Page 26 of Loving Mister Stratford
As far as examples of wedded bliss went, Simon was certainly spoiled for choice. His parents were content; Jem’s parents had been as well before the old baron’s passing. Jeremy and Lily were like two halves of the same coin. George and Meredith were a shining example of how love can make you a better person—can help make you whole. What could he ever hope to offer Odette other than his name and a decently comfortable annual portion off of which to live? This would probably be enough for any number of women in England, but they were not Odette. She deserved these, and so very much more.
The incessant lurching of his nerves caused his stomach to roil uncomfortably. A weakness seeped into his joints and he fought the impossible urge to crawl out of his own skin.
Simon reached up and gently removed his mother’s hands from his person. Her green eyes widened in response.
“Please, Mother. I require a moment.” He needed tobreathe.
She didn’t want to let him go—that much was evident in her expression—but she responded with a reluctant nod and allowed him to step away.“I’ll just go check on the ladies.” She turned to go, but seemed to think better of it and caught Simon’s hand once more. She stepped close and stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek before whispering,“You’ll always be my little boy. For what it’s worth, these may not have been the most conventional of circumstances, but I don’t doubt that Odette would still be a good match for you.” Stunned immobile, Simon could only watch his mother as she slipped from the room.
“Brandy?” The earl approached Simon, Jem, and George with a crystal decanter and a full glass.
“Already? It’s only—” George’s protest died as Simon snatched the glass from his father and tossed it back, so numb with nerves that he hardly registered the burn.
Less than half an hour later, Simon stood at the front of Bridleton’s great hall before the enormous, yawning stone hearth. The space seemed excessive for the meager size of the wedding party, but his mother had steadfastly demanded some pomp and circumstance for the occasion. She’d insisted that none of the parlors or sitting rooms would do and, Simon suspected, she’d had a change of heart and was determined not to make Odette feel as if they were not the least bit ashamed of the union. While appreciative of the gesture for Odette’s sake, it still felt like an impracticality.
Aside from his close family, Jem’s mother, and a smattering of nearby family friends, overly large flower arrangements of calla lilies, carnations, and roses punctuated by dripping vines of ivy filled the space. Most surprisingly, Blackwood had made the journey from London to take up the role of best man when George had been nominated to walk Odette down the aisle and give her away by proxy. The countess had insisted that the pastor from Wrothsborough officiate despite the fact that the church pews were being refinished; the solution had been to have both the ceremony and wedding breakfast at Bridleton.
“Who knew we’d end up here when I coerced you into joining me at the theater, eh?” Blackwood leaned in and whispered behind Simon’s shoulder. If he were a worse man and if the brandy hadn’t done its job, then Simon might very well have jammed a well-placed heel into his friend’s kneecap.
Just then, the room fell silent and the small congregation rose as one at the gesture of the priest. Simon’s eyes hesitated, savoring the silent second as it was drawn out, before his gaze was pulled inexorably up the aisle between the sparse rows of chairs.
Lovely was too bland a word for the way she looked.
Beautiful was too common.
Angelic, too fanciful.
Breathtaking?
Yes.
That would aptly describe the way the sight of Odette froze the air in his lungs, stopped time, and made him want to remember her in this moment forever even if he expired from it.
He followed the motions and directions of the ceremony, but his mind floated elsewhere. This woman—this vision in diaphanous shades of petal pinks, pearls, and crystal clear eyes—drove himbeyondthe point of distraction.
If given half a chance, he knew she could push him into obsession.
When he held her ungloved fingers with his own, there was a shock of electricity.
When her voice agreeing to the vows caressed his ears, his heart flipped.
When Blackwood handed him the ring and he slid the band of gold, opals, and sapphires onto her finger, he actually had to fight back a chill of anticipation.
When the priest pronounced them man and wife and said they might seal the contract with a kiss, the words were barely on the air before Simon—savoring the widening of Odette’s luminous eyes, the surprised parting of her full lips, the pale pink flush cresting her cheeks and the bridge of her pert little nose—pulled her close with an arm around her waist and the other palm pressed to the warm skin between her shoulder blades, and claimed her mouth in a kiss that could only be described as soul-searing.
The moment was only broken when George coughed into his fist.
Simon finally (more than a little reluctantly) pulled back and gazed down into his wife’s—his wife’s—glazed sapphire eyes with their dilated pupils and kiss-tinted lips. He didn’t want to stop looking at her, savoring her, basking in the warmth of her sweet, shy smile. Despite his best efforts, she’d slipped into his life and already begun filling in the cracks and voids he hadn’t even known existed, the missing pieces with which he’d coexisted for so long, he’d forgotten their location. All Simon knew as he sat beside her at the wedding breakfast surrounded by more floral arrangements and platter after platter of morsels, all he could think of was finally slaking the overwhelming desire for Odette. Of finally, irrevocably, claiming her has his, and his, alone.
The food in his mouth turned to dust, the drink lost all flavor, and he strongly suspected it would until he got this woman out of his system once and for all.
*****
Odette sat alone before the hearth of the inn at which they’d stopped for the night. She’d dismissed Alyssa for the evening and chose, instead, to plait her own hair by the warm licking light of the fire. As she stared into the glowing, popping logs, she was reminded of the way Simon had been watching her all day. His strange eyes were held rapt, focused on her every move, her every breath, since she saw him for the first time that morning waiting for her at the head of the makeshift aisle in Bridleton’s great hall. She had been instantly blind to all the lovely flowers, the small gathering of guests in attendance, and she saw only Simon.
He had stood so straight and proud, but those eyes spoke of some dark promise she couldn’t fathom, no matter how hard she tried. She’d been unable to stifle the chill of anticipation rushing up and down her spine and she knew Viscount Sommerfeld had felt it where he held her arm. He’d glanced down at her curiously, his green eyes slightly widened in question, but Odette refused to allow him for even one second to entertain the belief that her shiver had been born of hesitation. She’d tightened her grip on his steadying arm and practically tugged the man into motion to march down the aisle toward her husband.
Her husband!
