Page 78 of The Danger of Desire
By the time Warren stood at the head of the rows of chairs in the folly, waiting for his bride to come down the spiral staircase from the floor above, he was entirely clearheaded.
Nothing like attending one’s own wedding to sober a man right up.
And the gallons of coffee Clarissa and her servants had poured into them early this morning had certainly helped. So had delaying the wedding until noon to give the men a chance to sleep it off.
He felt bad about that. All he remembered of last evening’s festivities was drinking himself senseless to hold back the dark, and then serenading Delia from the lawn.
Ithadbeen Delia he’d serenaded, hadn’t it? Her aunt kept getting mixed up in that image, which was rather disturbing.
Bloody hell, if he’d serenaded Lady Pensworth, how would he ever livethatdown?
Mrs. Trevor stepped forward and began to play a violin, jerking his attention back to his wedding. The woman really was quite good. How surprising.
A sound on the stairs caught his attention, and he looked over to see a cloud of blue silk descending.
Delia. His bride. He had abride,for God’s sake.
She came fully into view, and his heart stopped. She was so lovely. Her cheeks shone rosy, and her lips curved in a hesitant smile that made his blood run hot. She wore some frothy thing that spilled down the steps as she walked. The bodice accentuated her small but pert breasts, which he’d ravaged less than a day ago.
And wanted to ravage now. Wouldn’t that shock the parish priest?
She carried a bouquet in her lace-gloved hands. The bride’s bouquet, with hydrangeas and roses and God knew what else wrapped in more lace and ribbons, brought home the fact that he was really getting married. To Delia.
That hit him with all the weight of an anvil. He would be responsible for her happiness. Somehow he would have to reconcile her needs with his strange way of life—the mornings and days spent sleeping short hours so he could do the work of an heir.
They were marrying. They would be linked forever, would have children together.
Children? God, he’d forgotten all about that. They hadn’t even discussed it. What if she didn’t want children? He must have an heir. Surely she would understand that.
But how could he have children when he couldn’t bear the night? Would he wake them with his screaming? Would they know him only as the man who roamed the city to keep his fear at bay while they slept?
This was happening too fast. He was marrying. Had he lost his bloody mind?
Then Delia reached the bottom of the stairs, and her eyes locked with his—so blue that they seared a path right to his soul—and he saw in them the same uncertainty he felt.
Oddly, that calmed him. They would get through this together, somehow.
She walked down the aisle, an ethereal creature in lace and silk, and he concentrated on their wedding night to come. The rest would fall into place. It had to. Because he couldn’t back out now.
When she joined him before the priest, a surge of something that felt oddly like possessiveness seized him. How mad was that? This was an unplanned consequence of his nightmares, nothing more. Yet the sound of her voice, repeating the vows after he had done the same, made his blood roar through his veins with an avaricious satisfaction he couldn’t deny.
Still, he couldn’t ignore the twitching of her lips when the priest said, “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him,” et cetera, et cetera.
“I will,” she said, deliberately not meeting Warren’s eyes.
So when Warren was asked to take the ring, to speak the words, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he made sure to catch her gaze.
And the blush that suffused her face told him that they might do very well together. As long as he could keep his weakness secret from her.
Then came the part of the ceremony where a kiss was expected. And he damned well gave her a kiss to remember. Because if they were to start a life together, then she might as well know one truth.
He would start this marriage as he meant to go on. He would thoroughly enjoy the part of marriage that allowed him to bed his wife.
And God help them both if that wasn’t enough.
Nineteen
Delia was so exhausted, she scarcely made it through the wedding breakfast. In addition to having had little sleep last night, the tension of today’s events had sapped her energy. By the time she and Warren climbed into his carriage shortly before nightfall and headed for London, she could barely keep her eyes open.
