Page 17 of The Lyon Whisperer
Hating the feeling of him towering over her, she rose to her feet, which brought the two of them far too close. But she would not retreat an inch. She extended her hand into the minuscule space between them.
Lord Culver eyed her gloved hand for a long moment, one corner of his mouth cocking up. Finally, his ungloved hand engulfed hers.
The heat from his palm permeated the kidskin covering hers. His fingers, strong and sure, held hers as he issued a firm shake. She ought to feel subsumed. Instead, she felt…assured. This man would keep his word. She felt it in her bones.
It was a good portent, she told herself.
“I’m sure you know of your father’s and my appointment tomorrow to formalize the marital contract and finalize the details of the nuptials.”
His words deflated her brief sense of well-being, reminding her she was to have little to no say in planning her own wedding. She gave him a nod and said, “I would ask that you refrain from mentioning this small affair with my father. He tends to look at matters in a similar manner as you, my lord.”
“You don’t say?” He studied her, and something seemed to flicker in those dark eyes. A degree of understanding, perhaps? “I can afford to be charitable this once.”
Ten days later,at precisely nine o’clock on a cloudy spring morning, one week prior to the reopening of parliament and its subsequent influx of nobility and other members of thehaute monde, Chase stood at attention at the altar of the small limestone chapel located within Fallsgate’s Marlborough estate.
Someone had made excellent use of the short amount of time allotted to prepare for the intimate gathering. Sweet-smelling flowers adorned the altar and wooden pews. Red and white rose petals peppered the center aisle, awaiting the soft footfalls of his soon-to-be-wife.
Seated in the pews were his aunt and uncle, and a handful of well-turned-out women, friends of Amelia’s he was told. The frequent sniffles and flashes of white handkerchiefs he caught in the periphery of his vision told him that at least two of the women dabbed at tears.
He had not seen his bride since her audacious midnight arrival at his home. In the privacy of his thoughts, he could admit to a heady sense of anticipation coursing through his veins. What sort of surprise might she have in store for him at this juncture?
His uncle had made it clear part of Chase’s task included molding the headstrong female into a so-called proper lady, stressing he had but a mere six months according to the terms of the wager in which to accomplish the job.
Chase had found the notion ludicrous—at first.
Despite the debacle with the puppies he’d witnessed with his own eyes, Lady Amelia was an earl’s daughter, and not just any earl’s daughter. She was the Earl of Fallsgate’s daughter, one of the most upstanding, respected members of the British aristocracy. Fallsgate made no bones about his belief in traditional, conservative values.
Then the chit showed up at midnight, using an alias and dressed in widow’s weeds. Mayhap, the event had been a singular event. The terms of the wager itself, however, warned him engaging in rash behavior was more likely a common occurrence for her, rather like the incident with the wayward pups.
Regardless, the sheer amount of money on the line dictated he take the business seriously. Eightthousandpounds. How his uncle could have risked such a large amount of money was beyond him.
Harry knew very well of the two recent devastating fires one village under his purview had suffered. Not to mention that both the viscountcy, and the barony Chase had assumed a little over a year ago, had sadly out-of-date infrastructures in desperate need of modernization to bring the estates into the nineteenth century.
The tenants, the viability of the lands, the very solvency of the titles depended upon Chase’s ability to turn potential revenue streams into reality.
He’d been making good progress, partly owing to his uncle’s willingness to have his spending curtailed and monitored, and partly in thanks to the estates’ under-realized natural resources. Then came those damned fires, followed by his uncle’s irresponsible bet.
Not until Amelia arrived at his house in the middle of the night did he gather the magnitude of the challenge he faced. Half of him had wanted to shake some sense into her then and there. The other half wanted—something else entirely.
Something about the woman, her voice, the directness of her violet-blue stare, stirred his carnal appetite to life in a way he’d never experienced.
He wanted her.
Considering they’d soon be wed, the only problem he foresaw lay with her silly request to put off commencing marital relations.
The poignant strains of a solo violin floated in through the stone archway, echoing off the buttressed ceilings and announcing the imminent arrival of Fallsgate and Amelia.
A collective shuffling noise sounded as everyone present shifted ’round to stare at the empty archway.
A stone-faced Lord Fallsgate appeared with Lady Amelia on his arm.
A sheer white veil obscured her face as Fallsgate led her down the aisle to Chase. She glided like a swan through water, resplendent in a high-necked white silk gown layered with lace and tiny stones that sparked and shimmered, reflecting the light from the candle sconces lining the walls. Her black hair had been elaborately fashioned into a pile of interwoven curls atop her crown.
The violinist’s somber tune ceased when the two reached him at the altar.
Fallsgate lifted Amelia’s veil and kissed her pale cheek before stepping back.
In a matter of minutes the clergyman performed the rites, asking the rote questions to which he and Amelia responded affirmatively, and declared the two man and wife.
