Page 73 of How to Tempt a Duke

The man nodded. “’S me. Ye are here to get married, then?”

A prickle of alarm washed over Eleanor. The man didn’t look like he’d bathed in some time, and there was a sickly pallor beneath the layer of sweat glistening on his skin.

Joseph Paisley scoffed before Charles could answer. “Of course ye are, or ye wouldna be here. Let me make the necessary preparations.”

Eleanor took the moment of his absence to look to Charles, who must have seen evidence of her concern for he nodded to her in silent comfort.

Joseph Paisley staggered back into the room and grabbed a book off a nearby shelf. The odor of stale alcohol hit her and his lurching gait suddenly made sense.

Joseph Paisley, the man who would see them wed, was entirely sotted.

Chapter Twenty-Four

It was indeed fortunate that Charles held his bride in such high esteem, for truly the venue for their marriage was abysmal. Mr. Paisley leaned to the right and then to the left before swaying back to the center. For a tenuous moment Charles thought he might be forced to catch the man.

A younger man appeared, thin, and wearing a dark jacket of some elegance. He approached them immediately and waved Mr. Paisley away. “Ye’ve been unwell. Have ye a rest. I’ll take care of these two.”

Lottie stepped forward and gave an encouraging nod. “If he’s unwell, perhaps that might be best.”

“I’m fine,” Mr. Paisley said firmly. “Stay to help if ye like, but I’ll wed them.”

Content, the young man clasped his hands at his back and stood resolutely at Mr. Paisley’s side.

Eleanor tensed against Charles’s arm.

Mr. Paisley drew in a deep breath and braced his stance wide, his belly thrust out like a barrel. “We are now gathered here in order that I may solemnize your marriage in the presence...”

He did not look down at his book as he read, and his words slurred together, thick with drink and bored memory.

“Before ye...” He pointed at Charles.

Charles stared back blankly, unsure what the man intended.

“Please state yer name, sir,” said the younger man.

“Charles Christopher Pemberton.” Charles nodded to the younger man in appreciation.

“And ye...” Mr. Paisley pointed this time to Eleanor.

Eleanor, having the great benefit of learning from Charles’s folly, replied promptly, “Eleanor Susan Murray.”

Charles looked down at his soon-to-be wife. He hadn’t known her full name before, and it pleased him to know it now.

Mr. Paisley cleared his throat and waggled a finger between the two of them. “Before ye’re both joined in marriage, it is my duty to remind ye—”

The man’s face suddenly went bright red and he bent over with a hacking cough.

Charles’s arm shot out to pull Eleanor back at a safer distance from the ailing man—for all the good it might do. “Good God, man. Are you unwell?”

Mr. Paisley continued to cough, his face having gone nearly purple.

The younger man led him to a bed set near the back wall, which Charles hadn’t noticed until that exact moment. Mr. Paisley continued to cough in great racking waves while the younger man tucked him into the bed with soothing tones.

Eleanor glanced up at Charles, her brows lifted with concern. He was beginning to share her apprehension. As distasteful as London had become, they could at least have been wed there without fearing the spread of disease.

“This is preposterous,” Charles conceded.

His mouth twitched in a tickle of laughter and Eleanor’s did the same.