Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Iexpected something like this.

Keith didn’t move much as he watched the Marquess of Pembroke put up a fight with Celia. In the end, Celia won.

“I cannot leave you alone for long,” the Marquess said as he stood up to leave.

“If you intend for us to be married, what is wrong with another minute spent alone?” Celia asked as she opened the door for him. “I need to talk to the Duke of Hardbridge plainly.”

The Marquess clearly took this as a bad omen. He left, but not before grabbing the brandy carafe and taking it with him. As the door closed behind him, Keith lifted his head to look at Celia.

He had not quite expected the fierce look in her eyes.

“Well, sweetheart?” he goaded her.

“Do not call me that!” she hissed, stepping toward him.

“Why not? Ye seemed to like it in that⁠—”

“Hush!”

She waved a hand at the closed door, clearly fearing that one of her family members was eavesdropping. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him to his feet, presumably to drag him away from the door, but he was too large for her to pull around.

When he remained in his chair, she nearly ended up falling in his lap.

“We’re not married yet, lass,” he whispered when her face came near his own.

Those cheeks flushed the best shade of pink he had yet seen. Had he been certain that no one had been listening in, he would have kissed her then, just to see her reaction.

“This way.” She pointed at the far end of the room and marched off.

He stood up slowly and followed her, not exactly keen to follow her orders.

When they were a good distance from the main door, she seemed to judge it safe to talk.

“I have not agreed to this marriage.”

“Well, lass, we live in a strange world. Apparently, the agreement of the groom and the father is enough for most people.”

“Not for me!” She slapped his arm in reprimand. He looked at where her hand had hit him, rather wishing she would do it again for some reason. “I cannot do this.”

“Why not? Ye and I have already proved we’re compatible in certain ways, have we not?” He let his eyes roam over her, watching as she blushed harder but tried to deny such a thought as she stood straight.

“Because you have made it clear before now that you would think of me as a bride no more than you would a spider at the bottom of your garden.” She gestured to her chest. “I am not the wife you wanted.”

He couldn’t deny that, so he stayed silent.

She may have been the woman that the beast inside him had wanted, but his mind was different. Out of a wish to protect her, he had never imagined marrying a woman so full of spirit.

“See?” She waved her hand at him. “You cannot even deny it.”

“To deny it would be foolish. Aye, ye and I had this very discussion. Yet, things change. I can marry ye. I can do what’s right.”

“Out of pity.” She snorted, shaking her head. “I will not be married out of pity.”

“Why not?”

“Do you hear yourself?” she hissed, clearly reluctant to raise her voice too much in case anyone did hear them. “Why would you even accept marrying someone out of pity? That’s not a reason for marriage.”

“It’s not pity, lass.”

“Then what is it?”

“Doing what’s right.” He leaned closer to her, wanting to capture her full attention and make her understand him. “I may be a brute.”

Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “I never would have called you that—not today, at least,” she whispered.

“I know what I am,” he continued. “But I also do what’s right. This”—he gestured between them—“is right. I will marry ye, lass. I was the one who compromised ye in the first place. So, are ye going to say yes, sweetheart?”

“Who’s to say you were the first man to compromise me?” She jutted her chin.

“Don’t pretend with me.” He leaned his head closer to hers again. “I know ye. I know the way ye responded to me every time I touched ye, and I know that no other man has compromised ye.”

He couldn’t help it. He raised his hand and put it on her waist, splaying his fingers as much as he could to feel her completely. Her lips parted a little, a small gasp escaping her.

“See?” he said challengingly, moving his lips to her ear.

“I am not yours to control,” she protested, though she tilted her head to the side, giving him access to her neck.

Something broke inside of him, and he placed an open-mouthed kiss on her neck, tasting her as much as possible. Her hands came up and gripped the edges of his waistcoat hard. The sheer intensity with which she held him told him all he needed to know.

That wedding night… we’ll be impatient to have one another.

“Maybe not,” he agreed. “But ye’ll soon be mine.”

He nipped her neck playfully and then lifted his head, about to kiss her. She closed her eyes, waiting for that kiss.

I’m weak for her.

He abruptly released her. If he was going to keep her safe from his ways, then he had to draw a line between them at some point.

He stepped back, as did she, the two of them staggering a little to catch their balance. He rested a hand on the wall behind him, breathing deeply to calm himself.

“That was an aye, was it not?” he said simply.

When she just kept staring at him, he knew it was the best answer he was going to get.

“Good, I’ll obtain the special license. We’ll be married soon enough.”

“Special license?” she repeated, clearly shocked that this would mean they’d have to marry very soon, indeed.

He offered no other words. He turned and walked out of the room.

Celia sat in her bedchamber, staring at the vanity mirror. At this time of night, there was just one candle beside her to keep her company. The flame flickered in the wind seeping in through the open window, but she made no effort to light another. She rather liked the near darkness. It was a way to hide from the world.

Now dressed in her chemise, ready for bed, she unpinned her hair. She’d asked not to be attended on by her lady’s maid for the next few days. She didn’t want pitying looks or suspicious glances. She wished to be alone.

As she let down the last lock of hair, she heard a light tap at the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It’s me, Violet.”

“Oh. Come in.” Celia turned in her seat as the door opened. “I thought you had gone home hours ago.”

“No, I couldn’t.” Violet walked into the room, still dressed for dinner.

The last three days, Violet had spent nearly every waking hour in this house, either helping with the preparations for the wedding or offering comfort to Marianne, who had barely said a single word to Celia since the Duke of Hardbridge’s proposal.

“How are you?” Violet stopped beside Celia and took her hand.

“I’m fine,” Celia lied, attempting a cheerful tone. “Your husband and children must miss you. You can go home, Vi. You do not need to be here all the time, you know. Mother will cope.” Her cheerful tone waned a little. “Well, she will learn to.”

“She’ll come around.” Violet tapped the back of her hand. “She’s always wanted the best for us, and when it sinks in that you are to become a duchess, something tells me she will suddenly find a reason to be happy.”

Celia was not so convinced. She had a feeling her mother was crushed. Every fear Marianne had ever had for Celia’s virtue had now come true—Celia was compromised, disgraced, and an impromptu marriage was the result.

“She forgets how quickly I married, doesn’t she?” Violet reminded her gently. “Don’t worry, Celia. It will pass. Just give her a little time.”

Celia nodded and patted Violet’s hand too. “I’m not worried,” she said, forcing a smile again. She released her sister’s hand and stood up, walking across the room toward her bed. “I suppose I should be delighted, shouldn’t I? Soon enough, I’ll be living under a different roof. For our mother, that is probably the best thing. I am not sure she would be able to look at me every day after this.”

“You are too hard on yourself.” Violet sat on the edge of the bed as Celia climbed in and propped herself up against the pillows. “May I ask you something, though?”

“What?” Celia’s voice tightened a little.

“I noticed the night at the opera that you and the Duke of Hardbridge were missing at the same time. Is there any truth in Lady Alicia’s rumors? Or did she invent them all?”

“Trust me, Vi, you do not want to know what happened between the Duke and me, but let’s put it like this.” Celia sighed, sitting back. “No one saw what we did, so Lady Alicia did indeed invent her tales.”

Violet nodded.

To Celia’s relief, Violet didn’t reprimand her for her wild ways. She just smiled, rather sadly.

“In my experience, heat, passion, momentary excitement… given time, it can become something more.” She nodded with these words. “Maybe it will be the same for you and the Duke of Hardbridge?”

Celia blinked, thinking about this idea, and then she shook her head. “It’s not a fairytale ending for all couples. He has made it clear. He is marrying me because he has to. There’s nothing more to this.” She gestured to the door. “Do go home, Vi. Your family must miss you madly.”

“I will. Thank you.” Violet rose from the bed. “Oh, I nearly forgot. This arrived for you just now. I said I’d bring it up to you.” From her sleeve, she produced a sealed letter and handed it to Celia. “Good night.”

“Goodnight, Vi.”

Celia waited until her sister was gone before she turned her attention to the letter. It was rather difficult to see the handwriting in this poor light, though as she turned it over, she recognized the seal emblazoned in the red wax at once.

The Duke of Hardbridge.

She abruptly clambered out of bed again and raced toward the lit candle, tearing open the letter to read it.

‘To Lady Celia,’

The opening formality made her grunt aloud in frustration.

‘All the arrangements have now been finalized. The ceremony will be a small affair with friends and family. On my side, I will only be bringing my mother and cousin. The vicar has agreed that it’s best we are married in your parish, so the ceremony will take place on Saturday.’

“Saturday? That’s two days away.” Her stomach knotted tight as she turned the letter over, hurrying to read his last words.

‘I know you think the worst of me, but trust me on one thing, sweetheart. I will be there, waiting for you at the altar.’

“Sweetheart,” she whispered, relishing the endearment, for it was such a contrast to the formal tone of the rest of the note. “In two days, I shall be married to the Duke of Hardbridge.”

Keith stood at the altar, staring at the empty spot beside him. He felt very alone standing there. It had been impossible to bring his brother from Scotland in time to stand with him, and with the ceremony running late, he was acutely aware of just how alone he stood at the altar.

He turned around, facing the pews. There was barely anyone here for the ceremony, just as he had wanted it to be. On his side were just his mother and his cousin. On the other side though, Celia had more guests.

As well as her mother and sister in the front row, there was Grace, Eleanor, and Diana, along with their husbands, Philip, Dorian, Aaron, and, of course, Xander. They were all muttering among themselves, repeatedly glancing at the church door and expecting it to open, though it remained firmly closed.

Keith reached for his pocket watch, taking it out of his waistcoat to check the time. She was now ten minutes late.

Maybe she has refused to come.

The thought that Celia, his Celia… the woman who had moaned beneath him in that dressing room, the woman who he had nearly made love to on that chair, would refuse to come was gutting.

I shouldn’t care. I do not care. If ye don’t come, then… that’s that.

He checked his pocket watch again, but only a minute had passed since he had last looked.

There was a sound beside him, and he looked around to hear shoes scuffing the stonework. Xander jumped into place beside him.

“What are ye doing?” Keith said in surprise.

“Violet tells me your brother should have stood here as your best man.” Xander smiled a little. “No man should stand alone at the altar.” He elbowed him good-naturedly. “So, I’ll stand in for him.”

“Thank ye,” Keith said, meaning it.

He was grateful that when things were running so behind, Xander thought about how much he wished his brother was there with him.

The vicar appeared from the vestry doors and moved to stand in front of the altar, drumming his fingers on the bible. Like everyone else in the small church, his eyes were fixed on the door, expectantly.

“She’ll be here,” Xander assured Keith.

“Ye’re sure of that?” Keith wasn’t convinced at all. “Maybe she’s taken the opportunity to run for the hills.”

“Violet says she was fussing over her wedding gown when she left her. Don’t worry, she’ll come.”

Fussing?

There was something rather heartwarming about the idea of Celia fussing over her gown, wanting it to be just right for their wedding, even if it was a hurried one.

“I fear ye’re wrong,” Keith said, sighing.

Abruptly, the door opened.

Like everyone else, he looked around in surprise.

Celia was hurrying down the aisle, practically dragging her father beside her. The organist struck up, but he quickly realized he was playing far too slowly for the speed with which Celia was walking. He had to increase the tempo of the music, only for it to sound absolutely ridiculous.

Keith had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh at the way the organist raced through the music. In the end, the thing that halted his mirth completely was taking in the sight of Celia.

She looked stunning. Made completely of lace, her dress was molded perfectly to her breasts and shoulders, offering the perfect sight of her delicate collarbone and cleavage. Her narrow waist compared to the curve of her hip was emphasized, and then the train of the dress trailed behind her, teasingly making him think of the long legs hidden beneath the skirt.

She gripped a bouquet made of white roses and purple lavender sprigs tightly. Her eyes weren’t on Keith at all but on her father. At once, Keith realized why they were late and why she had nearly run down the aisle.

The Marquess of Pembroke’s sickness was getting worse. He was pale, clammy around the hairline, and seemed to struggle to focus on the ceremony.

Keith stepped forward, taking Celia’s arm. “Rest yerself,” he whispered to the Marquess. “Please, I have her now.”

“Thank you.” The Marquess smiled. “I’m sorry we’re late.”

“Don’t worry,” Keith assured him, tucking Celia’s hand in the crook of his arm. He was so distracted by his fears for the Marquess’s health that he barely noticed just how close he pulled Celia.

As they stood at the altar, they both looked at the Marquess one last time as he sat down beside his wife, and then they shifted their focus to the vicar.

“Shall we begin?” the vicar asked, casting a sympathetic glance at the organist, who was now shaking out his sore hands after playing the music so fast.

“Aye.” Keith nodded.

As the vicar began the opening prayer, Keith felt Celia’s hand slip out of the crook of his elbow. With that movement, she became distant. The beautiful woman with the red curls teasing the nape of her neck was now cold as she stared ahead.

Keith found it nearly impossible to look at anything else but her as they repeated their opening words. He was imagining a world where they may have truly meant these words, a world where they could have been together completely.

That can never be. I’m my father’s son. I’d only end up hurting her.

“Now, repeat after me, Lady Celia,” the vicar said.

Celia shifted to face Keith, though he was painfully aware of the way her eyes were trained on the middle of his chest, rather than on his face.

“I, Celia Aston, take thee, Keith Lennox, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

Then suddenly, her eyes flicked up to meet his and her gaze softened.

Perhaps she does mean those vows, after all.