar droned on endlessly.
After what felt like eternity, the vicar finally arrived at the part Rhys had been anticipatinganddreading. It was time.
They made their vows without looking each other in the eye, and then the vicar nodded once, a smile on his face. “You may kiss the bride.”
Rhys looked at his bride, who looked up at him with an expression that suggested she would rather drink a pint of vinegar on an empty stomach.
He bent forward—it was expected.
“I know perfectly well what is expected,” she whispered.
“Can I trust you will not attempt to bite me or some such?” he asked with a wry smile.
“I make no promises,” she breathed.
They were so close now that he caught the scent of her breath. She had eaten something sweet that morning. Strawberries, perhaps? But there were no strawberries in winter, so what was that sweet fragrance?
“I will allow no tomfoolery,” she warned as he leaned in further.
“You can trust me,” he replied somberly. “I am not that cruel.”
“That is almost a pity,” she drawled. “Cruel men, I know how to handle. They are generally far less clever than they think they are.”
Behind them, a certain restlessness stirred, and Rhys knew they had prolonged their chess game long enough.
He nodded and smiled. “Well then, I am sad to disappoint. I am not cruel. But I will do my very best to keep you on your toes, Lady Ravenscar.”
A gasp escaped her then, as though she hadn’t realized she was now going to be addressed as such. Before she could reply, he placed his lips on hers. His eyes remained open for a moment, then he closed them.
The softness of her lips was unexpected. She had such a sharp, brusque personality; he had thought that her kiss would reflect it. But it didn’t.
It was soft and warm, and after a moment’s hesitation, he felt her lips respond—felt that she wanted to kiss him back.
What was this bewildering performance?
Alarmed, he realized he actually cared whether she enjoyed the kiss or not. Sensing the dangerous territory he was approaching, he pulled back and straightened up, whilst behind them the crowd erupted in applause.
The rest of the service passed in a blur. Rhys avoided looking at his bride and noted that she did the same whenever he stole a glance out of the corner of his eye. They endured the rest of the lengthy ceremony and then made their way out of the church.
Outside, the assembled crowd—among which stood her sisters and aunt, as well as Gideon and Uncle Amos—threw rice on them. Rhys hated the custom. Hated the way the rice struck his top hat and wormed its way beneath his collar. But he kept his composure. He smiled and waved, with Charlotte on his arm.
They made their way to the wedding carriage under the whooping and hollering of the guests. He thought he might go deaf at any moment from the noise alone, but then they were in the carriage and surrounded by silence.
As he leaned back in his seat and looked at his bride, he realized that the silence inside the carriage was almost as deafening as the noise outside.
The silence was oppressive.
Charlotte tugged at the front of her wedding gown because it seemed to tighten around her body with each breath she took.
