Page 54 of A Virgin for His Grace
However as the carriage drew to a halt before the church where London's most fashionable weddings were celebrated,and she saw the crowd of elegantly dressed spectators gathered to witness her humiliation, Arabella's momentary optimism faded into resigned acceptance.
Today, she would marry James Whitmore and begin a new life built upon the ashes of everything she had once held dear. And tomorrow, she would begin the long process of learning to live with the consequences of that choice.
The only question that remained was whether she possessed the strength to survive what lay ahead with her soul intact.
Chapter 17
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony..."
Reverend Thornfield's resonant voice filled every corner of St. George's Church as he began the familiar words that had bound countless couples in wedlock over the centuries. The ancient ceremony proceeded with stately dignity despite the undercurrent of whispered speculation that rippled through the assembled congregation like a barely suppressed storm.
Arabella stood at the altar in her ivory silk gown, her hands clasped so tightly around her bouquet that the delicate stems threatened to snap beneath the pressure. Beside her, James Whitmore radiated satisfaction in his perfectly tailored morning attire, his pale eyes glittering with the sort of possessive triumph that made her stomach churn with revulsion.
The church was packed with London's social elite, drawn by the promise of witnessing what the gossips had termed the season's most scandalous romance reach its inevitable conclusion. Lady Huxley occupied a prominent pew with her daughter, her sharp features animated by the sort of malicious anticipation that marked her as one of society's chief vultures. Behind them sat various other luminaries of the ton, their faces displaying the full spectrum of human emotion from genuine sympathy to barely concealed glee.
Yet despite the grandeur of the setting and the importanceof the assembled witnesses, Arabella felt as though she were watching the proceedings from a great distance, as though her spirit had somehow separated itself from the physical form that stood so rigidly beside her unwanted bridegroom.
"...which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocence, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church..."
The Reverend's words washed over her like meaningless sounds, their sacred significance lost in the hollow mockery of what should have been the happiest day of her life. How could she promise to love and honor a man whose very presence filled her with loathing? How could she pledge her troth to someone whose character had been revealed to be thoroughly corrupted by greed and cruelty?
Her eyes swept the congregation with desperate hope, seeking some sign that this nightmare might yet be interrupted by divine intervention or human compassion. In another pew, she spotted Cordelia, her face bright with romantic excitement despite the obvious tension that filled the church. Beside her sat her parents, their expressions carefully composed though she could see the worry that lingered in their eyes.
Further back, almost hidden in the shadows near the door, she glimpsed Livia's pale face beneath her elegant bonnet. The younger woman's dark eyes met hers across the crowded church, and for a moment, Arabella thought she detected something like reassurance in that steady gaze. Yet what comfort could Livia possibly offer when her own brother had abandoned Arabella to this fate without a backward glance?
"...if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."
The traditional challenge hung in the air like a sword and Arabella felt her heart stop as she waited for some miraculous intervention. Surely someone would step forward to prevent this travesty? Surely one person among all these witnesses possessed the courage to speak the truth about Whitmore's character?
Yet the seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness, and no voice rose to challenge the proceedings. The congregation stirred restlessly, clearly disappointed by the lack of drama, whilst Whitmore's smile grew ever more smug with each moment of continued silence.
Reverend Thornfield paused slightly longer than was customary, his keen eyes sweeping the assembled crowd with what appeared to be genuine expectation. When no objection materialized, he opened his mouth to continue with the next portion of the ceremony.
"I object."
The words rang out with the clarity of a church bell, cutting through the expectant silence like a sword through silk. A collective gasp rose from the congregation as every head turned toward the source of that familiar, commanding voice.
Devon Ashworth, sixth Duke of Ravenshollow, stood in the doorway of the church like an avenging angel, his tall frame silhouetted against the morning light that streamed through the great doors. He was dressed in impeccable morning attire, hisdark hair gleaming with pomade and his aristocratic features set in lines of implacable determination.
Behind him stood a small group of gentlemen whose presence immediately commanded attention: Lord Stanton with his shrewd political acumen, a distinguished man in legal robes who could only be a barrister of considerable reputation, and most surprisingly, a delicate young woman who was in obvious distress.
"Your Grace," Reverend Thornfield said with admirable composure despite the dramatic interruption, "you wish to present an objection to these proceedings?"
"I do indeed," Devon replied, his voice carrying clearly through the suddenly silent church as he began to walk down the aisle with predatory grace. "I object most strenuously to the marriage of Miss Greystone to a man whose character I have discovered to be thoroughly unworthy of such a prize."
The congregation erupted in a buzz of excited whispers, whilst Whitmore's face grew mottled with rage and alarm. "You have no right..." he began, only to be silenced by Devon's raised hand.
"On the contrary," Devon said with dangerous calm as he reached the altar, "I have every right to prevent an innocent woman from being deceived into marriage with a fortune-hunter and a brute. Lord Stanton, if you would be so kind as to present the evidence we have gathered?"
The distinguished politician stepped forward with a leather portfolio that he opened with ceremonial precision. "YourGrace, ladies and gentlemen, I present evidence of Mr. James Whitmore's true character, obtained through thorough investigation by agents of unimpeachable integrity."
"This is preposterous!" Whitmore snarled, his composure cracking entirely as he realized the trap that had been set for him. "I will not stand here and be slandered by..."
"By the truth?" Devon's voice cut through Whitmore's protests like a whip. "Let us begin with your financial circumstances, shall we? Mr. Whitmore owes nearly fifteen thousand pounds to various gaming establishments and moneylenders throughout London. His creditors have grown so impatient that several have threatened him with debtor's prison should payment not be forthcoming immediately."
A collective gasp rose from the congregation at this revelation, whilst Lady Huxley's eyes gleamed with the sort of malicious delight that only the exposure of scandal could provide.
"Furthermore," Lord Stanton continued in his resonant political voice, "we have testimony regarding Mr. Whitmore's previous betrothal to Miss Catherine Fitzwilliam of Yorkshire, a betrothal that was broken by the lady herself after months of increasingly cruel and controlling behaviour."
