Page 98 of Marry in Scarlet
He leaned back against the leather seat and eyed her quizzically. “So, rub, cherish, andolé, eh?”
George braced herself for the argument. At least he hadn’t reacted in the church, though she had half expected it. “I only said that because—”
“I know. Because you weren’t prepared to make a promise you weren’t sure you could honor.”
She blinked. “Yes. That’s right.” He’d understood. Without any need for explanation or justification on her part. She could happily promise to cherish him, but love? When she wasn’t sure whether she loved him or not? You couldn’t order love.
As for promising to obey him, that was never in question.
He nodded. “Thought so. Just one question. What doesolémean?”
“Olé?I believe Spanish bullfighters say it to bulls.”
“So . . I’m a bull, am I?” There was a glint in his eyes that she didn’t trust.
“No, it’s just a word expressing excitement.” It was the only word she could think of that rhymed withobey. Andrubrhymed withlove. Sort of.
“You’re excited?”
She said in a dampening tone, “Not particularly.”
“Then I’ll have to work a little harder, won’t I?” He glanced at her and added, “Not here, of course. Later.”
“Oléis more of a celebratory thing,” she said firmly. She wasn’t going to think about later. That would come soon enough. She didn’t know whether she was looking forward to discovering what it was all about—or dreading it.
“I see. So you’ve promised to rub, cherish and celebrate me. Sounds delightful.”
She eyed him cautiously. He couldn’t possibly be accepting her alteration of the sacred wedding vows so calmly, could he?
She’d braced herself for a quarrel. But if he wasn’t goingto argue, she had no complaint. Quite the contrary. But she did feel a little deflated.
His gaze ran over her slowly, like a warm caress. “And that dress...” Her mouth dried. Her skin felt suddenly hot and tight.
“Y-yes?” Her voice cracked. She swallowed. How could a look affect her as potently as a touch?
“It’s stunning. You look glorious.”
Glorious?“You don’t mind the color?”
“I gather it was in the nature of a statement.” For whom, he didn’t specify.
Dumbfounded by his calm acceptance—and his understanding of her reasons—and distracted by the confusion of her feelings—she just nodded.
“The color suits you wonderfully. Much better than those whites and pastels you usually wear.”
“I hate wearing white, but Aunt Agatha insisted.” She mimicked the old lady’s dry pedantic tone. “Do not argue with me, Georgiana. All young unmarried gels—decent, highborn gels, I mean—wear white.”
He laughed. “I can imagine it.” He actually laughed. She’d never heard him laugh before. Who was this man?
She’d almost bolted at the church door, not because she had second thoughts about marrying him but because she didn’t want him to think the dress was aimed at him.
Her anger with him had drained away long ago. The duke wasn’t responsible for all the nasty gossip. He might have caused it—some of it; she was also responsible. But though the spite and vitriol had been directed solely at her, he had stepped up to support her.
But she’d ordered the dress in a fury, and even afterward, she’d wanted to make a stand. And so she had. And had been prepared for the backlash.
His face as she’d walked down the aisle—she’d never forget the expression. That light in his eyes. And that moment when he’d kissed her hand—in front of the entire disapproving congregation. And then placed that kiss in the center of her palm.
Her heart had given a great big thump then and cracked wide open. It had taken all her self-control not to cry.
