Page 97 of Marry in Scarlet
Hart ignored it. He only had eyes for his bride. She stood motionless, a pale, slender sprite wrapped in flaming scarlet. No demure pastel or ivory bride this. The dress screamed defiance, flamboyance and a warning. It was utterly outrageous.
It clung to her upper body like a second skin, every slight curve faithfully outlined until it flared out at her hips. Her small breasts were framed by the scooped neckline, like a delectable dish to be served.
He would taste that dish very soon.
She stood straight, her head flung back as if daring him—or anyone—to criticize.
The congregation stared and muttered and whispered and looked to him for a reaction. Hart didn’t move. She would come to him.
Sinc leaned forward and murmured, “Told you she’d lead you a merry dance.”
And what a dance it would be, Hart thought. She was glorious. Magnificent. Unique. And she was his.
The music swelled and, one hand on her uncle’s arm, she strode down the aisle with that long leggy gait that purely drove him wild. Her eyes were locked on his. Here I am, she was saying. I belong to myself. Marry me if you dare.
Hart dared, all right. He couldn’t wait.
She came to the end of the aisle. Ashendon removed her hand from his arm and offered it to Hart. Every eye was on them. Everyone was waiting to see what Hart would do.
Her skin, so pale and perfect in the dim light of the church, was like a pearl. Her lips were rich, dark and moist; her eyes met his with a mix of defiance and uncertainty.
Slowly Hart pulled off her scarlet satin glove and stuffed it in his pocket. Her hand was cold. Her fingers were trembling. So, she was not as certain as she appeared. His bold, contrary girl...
He raised her hand and kissed it formally, ostentatiously—there was a ripple of comment in the congregation. Then, his eyes locked with hers, he turned her hand over and placed a warm kiss in the center of her cold palm.
The whispers turned to a furious buzzing.
The bishop cleared his throat portentously. Hands clasped, they turned to face him. “Dearly beloved...” The bishop’s rich, fruity tones washed over them.
Hart barely took in the words. He waited, her cold hand still trembling in his grasp. Her tension seemed to be rising. His, now she was here and things were underway, was dropping. He just had to get past the speak-now-or-forever-hold-your-peace part. Ah, here it came. He braced himself.
“Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace,” the bishop intoned.
There was a long, endless pause. The bishop scanned the congregation. Hart was aware of people looking around the church, as if hoping for someone to leap out from the shadows and forbid the wedding. Again. He stood stiffly and waited.
But nobody spoke. The service continued. Hart felt his tension draining away. It was going to be all right.
His bride, however, seemed to be getting more tense by the minute. He slid a sideways glance at her. She was pale, rigid, staring straight ahead. Her fingers shook. He squeezed them gently in reassurance, but she didn’t shift her gaze.
The bishop listed the promises they would make to each other. “I will,” Hart said in a clear voice. His bride mumbled something unintelligible. The bishop frowned, and glanced at Hart. Hart nodded to him to continue.
Then came the vows.
In a clear, firm voice, Hart repeated, “I, Redmond Jasper Hartley, take thee Georgiana Mary Rutherford, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Then it was Georgiana’s turn. She repeated her vows in a low, almost inaudible voice. “I, Georgiana Mary Rutherford, take thee Redmond Jasper Hartley to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to rub, cherish, and toolé, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
Hart frowned. Had he heard her aright?To rub, cherish, and toolé?
He looked at her. She stared straight ahead, unmoving, her gaze fixed on the stained glass window above the altar.
The bishop hesitated, frowned and gave Hart a hard questioning look. From his expression he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. He wasn’t a young bishop; likely he was a bit deaf.
“Continue,” Hart said.
And so the ceremony rolled on until “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” They signed the registry and Hart quietly released a long sigh of relief. The bishop had a lot more to say, and there were more prayers, but Hart took very little notice. It was done. She was his.
As they came out of the church, the duke dug in his pockets and produced several handfuls of coins, which heflung over the heads of the crowd of onlookers. While they scrambled for the money, he helped George into the waiting carriage and they drove away.
