Page 13 of Married to the Forbidden Duke
The wedding did not happen for three more weeks. Three weeks of Alice contemplating her choices. She could at least acknowledge that it had been her impetuous desire to see him suffer that had condemned them both to this fate.
Now she was to marry the man who had been the reason behind her parents’ deaths.
Her aunt kept telling her totry, as though by trying, she could somehow overcome all the reasons she despised him. At least, during their courtship, he only rode to the house to see her twice. Her aunt had wedding clothes made up for her, and for all intents and purposes, it seemed like a perfectly ordinary marriage.
“He is aDuke,” her aunt chided again on the morning of the ceremony, which was to be held in Kent—where she lived—rather than in London. It would be a small affair, only including the closest of family members. At least, Alice reflected, he did not want the marriage any more than she did.
“I cannot like him, Aunt,” she murmured, lip trembling. “And you can’t expect me to.”
Her aunt merely sighed and stepped back. Alice stared at her reflection critically in the mirror. She would never be a beautiful bride, despite her wishes of being one—once. Before the accident, she had dreamed of her very own handsome prince coming to sweep her away.
Ah well.
Dreams turned to dust in the cold light of reality. She had no prince, and she would be limping up the aisle of the little village church rather than walking up it on her father’s arm.
She blinked back unexpected tears at the thought.
“Your mother would be happy for you,” her aunt reminded, as though sensing the direction of her thoughts. “Remember that.”
“If it weren’t for the Duke, my mother would be here for my wedding day,” Alice groused, nipping at the hem of her ivory skirts.
Her aunt had nothing to say to that.
Although the village church was not far away, Alice needed a carriage to take her there and back again, her leg not up to the task of carrying her the short distance. Besides, brides were probably supposed to be elegant and refined on their weddingdays, not sweaty, their hems dirtied from walking down village lanes.
When they reached the church, her misgivings hit her all over again. The Duke would be inside, waiting for her, and then she would be married to the very worst man on the planet. It was a cruel twist of fate. Irony at its worst.
Her uncle waited for her in a red waistcoat and large black coat, a grin on his face even though Alice wanted to curl up and run the other way. She cursed her body for making that impossible. Then she cursed the Duke for being the reasonwhysuch a thing was impossible.
“Right then,” her uncle bellowed, holding out his arm. “He’s done his part.”
Alice presumed ‘his part’ was turning up and standing inside.
“Now it is time to do ours.”
“Must we?” Alice clung to her uncle’s arm. She could say no at the altar, she knew, but if she did—
Well, there would be no guarantee she had a home to return to. As far as her relatives were concerned, they were washing their hands of her after having secured a marriage with one of the most eligible bachelors on the marriage mart.
Alice knew she would probably never marry anyone else if she turned him down now. She knew her reputation was ruined—and even if by some bizarre twist of fate it wasn’t, she had no prospects. She knew all this. And still, her futile heart hoped there might be a way out of this still.
Instead, the door opened and the organ filled the air as her uncle nearly dragged her down the aisle. Her stick clattered against the stone of the floor, and she hated the way she limped, almost as much as she hated the way the Duke watched her with those icy orbs as she approached.
He had no right to look at her as though he was filled with misgivings, when the misgivings werehers.
Still, he took her hand and helped her beside him, making no comment about the way she retained her stick. He merely nodded at the rector, who began the ceremony. Alice’s hands were damp. One was in the Duke’s; he held it with a gentle grip that was still hard enough that she knew she would not be able to escape even if she wanted to.
Minutes passed in a blurry rush.
The Duke swore that he would love and honor her, and she swore that she would love and obey.
The world took on a glassy feel as he slid a ring onto her finger, and the gold sat there unfamiliarly.
Then, in a show that made her want to hit him—and she would have done if she were not so much in shock—he scooped her off her feet and carried her to his waiting carriage.
“My stick,” she gasped. “Put me down!”
“Very well.” Surprisingly gently, he placed her on the path outside the church. In spite of the otherwise glorious weather, it had begun to hail, and she wondered at that. The meaning of it, and what it signified for their marriage.
