Page 35 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
The vicar cleared his throat and asked his question again.
He started. “Oh. Yes. I will.”
He lost the rest of it again. He must have put the ring on her finger. Hadn’t he? He came back to himself when the kissing was mentioned.
“You don’t have to,” she said reassuringly. She turned her cheek toward him. “Just a peck will do.”
Damned if it would. Did she think he wanted to hear his friends hooting about the chaste and sisterly peck he gave his bride, for all the rest of his life?
God’s teeth, no.
She was his. His bride. He’d gone and done it and he wanted to mark it. To claim her. This once. He would kiss her now and be done with it, at least for a while.
Reaching out, he pulled her close. Her cheeks flushed and he turned her to face him so he could kiss her properly.
Mistake. This kiss wasn’t proper. It was a rush of heat and longing. Damnation, he’d thought the kiss in the Thames had been a shock. He’d caught her by surprise then. This time she was expecting it—and she threw herself into it. The press of her lips set loose a shockwave of other sensations, other emotions. It was just a fancy, was it not? That the passion sweeping through him was igniting a thousand small explosions inside of him? That each flare of rough, possessive yearning illuminated more of his soul? Bared his empty spots, his secrets, and his shameful desire formore,deeper,farther?
Opening his eyes, he released her. Stepped away.
She blinked. Slightly unsteady on her feet, she stared at his mouth.
The vicar made a pronouncement.
Whiddon turned, bracing himself for the onslaught of well wishes and congratulations. People surged forward and surrounded them. He let the crowd sweep them apart.
He looked over at her once, smiling and conversing coherently, although her eyes still held the daze that he felt himself.
Resolute, he turned away. Someone made a quip. It was Mr. Simon, from the British Museum. He laughed and let his friends clap him on the back. He did not stare after Charlotte.
His bride.
His wife.
He would begin as he meant to go on. He would grow used to her. She would become commonplace. He would become more . . . indifferent.
Best to start now.
* * *
Her wedding was lovely.She felt beautiful in her new gown and rich with well wishes and new friendships and connections. Bless Lord Chester for his skill in navigating the guest list, because she met only smiles and encouragement and congratulations.
She felt a rush of nerves when Lord Chester’s grandmother cornered her. The older woman was notoriously blunt. But the dowager merely handed her a flute of champagne. “Gird your loins, girl. Whiddon won’t be an easy husband for you. But I’ve been watching you, and I think you are up to the challenge.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
The countess leaned in closer to her. “Most men put their virtues on display for the world to see and hide away their faults.” She shook her head. “Whiddon does the opposite. It makes him devilishly hard to know. To truly know.” She gave her a direct stare. “Make him show you, girl, and you’ll both be better for it.”
Charlotte thanked her for her advice. She knew she had a challenge before her, but she was so hopeful it would be worth it, in the end. Today, she’d stepped into that parlor and blanched a bit at the sea of faces that had turned toward her. But she’d caught sight of Whiddon and felt a rush of pleasure and gratitude—and trepidation.
He was as tall and sleek and as tawny as a great cat. Her breath had literally caught at the sight of him waiting for her. For a brief, wonderful moment, she’d thought she’d glimpsed the same sort of awe in his expression.
It had quickly passed. He’d been woolgathering during the ceremony, scarcely paying attention at all. She, on the other hand, had been deeply conscious of what they were doing and intimately aware of him beside her. His scent—soap and sandalwood and the faintest twinge of his terrible cheroots. His large, powerful form, looming close. His strong hand taking hers. His fingers, long and deft as they slipped on the ring.
And that kiss. Better not to think of that while she was meant to be socializing with wedding guests, but the memory hovered at the back of her mind, along with the question—would there be more, tonight? She smiled and conversed and tried to decide what she wanted the answer to be.
Oh, who was she fooling? She was filled with a yearning hope for more. But was that wise?
His attitude suggested it was not. He didn’t object when the crowd separated them. He never glanced her way again until dinner was announced, and he took her arm to lead her in. He laughed, green eyes shining, when he saw that Julia had placed them together at the head of the table, but he seemed entirely unfazed at the close contact, while she was beset by smoldering awareness. She twitched and flinched at each brush of their arms or touch of their thighs—and he continued to laugh and trade quips with his friends.
