Page 11 of A Virgin for the Duke of Scars
“Wait!” Theresa cried out in confusion. “I do not think this is right. Why are we… where is my sister?”
Where was Hope? It was she who should be walking down the aisle, after all, and not her.
But the guests did not even so much as flinch, their eyes turning back to the altar. Some of them looked at her with pity. Others simply did not seem to notice that her parents were practically dragging her down the carpeted aisle or that she was digging her heels in resistance.
Her insides gave a sickening lurch. The man she was supposed to call “Father” did not so much as glance at her. Her mother had paled, her lips trembling, her eyes refusing to meet Theresa’s frantic ones.
That was when the realization hit her—that her supposed sister was nowhere to be found. That the wedding she had thought to attend as a guest washerwedding.
“Why?” She mumbled, aghast. “Why would you do this to me?”
Her father—the Marquess—finally deigned to spare her a glance. It reeked of the guilt she could not find in her heart to pardon.
“Because by order of Her Majesty, the Queen, a daughter of the Marquess of Wyndham is to be wed to the Duke of Blackwell,” he replied flatly.
“The Duke of Blackwell?” Theresa could hardly hear her voice above the thundering of her heart.
The Marquess’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “It is your duty—and ours—to obey the decree of the Queen.”
At that point, the Marchioness burst into tears. “You must forgive us, Theresa. Hope—your sister—she ran away just a few days before the wedding. We… we have searched everywhere, but we could not find her.”
“Why…?” The word escaped bleakly from Theresa’s lips.
Why would Hope flee from her own wedding? Why would she risk inviting the ire of the Queen herself by running away?
The questions raced through her mind as they continued to march her down the aisle, their faces set in grim determination. It was almost as if they were escorting her to the guillotine instead of her groom.
Theresa wanted to burst into mirthless laughter, but cold dread had gripped her like a vise.
“She refused to marry the Duke,” the Marquess told her flatly. “She thought she was going to marry amonster.”
At that point, the sheer absurdity of what was transpiring bubbled up her throat. She giggled. And shook her head.
“A monster?” Her voice rose in pitch. “And you thought nothing of marryingmeto him?”
“Keep your voice down!” the Marquess admonished. “We cannot defy the Queen’s orders, girl.”
Theresa turned toward the Marchioness, her eyes pleading. Imploring her to help her make sense of the chaos all around her. “Mother, what do they mean by this?”
The Marchioness patted her hand in a vain attempt at reassurance, tears streaming down her face. “It simply means that the Duke is a soldier, my dear. A little rough around the edges, if you know what I mean,” she explained, meeting Theresa’s gaze with a plea of her own. “Surely it is much better to marry a man of such lofty status than to be a nun. We… we were not able to give you a good life, but we have every hope that His Grace will.”
Hope.
Hope was hersister, named so by parents who loved her,cherishedher since birth.
But now, her sister had fled, terrified of the fate that awaited her at the altar.
And with her out of the picture, the burden had been shifted onto her shoulders.
And how fortunate that they happened to have a spare daughter to present just for the occasion, a small voice whispered insidiously in the back of her head.
She had every right to feel aggrieved. To harbor resentment in her heart.
She could make a scene. Put her foot down and cry off from the wedding.
And then what?
She could still return to the nunnery. Mother Superior and Sister Mary would not be so pleased to find her at their doorstep once more, but they could not exactly turn her away either.
