She turned and looked up at him, her expression emotionless, but her gray eyes glistening. “This marriage at the Place de la Grève, will it be legally binding?”
He frowned. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll marry you.” Alix spoke stiffly. “I’ll move forward, but it will be my choice. I won’t be swept along like so much jetsam.”
A small breath of relief escaped him. Jetsam indeed, he thought, more like lost treasure.
After a moment, she added, “But I want it annulled as soon as we reach England.”
Somewhere deep in his heart he felt a sharp stick of disappointment, more painful than when he’d overheard Anne in the garden, and he wondered at it. It was the long night, he told himself, the anticlimax of convincing himself that marrying her was the right thing to do. He thought of Lady Anne waiting for his proposal and her threat to Elizabeth. Alix was right, he reflected, an annulment would be best for them all.
“Very well, I will seek an annulment as soon as we reach England. In the meantime,” he said, “shall we go see about being united in wedlock?”
The coach was a ridiculous affair,Alix thought wryly, probably the gift of some wealthy lord to his mistress. Theexterior was painted a sapphire blue and the door handles and wheels were gilded gold. Handing them up into the coach, the driver cheerfully explained how he’d bought the vehicle for a song from a desperate aristocrat. He’d considered purchasing a fleet of coaches, he said, but with the rising price of grain, the damn horses cost too much to feed.
Inside the seats were upholstered in blue velvet, and gaily-painted shepherds courted coy shepherdesses around the windows and roofs. Atrocious, she thought, but at least it was more comfortable than the lumbering old Berlin her father used to travel between his estates. Her eyes blurred as she pictured the comte, great curled wig slipping to one side as he gestured out the window, enthusiastically pointing out historic sites of interest. She wondered what he’d think of this coach, and, as Rafe slid into the seat across from her, what he’d make of her husband-to-be.
She stared listlessly out the window, recognizing the route she had come with Henri only two days ago. At least now she knew her mother was alive, she reminded herself as they passed the massive walls of L’Abbaye. They crossed the Pont Neuf, and turned west, in the opposite direction of the Tuileries where the guillotine had been set up. She reminded herself, as she stared at a particularly insipid shepherdess, that at least she was not traveling in a tumbrel.
The coach moved slowly through the traffic of the Rue Saint Antoine, pulling up shortly before the Hôtel de la Ville. Rafe, who’d respected her silence during the trip, helped her out. “We’ll meet you back here as soon as the thing is done,” he said to Jervis, who was sitting up on the box with the coachman. Taking her elbow, Rafe led down the street toward the Place de la Grève.
She looked at the fashionable crowds coursing up and down the street. “It’s amazing,” she whispered, “thecarriages, the people showing off their finery, greeting each other as if nothing has changed.”
“Don’t let appearances fool you, Alix,” he said softly.
They entered through the arched doorway of the municipal building and joined a line of couples waiting to have their papers stamped. Alix hadn’t cherished any romantic illusions about the marriage that her parents would some day arrange for her. Still, she reflected, as they shuffled toward a table where a clerk was waiting with a heavy seal and wax, she hadn’t imagined anything quite so drab. She glanced up at Rafe who stood quietly by her side and wondered what he was thinking. Her father had anticipated marriage would bring him a dutiful wife who would wait on him hand and foot. Rafe had said only that he required an heir, but what else did he expect?
Alix knew a moment of fear when the clerk examined her papers; Jervis and Rafe had assured her the forgeries were perfect, but still she waited for him to denounce her. Instead, he asked if it was their intention to be married, and if they understood the seriousness of such a commitment. It wasn’t a commitment, she told herself, as she signed the marriage license, it was just a temporary arrangement. Intentions and expectations had no place at this ceremony.
As she watched the clerk stamp the papers with the seal of the new republic, she wondered for the first time what she would want from a marriage. Her father was dead. Perhaps when she arrived in London her mother would permit her some choice in a husband. Or perhaps she wouldn’t ask her mother for permission at all, perhaps she would demand it. She’d find a husband who wouldn’t bully her, who’d listen to opinions and allow her to make up her own mind, a husband who would respect her. She wanted a man who would see her as more than a body in his bed or a vessel for his children. And when they married, she toldherself, it would be on a fine sunny day with lots of music and flowers.
Rafe led her back outside and they joined the couples standing about the Place de la Grève. The sky above the Hôtel de la Ville’s peaked roofs and ornate dormers looked sullen and gray. A chill breeze rippled off the dark waters of the Seine, and Alix tugged the folds of her cloak closer. She stole a glance at her husband-to-be. The wind fluttered the capes of his greatcoat and teased strands of golden brown hair from his queue. As if feeling her gaze, he turned to look at her, a questioning look in his hazel eyes.
She flushed and looked away. Beside her a young couple stood holding hands, heads bowed together whispering and giggling. Training her eyes forward, she noticed the man in front of her running his hand down the waist of his bride-to-be and patting her backside familiarly. Feeling like an actress who’d walked into the wrong scene of a play, she feigned intense interest in the muddy toes of her shoes.
Rafe studied the downcast figure of his bride. Her face was pale and grim, a sharp contrast to the heated gazes and warm blushes of the rest of the women in the crowd. While he hadn’t expected her to be thrilled about the wedding, he hadn’t anticipated she’d look quite so miserable. Was she disappointed the ceremony wasn’t more festive? He eyed the colorful bunches of flowers and ribbons held by most of the other women. He thought Alix looked sleek and elegant in her dark wool traveling dress, but now that he thought on it, perhaps he should have brought her a small gift or token.
He looked at her slender hands folded stiffly in front of her, and it struck him that she ought to have a ring. He grimaced. He’d make this up to her, his family vaults were full of gemstones. Would she prefer an heirloom or should he have something designed for her? Heglanced down at his own hands. His signet ring would have to serve until he could give her something more permanent. Drawing it off his finger, he reached for her hand. Alix looked up, surprised as he slipped it on. The enormous gold band dangled loosely. She closed her hand around it and gave him a thoughtful stare.
Rafe tucked a hand under her arm and drew her close as an official in a navy redingote with a great red, white, and blue sash across his chest, mounted the dais in front of the crowd and began to speak. The wind, growing stronger, whipped the speaker’s long gray hair around his face, and he clutched at his cockaded bicorne with one hand as he shouted the words of the ceremony. Most of what he said was lost on the wind, but Alix thought she heard something about fidelity and trust, then more about dedication. After a surprisingly short speech, the man cried out, “Do you all agree to be married?” And the crowd answered back with a vigorous, “Yes.” The air was filled with hats and flowers and spatters of applause as he pronounced them men and wives.
The couples around them began to embrace enthusiastically and Alix felt suddenly awkward. As if sensing her discomfort, Rafe drew her toward him and with his free hand tilted up her chin. His kiss was gentle, reassuring, and Alix found herself responding to the warm insistence of his tongue. She leaned in closer, and the hand under her chin slid into her hair. “So soft,” he whispered as his tongue plumbed the depths of her mouth.
The sound of a throat being loudly cleared interrupted.
Alix was suddenly aware of a cold rain misting on her cheeks and Jervis at her elbow.
“Begging your pardon, Captain, but the coach is waiting.” He glanced balefully up at the sky. “We best be getting on our way before this rain turns the roads into a muddy mess.”
They hurried back up the street to the corner. Rafe handed Alix inside the carriage and slipped into the seat next to her. Alix gave a start, then realized they were man and wife, and that it would look odd if he sat across from her now. She heard Jervis clamber up alongside the coachman, heard the crack of the whip, and then the coach lurched suddenly forward, throwing them together. She felt goose bumps play across her skin where it brushed against his. Damn appearances, she thought and said, “I think it would be better if you sat across from me.”
Rafe tipped his tawny head in acquiescence, “As you wish.”
This, though, was much worse, as she could now take in his wind-loosened hair and the pensive swirl of his hazel eyes. Dropping her gaze was no better, as she found her eyes then confronted the span of his chest in his finely embroidered waistcoat and the muscular line of his thighs in his form-fitting britches.
Rain began to spatter against the roof.
“Wouldn’t Jervis be more comfortable riding inside with us?” she suggested, annoyed at a betraying quaver in her voice.
