night she’d slept fitfully, tossing, turning, slapping her pillows. Eventually she had dozed, dreaming of a fair-haired woman standing by her bed. In her dream Nora had sat up, frightened and trembling, clutching the bedclothes to her chin. What do you want? she’d demanded. The woman smiled, and for some inexplicable reason Nora’s fears dissolved.
You needn’t be afraid. Marry him. He’ll never hurt you.
‘‘Who are you?’’ But the woman had vanished, and Nora had awakened to find herself sitting up in bed, the linens balled in her fists.
Now she had given her consent, made her pledge, because some nameless woman in a dream—a figment of her own wistful hopes—had said she should.
‘‘I pronounce you man and wife. . . .’’
She belonged to him now, for better or worse, for always.
Her veil came away from her face, swept back between Grayson Lowell’s long, straight fingers. For an instant Nora marveled at the difference between those hands and her father’s, once worn to bleeding on a regular basis in the effort to survive.
Vastly different from her own hands too. Sturdier, stronger. Hers were small and delicate but often paint stained, the nails and cuticles suffering from contact with powders and oils. And yet with her frail female hands she created, sifted life’s singular moments through her fingers and set them to canvas. At least, she did so as best she could and with an open heart.
Could Sir Grayson make a similar claim? Had he ever created anything with those fine gentleman’s hands?
His face came into focus and filled her vision, became the whole of her world while masculine scents settled over her. Lifting her veil did little to brighten the prospect before her, for the dusty church forbade entrance to all but the slenderest fingers of sunlight. Even close up her new husband seemed drawn from a midnight landscape, his startling blue eyes the only brilliance in his shuttered expression.
His lips were cool and smooth, just moist enough to leave a trace of dew across her own. She resisted the urge to flick her tongue across the spot while the rector concluded the ceremony. Resisted but could not quell the temptation to compare this kiss with the other one they’d shared.
She had bitten him. The memory nearly raised a grin. He’d deserved it, cad that he’d been. Though she must admit it hadn’t been so much the kiss but the insults flanking it that had provoked her temper.
But . . . she’d made a shocking discovery that night, a little secret he must never learn. It lived inside her, a quivery predicament with the power to trip her heart, hitch her breath, send her better sense for a tumble.
The organist struck up the exit march, discordant notes that blared through the building and rattled inside her. With a hand at her elbow, Sir Grayson, her husband, turned her about and nudged her toward the back of the church.
What a sad affair their wedding was. Between her and Sir Grayson they’d mustered all of a handful of guests—the Earl of Wycliffe, the Stockwells, the odd assortment of elderly aunts and uncles, all of whom appeared just the tiniest bit confused.
Mama had insisted on the church, at the same time bluntly refusing to allow any of Nora’s artist friends to attend. Somehow she saw Nora’s downfall as their fault, even though not one of them had been involved in Alessio’s deceit. Mama needed someone to blame, and in Alessio’s absence her anger settled on anyone even remotely connected to the art world.
At the open doors of the vestibule, the morning sun hit Nora full in the face. She blinked and wished Sir Grayson would release her elbow. Did he believe her incapable of remaining upright on her own? A new, gleaming black phaeton pulled by a pair of matching bays—a gift from her parents—awaited them on the windy street. They ducked beneath a shower of rose petals and well-wishes and made their way to the vehicle’s open door.
‘‘After you, my dear.’’
You needn’t be afraid. Marry him. He’ll never hurt you.
‘‘Who are you?’’ But the woman had vanished, and Nora had awakened to find herself sitting up in bed, the linens balled in her fists.
Now she had given her consent, made her pledge, because some nameless woman in a dream—a figment of her own wistful hopes—had said she should.
‘‘I pronounce you man and wife. . . .’’
She belonged to him now, for better or worse, for always.
Her veil came away from her face, swept back between Grayson Lowell’s long, straight fingers. For an instant Nora marveled at the difference between those hands and her father’s, once worn to bleeding on a regular basis in the effort to survive.
Vastly different from her own hands too. Sturdier, stronger. Hers were small and delicate but often paint stained, the nails and cuticles suffering from contact with powders and oils. And yet with her frail female hands she created, sifted life’s singular moments through her fingers and set them to canvas. At least, she did so as best she could and with an open heart.
Could Sir Grayson make a similar claim? Had he ever created anything with those fine gentleman’s hands?
His face came into focus and filled her vision, became the whole of her world while masculine scents settled over her. Lifting her veil did little to brighten the prospect before her, for the dusty church forbade entrance to all but the slenderest fingers of sunlight. Even close up her new husband seemed drawn from a midnight landscape, his startling blue eyes the only brilliance in his shuttered expression.
His lips were cool and smooth, just moist enough to leave a trace of dew across her own. She resisted the urge to flick her tongue across the spot while the rector concluded the ceremony. Resisted but could not quell the temptation to compare this kiss with the other one they’d shared.
She had bitten him. The memory nearly raised a grin. He’d deserved it, cad that he’d been. Though she must admit it hadn’t been so much the kiss but the insults flanking it that had provoked her temper.
But . . . she’d made a shocking discovery that night, a little secret he must never learn. It lived inside her, a quivery predicament with the power to trip her heart, hitch her breath, send her better sense for a tumble.
The organist struck up the exit march, discordant notes that blared through the building and rattled inside her. With a hand at her elbow, Sir Grayson, her husband, turned her about and nudged her toward the back of the church.
What a sad affair their wedding was. Between her and Sir Grayson they’d mustered all of a handful of guests—the Earl of Wycliffe, the Stockwells, the odd assortment of elderly aunts and uncles, all of whom appeared just the tiniest bit confused.
Mama had insisted on the church, at the same time bluntly refusing to allow any of Nora’s artist friends to attend. Somehow she saw Nora’s downfall as their fault, even though not one of them had been involved in Alessio’s deceit. Mama needed someone to blame, and in Alessio’s absence her anger settled on anyone even remotely connected to the art world.
At the open doors of the vestibule, the morning sun hit Nora full in the face. She blinked and wished Sir Grayson would release her elbow. Did he believe her incapable of remaining upright on her own? A new, gleaming black phaeton pulled by a pair of matching bays—a gift from her parents—awaited them on the windy street. They ducked beneath a shower of rose petals and well-wishes and made their way to the vehicle’s open door.
‘‘After you, my dear.’’
Similar Books
