to her money.”
“If March murders me, you’ll have the satisfaction of being right and the chance to arrest him.” The sound of footsteps interrupted him. “Ah, here’s the curate, if I’m not mistaken. Time for me to take a wife.”
A T the altar Cleo studied the expression in her groom’s proud face. His intensity set him apart from his mocking brother and the shrinking curate. She tried to tell herself that he looked like a man buying a gasworks, but his scrutiny unsettled her. His physical presence made her stomach fluttery, and her skin seemed alive to his gaze. She handed Mrs. Lawful’s bouquet to Charlie, lifted her veil, and gave her husband-to-be as direct a gaze as he was giving her. He surprised her by laughing, his face relaxing into that unsettling smile Cleo remembered from the garden.
“Ready to become Lady Jones, Miss Spencer?”
“Are you hoping I will back out?”
Mr. Tucker cleared his throat. He looked as if he would bolt if either of the brothers said a word to him. “Is there any question about proceeding?”
“None,” said the bored brother. “Get on with it, man.”
Mr. Tucker opened his book and began to work his way through the marriage service. The words seemed to echo off the stones in the empty church, utterly shocking words that Cleo realized she had never attended to before. What was the church thinking? Every sentence mentioned carnal embrace. Charlie was probably frightened out of his wits. Mr. Tucker certainly was.
Next to her the man with the unreadable slate eyes and deep, skin-caressing voice was promising to worship her with his body, his tall, lean body that radiated heat in the cold nave. A startling wave of warmth flashed along her skin. By the time he took her hand in his lean, brown one and slipped a gold band on her finger, she felt dizzy with heat.
She steadied herself and repeated her part. Really, intimacies between them were unlikely. They hardly knew each other. Their marriage was all about money. They had aims that would keep them occupied and going in quite different directions. With the rustle of a thin page, Mr. Tucker ran out of text and pronounced them man and wife.
Her groom’s glaring brother slapped him on the back. “All over but the paperwork. Kiss the bride, man,” he muttered.
Cleo’s new husband turned to her, his face closed and proud. The moment lengthened, and she had time to notice threads of silver in his dark hair and the pale groove of a scar that sliced across his right ear. The sensuous jut of his lower lip caught her gaze. His hesitation stretched to the point of awkwardness.
He did not want to kiss her. He would not kiss her. Whatever warmth she felt in his voice was of her own imagining. His spine was stiff, his expression frozen, all but the eyes. His heated pewter gaze was alive and fixed on her mouth. She felt embarrassment sting her cheeks.
Four years of poverty had not entirely cured her of vanity. His reluctance to kiss her wounded her pride. “What an exhausting service,” she said. “Somehow the church manages to squeeze a lifetime into a brief service in language more appropriate to the lowest bawdy house than the holy altar.” She shrugged and turned to Charlie for her bouquet. He seemed frozen, too. If she just kept talking, the moment would pass.
“What a shocking service, Mr. Tucker, with all that talk of fornication , man’s carnal lusts and appetites , and the poor brute beasts . I wonder it doesn’t put you to the blush. The Church of England should be ashamed—such warnings about the dreadful day of judgment and not enterprising unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly into the married state. The worst sort of scare tactics.”
With a quick move her new husband took control, pressing a warm, firm thumb to her lips. They tingled instantly.
“I promise not to strangle you,” he said, his gaze locked with hers. His thumb brushed her lips and released them. But the sensation
“If March murders me, you’ll have the satisfaction of being right and the chance to arrest him.” The sound of footsteps interrupted him. “Ah, here’s the curate, if I’m not mistaken. Time for me to take a wife.”
A T the altar Cleo studied the expression in her groom’s proud face. His intensity set him apart from his mocking brother and the shrinking curate. She tried to tell herself that he looked like a man buying a gasworks, but his scrutiny unsettled her. His physical presence made her stomach fluttery, and her skin seemed alive to his gaze. She handed Mrs. Lawful’s bouquet to Charlie, lifted her veil, and gave her husband-to-be as direct a gaze as he was giving her. He surprised her by laughing, his face relaxing into that unsettling smile Cleo remembered from the garden.
“Ready to become Lady Jones, Miss Spencer?”
“Are you hoping I will back out?”
Mr. Tucker cleared his throat. He looked as if he would bolt if either of the brothers said a word to him. “Is there any question about proceeding?”
“None,” said the bored brother. “Get on with it, man.”
Mr. Tucker opened his book and began to work his way through the marriage service. The words seemed to echo off the stones in the empty church, utterly shocking words that Cleo realized she had never attended to before. What was the church thinking? Every sentence mentioned carnal embrace. Charlie was probably frightened out of his wits. Mr. Tucker certainly was.
Next to her the man with the unreadable slate eyes and deep, skin-caressing voice was promising to worship her with his body, his tall, lean body that radiated heat in the cold nave. A startling wave of warmth flashed along her skin. By the time he took her hand in his lean, brown one and slipped a gold band on her finger, she felt dizzy with heat.
She steadied herself and repeated her part. Really, intimacies between them were unlikely. They hardly knew each other. Their marriage was all about money. They had aims that would keep them occupied and going in quite different directions. With the rustle of a thin page, Mr. Tucker ran out of text and pronounced them man and wife.
Her groom’s glaring brother slapped him on the back. “All over but the paperwork. Kiss the bride, man,” he muttered.
Cleo’s new husband turned to her, his face closed and proud. The moment lengthened, and she had time to notice threads of silver in his dark hair and the pale groove of a scar that sliced across his right ear. The sensuous jut of his lower lip caught her gaze. His hesitation stretched to the point of awkwardness.
He did not want to kiss her. He would not kiss her. Whatever warmth she felt in his voice was of her own imagining. His spine was stiff, his expression frozen, all but the eyes. His heated pewter gaze was alive and fixed on her mouth. She felt embarrassment sting her cheeks.
Four years of poverty had not entirely cured her of vanity. His reluctance to kiss her wounded her pride. “What an exhausting service,” she said. “Somehow the church manages to squeeze a lifetime into a brief service in language more appropriate to the lowest bawdy house than the holy altar.” She shrugged and turned to Charlie for her bouquet. He seemed frozen, too. If she just kept talking, the moment would pass.
“What a shocking service, Mr. Tucker, with all that talk of fornication , man’s carnal lusts and appetites , and the poor brute beasts . I wonder it doesn’t put you to the blush. The Church of England should be ashamed—such warnings about the dreadful day of judgment and not enterprising unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly into the married state. The worst sort of scare tactics.”
With a quick move her new husband took control, pressing a warm, firm thumb to her lips. They tingled instantly.
“I promise not to strangle you,” he said, his gaze locked with hers. His thumb brushed her lips and released them. But the sensation
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