Read Online His Spanish Bride by Teresa Grant - Free Book Online

without a tippet. Charlotte Haddon stared straight ahead, her gaze restless, her mouth discontented, her hands locked together in her lap. Portrait of a happy couple a few years after the wedding.
    In the row behind, Isabella Flores toyed with the end of the mantilla she wore in place of a shawl. The marques, a tall man with gray-streaked brown hair, sat beside her but was turned away to speak to the gentleman on his other side. Edward Linford lounged in a chair at the back. Blanca and Addison sat at the back as well. Suzanne had seen some raised brows at their presence, but Malcolm has insisted, perhaps so she’d have an ally, perhaps because he thought of Addison as one of his few true friends.
    Clothes rustled. Chairs creaked. The chaplain opened his Bible.
    Sacrebleu, she thought, it’s actually happening.
    The chaplain had a droning voice her actor-manager father would have deplored. She’d heard the English wedding service before, disguised as a parlormaid in the course of a mission at an inn where a British lieutenant married his colonel’s daughter. The words slid over her. She had nothing to do but stand there, and it was in character to appear a bit nervous.
    Malcolm’s voice, repeating his vows, jerked her out of her reverie. Quiet and even, but it hit her like a shock of cold fire. She looked into his eyes. The intensity of his gaze shook her to the soles of her satin slippers. Whyever he had entered into this strange marriage, he meant every word of his vows. What a damnable time to realize it.
    “With this ring I thee wed, this gold and silver I thee give.”
    Geoffrey Blackwell took a gold ring from his pocket. She pulled off the glove on her left hand. Malcolm slid the ring onto her finger. She could feel the tremor that ran through him. Unless that was her trembling. The ring felt strange and heavy on her hand. She hadn’t even thought to consider whether he’d be able to procure one on such short notice.
    “With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
    Who would have thought such unexpected poetry lay within the conventions of the marriage service? She colored at the “worship” bit, only partly to stay in character.
    “Suzanne.” The chaplain’s flat voice returned. “Repeat after me.”
    Her turn. It should be no challenge when she was prompted to say each line. None of it meant anything, so why should “obey” stick in her throat?
    “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
    Papers with official seals spread on the table. A pen dipped in an inkwell in her hand. She scrawled her name—her half-pretend, half-real name—below Malcolm’s on the marriage lines.
    Stuart and Wellington kissed her cheek and wrung Malcolm’s hand. Words of congratulation and best wishes poured over them. Footmen came in with champagne.
    She was married.
     
     
    “Well?” Edward Linford at least had the wit to pitch his voice low. He and Malcolm were standing by the windows. Rivulets of rain ran down the glass.
    “I’m afraid there were complications. The blackmailer recognized the notebook as a fake.”
    “Damnation. So we’re no better off than before.”
    “Not quite. I was able to follow him.” Pity he couldn’t tell Linford about the role Suzanne had played, but on the whole it was probably better not to.
    “So you know who it is? Damn it, man, why didn’t you say so from the first?”
    Malcolm cast a glance across the room. Suzanne was conversing with Charlotte Haddon. “You might have mentioned that your dalliance extended to your best friend’s wife.”
    Linford’s eyes widened. “How the hell do you know—That is—”
    “Let’s not waste time on denials, Linford.”
    “It’s none of your bloody business.”
    “Unfortunately, it is. Haddon seems to be behind the blackmail.’
    Linford blinked. “What the devil would Haddon want with my notebook?”
    “Proof of his wife’s indiscretion?”
    Linford went pale beneath the tan of years in the saddle.