Read Online How to Deceive a Duke by Lecia Cornwall - Free Book Online
Authors: Lecia Cornwall
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bride. And yet she was. She squeezed the stems, and a thorn pricked her finger. She felt the sting, watched the blood bloom across the pristine white silk of her glove, and tried to block out the hammering of her heart. Then Hector was back again, and it was time to let him lead her into the cool dimness of the church.
“You look lovely, Meg. Your father would have been proud, and—”
She stopped listening to the murmured reassurances.
She was looking at the Devil Duke of Temberlay. Nicholas Hartley. Her groom.
He was indeed tall, and elegantly slim. He wore an odd emerald green coat, and a gypsy-striped waistcoat. His hair was dark, nearly black, and curling over his collar. It was impossible to tell the color of his eyes, but she imagined they must be an exotic shade of green to match the coat. Why else would a man choose such an outlandish outfit?
Her stomach fluttered as she drew closer. He was very big indeed, broad shouldered as well as tall. He wore black breeches and polished Hessians, and they outlined every muscular inch of his long legs. Her gaze traveled up to his face. Even from here, she could see the anger in the hard set of his jaw, the forbidding frown. The coldness of his gaze chilled her, made her tremble.
Hector shook her gently, and she realized she’d stopped walking and was standing in the middle of the aisle like a ninny. She swallowed, forced herself to take the last dozen steps forward, counting them as she went.
Hector bowed stiffly, and offered Meg’s hand to Temberlay. He waited a long, insulting moment before he accepted it, and she felt hot blood rush to her face. She stared down at his hand, tanned and brown against her white glove. A thin white scar ran up the length of his thumb to disappear under his cuff. How did a man get such a scar? It spoke of blood, and daring, but just as likely it was a love bite, or a fall he’d taken while drunk.
His grip was firm and impersonal as he led her the last few steps to face the bishop.
Meg turned her face forward, trying to ignore the tingle that raced up her arm from his touch. She concentrated on the churchman’s untidy ruff of white hair. He intoned the ceremony in a rich bass voice, and the words echoed through the church, daring anyone to decry the match that God had ordained.
Meg stared up at the saints in the stained glass windows, holding her breath, waiting for them to descend and denounce her as a fraud, but they remained silent.
She repeated her vows, her stomach knotted against her deception, stumbling only a little as she whispered her own name in place of her sister’s. She glanced sideways at the stranger by her side, but he was staring at the wall, looking thoroughly bored. Annoyed, she tried to withdraw her hand from his, but his grip instantly tightened like iron, though he did not move otherwise, or even look at her.
He spoke his vows in a deep growl that vibrated over her nerves. He promised to take someone named Daisy to wife. This time, when she glanced up at him, he had the audacity to smile, a grin of pure, breathtaking devilment. She drew a breath and almost forgot to exhale. This was the Devil of the scandal sheets, the rogue, the lover, the rake . . . and with the final “I will,” her husband.
She thought of everything that meant, and her skin grew warm, the heat radiating from their joined hands, spreading through her limbs like fire. It was too late for regrets. She swayed, and his grip tightened again, silently commanding her not to dare to swoon. She’d never swooned in her life, but if ever there was a time for it, this was probably it. She straightened her spine instead.
N icholas felt her sway, and refused to let her faint. It was a silly female trick he detested. Her fingers were icy in his, and he could feel her pulse racing under his hand. She was nervous, perhaps even afraid of him.
Good.
He frowned at the heavy veil she wore, felt pity and dismay. She must be hideous.
All he could see
“You look lovely, Meg. Your father would have been proud, and—”
She stopped listening to the murmured reassurances.
She was looking at the Devil Duke of Temberlay. Nicholas Hartley. Her groom.
He was indeed tall, and elegantly slim. He wore an odd emerald green coat, and a gypsy-striped waistcoat. His hair was dark, nearly black, and curling over his collar. It was impossible to tell the color of his eyes, but she imagined they must be an exotic shade of green to match the coat. Why else would a man choose such an outlandish outfit?
Her stomach fluttered as she drew closer. He was very big indeed, broad shouldered as well as tall. He wore black breeches and polished Hessians, and they outlined every muscular inch of his long legs. Her gaze traveled up to his face. Even from here, she could see the anger in the hard set of his jaw, the forbidding frown. The coldness of his gaze chilled her, made her tremble.
Hector shook her gently, and she realized she’d stopped walking and was standing in the middle of the aisle like a ninny. She swallowed, forced herself to take the last dozen steps forward, counting them as she went.
Hector bowed stiffly, and offered Meg’s hand to Temberlay. He waited a long, insulting moment before he accepted it, and she felt hot blood rush to her face. She stared down at his hand, tanned and brown against her white glove. A thin white scar ran up the length of his thumb to disappear under his cuff. How did a man get such a scar? It spoke of blood, and daring, but just as likely it was a love bite, or a fall he’d taken while drunk.
His grip was firm and impersonal as he led her the last few steps to face the bishop.
Meg turned her face forward, trying to ignore the tingle that raced up her arm from his touch. She concentrated on the churchman’s untidy ruff of white hair. He intoned the ceremony in a rich bass voice, and the words echoed through the church, daring anyone to decry the match that God had ordained.
Meg stared up at the saints in the stained glass windows, holding her breath, waiting for them to descend and denounce her as a fraud, but they remained silent.
She repeated her vows, her stomach knotted against her deception, stumbling only a little as she whispered her own name in place of her sister’s. She glanced sideways at the stranger by her side, but he was staring at the wall, looking thoroughly bored. Annoyed, she tried to withdraw her hand from his, but his grip instantly tightened like iron, though he did not move otherwise, or even look at her.
He spoke his vows in a deep growl that vibrated over her nerves. He promised to take someone named Daisy to wife. This time, when she glanced up at him, he had the audacity to smile, a grin of pure, breathtaking devilment. She drew a breath and almost forgot to exhale. This was the Devil of the scandal sheets, the rogue, the lover, the rake . . . and with the final “I will,” her husband.
She thought of everything that meant, and her skin grew warm, the heat radiating from their joined hands, spreading through her limbs like fire. It was too late for regrets. She swayed, and his grip tightened again, silently commanding her not to dare to swoon. She’d never swooned in her life, but if ever there was a time for it, this was probably it. She straightened her spine instead.
N icholas felt her sway, and refused to let her faint. It was a silly female trick he detested. Her fingers were icy in his, and he could feel her pulse racing under his hand. She was nervous, perhaps even afraid of him.
Good.
He frowned at the heavy veil she wore, felt pity and dismay. She must be hideous.
All he could see
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