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He turned to face the entrance and watched as she came toward him, on the arm of her uncle, with slow measured steps. Her gown was soft white silk and clung to her form and flowed softly behind in a train. The bodice, he noticed, was an echo of the chiton style, and made him smile. She held her head up and her expression was resolute as she stared straight ahead, not at him.
It occurred to him that this wasn’t easy for her either. After all, no one had asked her what she wanted. Her feelings hadn’t been consulted any more than his. They were both acting on the dictates of society and Bessie Dove-Lyon’s machinations. She was as surely trapped as he was. And her situation was worse, for, while his reputation would have been tarnished had he refused to bow to convention and marry her, she would have been utterly and irrevocably ruined. And through no fault of her own.
She reached his side and stood still, glancing up at him with a questioning look. He took her hand and tried to give her a reassuring smile. He murmured, “I like the dress.”
She smiled then, her eyes gaining their usual sparkle. He was struck again by how pretty his wife-to-be was.
The ceremony passed swiftly in a blur. He uttered the words mechanically. They meant little, and he felt numb to their meaning. Her voice trembled at first, but then she seemed to gather herself and speak more firmly. She was no wilting violet. There was steel beneath the prettiness.
Then it was over, and they were leaving the church, sprayed with rice and rose petals, surrounded by well-wishers, his hand wrung repeatedly, his shoulder gripped or clapped. He smiled automatically, trying to find his usual careless good humor, but it seemed to have deserted him. He caught his sister Ava’s gaze at one point, and she gave him a penetrating stare. She knew him well enough to know he was struggling.
Then he and Cecelia were entering the carriage that would take them to Layne House for the wedding breakfast.
Seated opposite her in the carriage, he dug deep and said lightly, “Well, thank God that’s over with.”
She nodded. “It has been a horrid two weeks. I’ve barely seen you.”
He shrugged. “They kept me busy. The same for you?”
“Yes. Dress fittings and visits.” She grimaced.
“It’s a very elegant dress, well worth the effort.”
She colored faintly. “Thank you—”
The carriage drew to a halt just then cutting off anything else she might have said, their opportunity for further private talk was lost. Not that he wanted any.
Seated in the place of honor, he made sure Cecelia’s plate was well stocked, but his own usually prodigious appetite was absent. He noticed she didn’t eat much either. He sat through the numerous toasts and speeches and smiled and nodded. Then he led his bride onto the floor for a waltz.
Finally, he handed her off to his brother Robert and, taking up a glass of champagne, he propped the wall to watch her dance.
Ava appeared at his side, nursing her own drink. It was the first chance they’d had for conversation. “Are you happy?” she asked bluntly.
He knew she was concerned for him, but he had himself in hand now. He would not insult Cecelia by letting his reluctance show. He summoned his usual lazy smile and said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were forced into this. It’s not what you wanted. Did she trap you?”
Rick stiffened. Ava knew him too well. He forced his shoulders to relax as he shifted position and responded a trifle shortly, “Of course not.”
“Rob told me you refused initially to do the right thing by her.”
His mouth tightened. Give it up, Ava! Then the need for someone who would understand to know the truth overcame him, and he said quietly. “It wasn’t me, Ava. I’m not the one who ruined her.”
Ava stared up at him aghast. “Then why—?”
“There was nothing else to be done!” he responded tightly and swallowed the rest of his champagne. He pushed off the wall and wandered away before he broke down completely. Ava’s unquestioning faith in him threatening to unravel his tightly held control.
He avoided her after that, but he caught her troubled expression as she stood on the steps beside her husband to bid them farewell. He turned away from her gaze, unable to bear it, and helped Cecelia into the carriage that would take them to Bedfordshire, where they would remain in exile until such time as it was deemed the polite world had forgotten their little scandal.
Chapter 10
Cecelia stole a look at her husband. He was stretched out in the opposite corner to her with his large, booted feet on the seat beside her, his hands clasped on his belly and his eyes closed. His steady breathing told her he was asleep.
He had said nothing to her once the horses started up beyond an adjuration to wake him when they stopped. As Bedford was sixty miles from London, they would stop for the night at St Albans, some twenty miles away.
Cecelia removed the pins from her hair, which were biting into her scalp and giving her a headache, with a slightly petulant spurt of temper. How dare he fall asleep and leave me alone in the carriage like a servant!
She had hoped they would converse or even pass the time in more intimate pursuits. The strain of the day made her choose to channel her disappointment into anger rather than the tears that pressed in her throat and behind her eyes. She pushed down the weakness, concentrating on her ire.
