ring.
Bewigged and mitered, the two bishops were arrayed in vestments that shimmered, and Kate wore her best peacock lutestring
and Oldenburg bonnet. A contingent of Grace’s Grenadiers had gathered in the choir, their uniforms a bouquet of color, each
restless shift setting up a clattering of swords and spurs that almost drowned out the archbishop’s words.
And Grace? Given only six hours to prepare, and with no modiste available who carried ready-made dresses foran Amazon, Grace stood up in her gray serge traveling dress and bonnet, a moth among the butterflies.
Indeed, they had all come in their uniforms, Grace thought, so they could be easily identified. Her soldiers, her dilettante
husband, her notorious friend. The stately bishops and the unwanted bride.
“Repeat after me,” the archbishop intoned. “I, Richard William Price Manners Hilliard…”
Grace was sure she should be paying attention. But she couldn’t seem to focus on anything but Diccan’s cool amusement as he
repeated the words that would bind them, as if this were some parlor game. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the unearthly
pale gray of his eyes, or feel anything but the warm strength of his hand. She couldn’t think of anything but the fact that
here on one of the highest, holiest altars in Great Britain, she was making a pact with the devil. By taking these vows, she
was committing herself to a life of grief and loneliness and regret.
At least, she thought, she would reap one benefit. Soon Diccan’s elegant hands would be on her again. Soon she would be initiated
into the mysteries of lovemaking by the greatest master of the age. For the first time in her life, she wouldn’t be outside
looking in, a scrubby brat with her hands on a high fence. She would be wrapped in the amazing sensations only hinted at that
morning.
Diccan would take her, and her life would be different. Suddenly she couldn’t quite concentrate on anything else.
“Miss Fairchild,” the archbishop said in patient tones.
Trying hard to hide the chills that chased through her, Grace snapped to attention. She looked up to see an expression on
the archbishop’s face that let her know he was repeating himself.
“I, Grace Georgianna Fairchild,” she echoed, her voice dissolving into a tiny white cloud of chilled air, her hand caught
in Diccan’s surprisingly gentle grip, “take you, Richard William Price Manners Hilliard…”
The next thing she knew, the archbishop was blessing her ring. She had no idea how Diccan had found it, a plain gold band
to match his plain gray wife. The archbishop handed Diccan the ring. Diccan deliberately stripped off his gloves and handed
them off before accepting it.
When he once again took hold of Grace’s hand, she flinched. She couldn’t help it. She thought his fingers must hold lightning.
She was shocked to the soles of her feet, the hot energy spearing right into her belly. He slid the plain gold band onto her
ring finger, and it felt as if he were pouring warmth into her, life, energy. It felt as if the odd magnetism between them
had solidified into physical light.
“A wife wouldn’t shy at her husband’s touch,” he murmured, his eyes dark.
“A husband wouldn’t speak so to his wife before a priest,” she retorted just as quietly.
Suddenly, he went still. Grace looked up to see the words had suddenly registered.
Husband
.
Wife
.
Diccan Hilliard was one of the most elegant gentlemen of his age. No one had perfected ennui as well as he. Yet just for a
moment, Grace saw the truth register on his face. She saw horror flash in his gray eyes. She saw him try to hide it. She felt
it strike her anyway, harder than the lightning from his fingers, colder than the glare from his father. More fatal than a
wound from a rusty blade.
Too quickly for anyone else to note his lapse, he regained his patented smile. But not quickly enough forGrace. If he hadn’t had such a firm
Bewigged and mitered, the two bishops were arrayed in vestments that shimmered, and Kate wore her best peacock lutestring
and Oldenburg bonnet. A contingent of Grace’s Grenadiers had gathered in the choir, their uniforms a bouquet of color, each
restless shift setting up a clattering of swords and spurs that almost drowned out the archbishop’s words.
And Grace? Given only six hours to prepare, and with no modiste available who carried ready-made dresses foran Amazon, Grace stood up in her gray serge traveling dress and bonnet, a moth among the butterflies.
Indeed, they had all come in their uniforms, Grace thought, so they could be easily identified. Her soldiers, her dilettante
husband, her notorious friend. The stately bishops and the unwanted bride.
“Repeat after me,” the archbishop intoned. “I, Richard William Price Manners Hilliard…”
Grace was sure she should be paying attention. But she couldn’t seem to focus on anything but Diccan’s cool amusement as he
repeated the words that would bind them, as if this were some parlor game. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the unearthly
pale gray of his eyes, or feel anything but the warm strength of his hand. She couldn’t think of anything but the fact that
here on one of the highest, holiest altars in Great Britain, she was making a pact with the devil. By taking these vows, she
was committing herself to a life of grief and loneliness and regret.
At least, she thought, she would reap one benefit. Soon Diccan’s elegant hands would be on her again. Soon she would be initiated
into the mysteries of lovemaking by the greatest master of the age. For the first time in her life, she wouldn’t be outside
looking in, a scrubby brat with her hands on a high fence. She would be wrapped in the amazing sensations only hinted at that
morning.
Diccan would take her, and her life would be different. Suddenly she couldn’t quite concentrate on anything else.
“Miss Fairchild,” the archbishop said in patient tones.
Trying hard to hide the chills that chased through her, Grace snapped to attention. She looked up to see an expression on
the archbishop’s face that let her know he was repeating himself.
“I, Grace Georgianna Fairchild,” she echoed, her voice dissolving into a tiny white cloud of chilled air, her hand caught
in Diccan’s surprisingly gentle grip, “take you, Richard William Price Manners Hilliard…”
The next thing she knew, the archbishop was blessing her ring. She had no idea how Diccan had found it, a plain gold band
to match his plain gray wife. The archbishop handed Diccan the ring. Diccan deliberately stripped off his gloves and handed
them off before accepting it.
When he once again took hold of Grace’s hand, she flinched. She couldn’t help it. She thought his fingers must hold lightning.
She was shocked to the soles of her feet, the hot energy spearing right into her belly. He slid the plain gold band onto her
ring finger, and it felt as if he were pouring warmth into her, life, energy. It felt as if the odd magnetism between them
had solidified into physical light.
“A wife wouldn’t shy at her husband’s touch,” he murmured, his eyes dark.
“A husband wouldn’t speak so to his wife before a priest,” she retorted just as quietly.
Suddenly, he went still. Grace looked up to see the words had suddenly registered.
Husband
.
Wife
.
Diccan Hilliard was one of the most elegant gentlemen of his age. No one had perfected ennui as well as he. Yet just for a
moment, Grace saw the truth register on his face. She saw horror flash in his gray eyes. She saw him try to hide it. She felt
it strike her anyway, harder than the lightning from his fingers, colder than the glare from his father. More fatal than a
wound from a rusty blade.
Too quickly for anyone else to note his lapse, he regained his patented smile. But not quickly enough forGrace. If he hadn’t had such a firm
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