Page 38 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Dearly beloved," the vicar began, and Ophelia tried to focus on the words, but the flowers were overwhelming, the church too warm despite the rain, her stays far too tight...
"Marriage is an honourable estate," the vicar droned on, "not to be entered into lightly or wantonly..."
Not lightly, no. There was nothing light about this crushing weight pressing down on her.
"If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together..."
She waited, hoping desperately for an objection… just any objection.
But silence reigned.
"I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed..."
The dreadful day of judgment had already arrived, had it not?
Alexander's profile remained stone, his jaw locked as he stared straight ahead, not looking at her, as if by not seeing her he could pretend this wasn't happening.
"Alexander Edmund Robert Deveraux, Duke of Montclaire, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"
The pause felt eternal.
"I will."
Two words, clipped and precise, dutiful to the last.
"Ophelia Jane Coleridge, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"
Obey, serve, love—lies, all of them.
Her stomach roiled violently. The flowers were overwhelming, and she could taste bile rising.
"I..."
Everyone leaned forward slightly.
She turned toward Alexander, perhaps seeking stability, perhaps to whisper she was ill, perhaps just to see something in those grey eyes that might make this bearable.
"I will," she managed.
But the words were barely out when her body rebelled entirely.
She had a moment's warning—just enough to turn fully toward him, reaching out as if for support. He moved slightly, perhaps to steady her, and that's when disaster struck.
She was violently, comprehensively sick all over his boots, his breeches, his beautiful coat, and the altar steps.
The church erupted in chaos.
Lady Jersey actually screamed. Someone, probably one of her brothers, cursed loudly enough to echo. Several ladies gasped, and one might have fainted.
But all Ophelia could see was Alexander's face.
For one terrible moment, she saw it all—the flash of rage in his grey eyes, the disgust that twisted his features, his lips forming words that looked suspiciously like "cursed Coleridges." His perfect appearance, his controlled dignity, his careful distance… were all destroyed in one horrible instant.
Then his face changed, the anger disappearing behind his usual mask, though something harder remained in his eyes. He stood frozen, his arms slightly raised where he'd been about to catch her, now covered in the evidence of her terror.
She waited for the explosion, for him to storm out, to denounce her.
But their eyes met.
