Page 6 of Marry in Secret
It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected, but somewhere in his imagination there had been joy, laughter... kisses.
Fool. Had the last four years taught him nothing?
She was getting married. Today. To someone else.
He’d upset her fancy wedding. His unexpected appearance had given her a shock. That was inevitable.
Still...
You’re supposed to be dead.Was she angry with him for surviving? If so, she wouldn’t be the only one. He wasn’t going to apologize for it. He’d fought to stay alive, fought to get back to England. To Rose.
For a moment she clutched his shirt in a tight fist, her mouth quivering. Then, abruptly, she released his shirt and pushed at his chest. “P-put me down, please.”
Several females now pushed past their menfolk and clustered around Thomas, clamoring, “Put her down!” and “Release her, you beast!”
He set Rose on her feet. She swayed. He barely had time to steady her when her sister and the other females closed around her in a protective clump and swept her away to the other side of the church.
You’re supposed to be dead.What the hell had she meant by that. Did shewanthim to be dead?
It was not the homecoming he’d expected. Of course, some people reacted uncharacteristically to shock...
“Now look here, whoever you are—” her brother began.
Thomas turned and said crisply, “Commander Thomas Beresford, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.” His announcement sparked off a renewed buzz of controversy among the congregation.
People rose from their pews and pressed closer, the better to hear. “He’s no officer,” someone called out.
“For shame,” a woman said.
“Toss the wretch back into the gutter.” A silver-haired old lady gestured angrily with an ebony cane.
“Shoot the scoundrel,” an old man shouted. A murmur of agreement followed.
Thomas turned and swept a cold gaze over the congregation, staring the crowd—the overfed, overindulged, smug society pets—down. The mutters died away, stares slid sideways and eyes failed to meet his.
His detractors silenced, he turned back to Rose’s brother, who eyed him narrowly and said, “You claim to be married to my sister? On what basis?”
Thomas glanced at Rose, then back at her brother. “You’re saying you didn’t know? She never told you?”
A tall dark fellow—one of the family?—stepped forward and said quietly to the brother, “Cal, I think this is a conversation best conducted in private.”
Rose’s brother nodded. So that was who he was, Calbourne Rutherford, the brother who’d been away at war.
“The vestry?” the bishop suggested.
Rutherford agreed, then jerked his chin at Thomas. “Beresford?”
Thomas glanced once more to where Rose sat surrounded by her female relatives, watching him with wide, distressed eyes. Distressed for what reason? Because she was shocked at his return? Because he’d messed up her wedding? Because he wasn’t dead? He couldn’t tell.
Of course, he’d given her a shock, appearing so suddenly when apparently she thought he was dead. And in the middle of her wedding—which at least proved that she did believe he was dead. And looking as he did, with no time to shave and dress appropriately. And given how he’d lived for the last few years, it was no wonder she didn’t immediately recognize him.
But it wasn’t like Rose to stay silent or in the background. Not the Rose he remembered. Or the Rose who five minutes earlier had marched up to him demanding to know what he was doing, disrupting her wedding.
“Beresford?” Rutherford said again. Thomas gave a brusque nod.
“Coming, Everingham?” Rutherford addressed the groom—Rose’s groom—who up to now had said not a thing. Thomas inspected him. Good-looking in an ascetic sort of way and elegantly, if severely, dressed.
Thomas wasn’t impressed. If their places had been swapped, Thomas would never have stood by silently while another man claimed Rose.
