Page 60 of The Devil and the Heiress
Christian picked up a pen and signed his name with a flourish. His fingers were long, graceful, exactly as she remembered them. She blinked away as soon as she noticed her own thoughts.
“Now you, my lady.” The man shifted the ledger to her.
Christian offered her the pen, and she accepted without touching him. Her fingers trembled, so she paused, forcing a calm as she began to sign her name. She almost wrote Crenshaw. A dot of ink spread on the paper as she caught herself, turning the little curl at the beginning of the C into the beginning of an L. She was Violet Leigh now.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, giving the registrar back his pen. The strength of her voice had been all used up, so it was barely higher than a whisper. And then it was over, and time to reconvene at the Crenshaws’ rented townhome for the wedding breakfast. They all left exactly as they had arrived, in three different carriages.
Chapter 22
Rose, for her part, had no interest in playing the role of savior. She knew what many did not, and what some only learned after tribulation. True redemption came from within.
V. Lennox,An American and the London Season
Christian was certain that he would never forget how beautiful Violet had looked when she walked into the registrar’s office and became his wife. It was a day he would remember for the rest of his life. He regretted many things. How he hadn’t been honest with her when he should have, how he had stolen her away to begin with, and even how she didn’t have a proper wedding. But he would never regret making her his wife, even if meant living with her disappointment and dealing with that nest of vipers she considered family.
When he and Jacob walked in, the Crenshaws’ townhome was bustling with activity. Servants moved from room to room, carrying in last-minute flower arrangements and setting up platters filled with glasses of champagne for the guests who would be arriving soon for the wedding breakfast. Having only arrived moments before them, Violet and her family still stood in the entryway discarding their outerwear.
“Leigh,” Maxwell Crenshaw greeted him. “Mr. Thorne.”
Her father simply glared at them both. He didn’t know if Jacob’s presence had been expected, but no one objected.
“Hello, Mr. Thorne.” Violet gave his brother a tiny smile, studiously avoiding looking at Christian. His heart twisted from the coldness.
“I would have a moment alone with my wife before the guests arrive,” he said, handing his hat and gloves to a footman.
“I’m afraid there is simply no time, my lord.” Mrs. Crenshaw indicated the photographer, who had set up a camera and his equipment farther in where the curve of the staircase could serve as a backdrop to their wedding portrait. “We must get your photograph finished before guests arrive.”
“Nevertheless,” said Christian, “I must insist.”
Mrs. Crenshaw frowned, but Violet said, “It will take but a moment, Mother.” She led the way into the music room, her shoulders back and head high as if she were going to meet her dark fate.
As he closed the door behind him, secluding them, he could not help but notice how pale she was. Dark shadows under her eyes indicated she hadn’t been sleeping well. It appeared as if her stitches had been removed, but the veil and her hair had been artfully arranged to cover the wound. Her bruising had faded a bit, and what was left was disguised by a layer of powder.
“I rather hoped you might wear your pirate scarf.” The words were out before he knew he had meant to say them.
“I am sorry to disappoint you.” Her voice was all business and impersonal.
He hated that he had done this to her. Could she so easily forget how he had accused her of being a pirate? The way they had laughed? She seemed to look through him rather than to see him. He wanted to pick her up and take her out of here, to spend the night in his bed showing her how he regretted hurting her.
He took in the fine batiste, almost sheer in its delicacy, and the artful way it clung to her curves. “You are beautiful.”
She glanced down, but not before he saw the blush that touched her cheeks. “Thank you.”
Reaching for the ring in his pocket, he walked over to her. “I have brought you a ring. I wanted to give it to you alone rather than before your family.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t been expecting one. His heart cracked a little at that.
“Here.” He took the ring out of its little velvet pouch and waited for her to offer her hand.
“I don’t need a ring,” she said, staring at his hands as if they meant to do her harm.
“I would very much like for you to have it. It is expected for a woman of your station.”
Her brow creased, but she nodded and gave him her hand. He gently grasped her fingers. To touch her again after a week apart was bliss; heat and the faint hum of a current seemed to work its way up his arm to settle in his belly. His body recognized her immediately as need tore swiftly through him, the need to hold her against him and inhale her sweet scent, to feel the beat of her heart. The gold ring held a rose-cut emerald set in the middle of two matching diamonds with a scrollwork band. He pushed it onto her finger, only to have her withdraw her hand the second it was done, as if she couldn’t abide his touch.
“Thank you,” she said, examining the ring.
“Do you like it?”
