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“Nicholas.”
Her voice was hollow, void of emotion. Dear Lord, did he want this? Did he want the shell of Catherine? Had she given her core to Daniel? He tempered a growl.Daniel be damned!She was his. Had always been his. He could not foresee a future without her in it; he had dreamed of her for too long. Besides, he had compromised her without care to the consequences. She might, even now, be carrying his child.
“Lady Thornwood, may I present Miss Catherine Baring, my affianced.”
Catherine’s eyes darkened, unexpectedly glimmering with unshed tears. He swallowed, his throat void of moisture.Damn.This charade should not be so difficult.
He cleared his throat. “Lady Thornwood has graciously agreed to stand witness this day.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Catherine’s voice was barely audible, a storm of confusion washing her eyes with changing shades of green.
He did not blame her. After all, he’d bullied her into using her maid. But that had been in anger. Degradation was not something he wished upon her. He was grateful Thornwood had actually brought his wife. Rumor had it Thornwood spent much of his time in London with a mistress, while his wife lived contentedly in the country. Perhaps not so blindly content if his senses weren’t misleading him. Well, no matter; Thornwood had brought her this day. Moreover, she was lovely in every sense. Catherine would be well represented.
The reverend shuffled uncomfortably, awaiting Nicholas’s direction. Dedicated and astute. He must remember to reward the man amply for his forbearing and discretion. Nicholas nodded.
“Well, shall we begin?” Mr. Wilson’s smile was no longer hesitant. He turned to Catherine, beaming. “Get thee ready for giving away, and I shall hightail it to the front to receive you.” He chuckled and sprinted toward the front of the chapel.
Nicholas hadn’t thought of that. Sometime before that debacle at the cemetery, she had mentioned her father was not at home. Was she to walk down the aisle alone? She stood quietly, focused on her feet. He could not see her so abandoned.
Nan and Fredericks sat quietly side by side on the last bench. How had they managed to get here so quickly? Catherine’s young maid sat beside them. The valet respected no such propriety. He should be sitting with the other servants, but dressed in an abundant splendor of greens and orange and clasping his hands expectantly, he sat in the second pew. The man was irksome but did not act without enthusiasm. Nicholas shook his head at the fleeting thought. No, he could not allow the man to give Catherine away.
“Thornwood.” He hesitated. Thornwood must already know something was amiss. What would he make of this new request?
“It would be my pleasure,” Thornwood interceded as he raised his arm for Catherine.
Nicholas avoided looking at Catherine, turned, and strolled down the aisle to join the reverend. He didn’t want to see her anger, her censure, or worse, the shadows of disappointment. When he reached the altar, he pivoted toward the vestibule, waiting for the inevitable sadness that would walk his way. He stared at the cold tiled floor. He had faced battle, had faced death. He did not want to face the demise of his dreams.
