Page 6 of The Perks of being a Duchess
When no further comment followed and no one appeared, he watched as his bride once again proceeded to make her way to him.
He let out a small breath.
Soon he would be married and all the unpleasantness of the past twelve months would be laid to rest.
Except he would be leg-shackled.
Nevertheless, Ambrose could move on with his life.
He paid enough attention to the ceremony to know when his lines were, but other than that, his mind wandered—mostly to his bride. His body prickled with awareness with her standing so close to him, her head stopping just shy of his shoulder. Her scent was different today. Not the fruity tone of orange blossoms he had come to expect from Holly, but more flowery.
Jasmine.
Soft. Light. Pure.
Ambrose gritted his teeth. What was he doing? He had no business noticing her scent. Neither did his body have any business seeking to inhale deep lungfuls of her air.
He was impatient for this matter to be settled, that was all.
One would think, in this day and age, they would have discovered a more convenient way to suitably marry other than submit oneself to this stretched-out pomp.
Why should a business arrangement be celebrated, in any case?
Ambrose hated public spectacles. If he had gotten his way, they’d be married privately with only a select number of witnesses. But his mother had insisted.To keep up appearance, she had said, because of the hasty nature of the marriage. And God help him if he did not give his mother what she wanted.
The one thing he hated more than public spectacles was a woman that wailed in his ears.
His mind drifted back to his bride. Had he not waited this long in search of an escape clause, had he just accepted his inevitable fate, he’d have taken his time in selecting a wife. A lady of demure stature. A wallflower, maybe. He would never have chosen Holly Middleton with her dreamy eyes and bleeding heart.
Ambrose could imagine those eyes, red and swollen beneath her veil. Except something about his betrothed gave him pause. It was hard to say why. The determined set of her shoulders? The blue slippers with her soft pink dress? Or perhaps it was the entire package. Something about her did not ring true. And suddenly and inexplicably, he was certain puffy eyes were not what he’d find.
His gaze flicked over her. Dread and something unnamable spread through him.
This wasn’t Holly Middleton. This wasn’t his bride.
The blue slippers did not provide for much height and Holly’s head had never quite reached his shoulder. Now, it suddenly did.
He peered down at the woman, studying her with the unwavering attention of a predator. It wasaMiddleton, but not the one he had agreed upon to marry.
His eyes darted to where her sister sat in the front row. He couldn’t recall the chit’s name. Something flowery. And there was a sister missing. He couldn’t recall her name either, except for the frosty looks she’d always cast him whenever he called upon Holly. The chits had always just been Miss Middleton to him.
Ambrose marveled at the lack of attention he had paid. Usually he was much more astute when it came to names. But he hadn’t bothered to take much note of his bride’s sisters—or their names. There had been matters of more importance to occupy his mind and they, well, they were justthere.
A duty. An annoyance. A necessity.
Ambrose almost dragged a hand over his face then and there. He was tired. It had been a long year. Perhaps he was imagining things. This could simply not be happening to him.
Behind him, scores of eyes burned into his back. Ambrose knew that weddings were nothing but theatre where one entertained an audience with all the props of the latest fashions, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his bride was going to give them much more than what they came for—that she’d give them a real show.
When the ceremony finally came to the portion where they repeated their vows, he tensed, but his voice was firm and resolute as he repeated his vows. Then his eyes drifted over her concealed face as she repeated her own.
“I, Miss Middleton—” his hands twitched, “—take this man to be my wedded husband . . .” The voice confirmed it. This wasn’t Holly Middleton. “. . . Death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
Another proverbial feather rose.
Whoever this woman was, she had left out an important part of her vows. Which brought him to the question: what the hell was he going to do? He had precious little options—no options, in fact—but to see this through, thanks so his father’s will.
All the same, that did not stop him from spending the remainder of the ceremony pondering, arguing and debating the best course of action.
