Wicked Becomes You (4 page)

Alex inclined his head. “No prouder than you do in the Lords. Fine show, shaking your fists at the Boers for daring to take land that you’d prefer to steal yourself.” He rose. “Shall I find lodgings, then?”

Gerry eyed him, clearly struggling to remember the less autocratic obligations of the head of the family. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said finally, gruffly. “You’re always welcome to stay here.”

It was a marked sign of Alex’s fatigue that he almost found this statement touching. “And it would look rather awkward for you if I didn’t,” he said dryly. Well, he’d take a week to poke around in Gerry’s files, see what he could uncover. The mystery would irritate him now until he solved it.

His brother tried out an unsuccessful smile. Or perhaps he had a moment’s pain from indigestion. The twist of his mouth supported either hypothesis. “How long are we blessed with your company?”

“Not long.” Never long. Anywhere.
Be restful, and rest will come:
so spake the doctor in Buenos Aires. Very easy advice to give, a nice play on words, and as medical advice, useless. Alex took a breath. “I’ve a few showgirls waiting on the Continent, in fact.” An acquaintance in Gibraltar had mentioned that Barrington favored springtime in Paris. He glanced toward the clock. “Luncheon is still at half past?”

“Yes, but not today, of course.” Gerard rose. “Or do you intend to miss the wedding? If you’re in town, you might as well come.”

It took a moment to recover his smile. “Ah, yes. My brilliant timing.” He’d known mystics in India who’d predicted destinies based on the pull of the moon on the tide. Had his ship only met with an opposing current or a fractious wind, he would not be here. A mere hour’s delay into port this morning, and he still would have been in Southampton, free to miss this
auspicious
event.

Gwen noticed nothing on her walk down the aisle, so absorbed was she in negotiating the flagstones in her spindly, pinching heels. The altar seemed to leap up out of nowhere. Uncle Henry abandoned her with no ceremony, which rattled her; she’d expected a kiss on the cheek or, at the least, the press of his hand on her arm. Thomas was smiling at her and taking her hand, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe; the corset had tightened further and was about to finish her off. And then she saw her brother’s ring shining on Thomas’s finger, her betrothal gift to him.

The breath returned to her lungs. Of course she wanted this. Who would not want this? Everybody liked him. He was handsome and well-born and always joking. He was the nicest man she knew.

She stepped forward. The minister began to speak.

Gwen tried to attend, but an itch started in her nose. How maddening! If she wrinkled her nose it would go, maybe—but she didn’t dare.

The itch intensified.

Thomas glanced away toward the audience, and she took that as permission to do so as well.
Do not wrinkle. Do not
. What a profusion of flowers Elma had ordered! Roses over the chancel, orchids dangling from the rafters, lilies overflowing the baptismal font—good heavens, no wonder she wanted to sneeze! London’s bushes must have been stripped bare. It was a pity that people proved so ferociously single-minded about flowers; sprigs of pine and honeysuckle would have looked just as lovely, but of course nobody would have been impressed, since tree boughs came for free.

She turned her attention back to Richard’s ring, staring so hard at it that it began to blur.
I will not sneeze
, she thought, and risked puffing a small bit of air out through her nostrils. It didn’t help. What a monstrous collection; no garden in nature would ever contain such an overpowering combination of scents.

The minister droned onward. She forced herself to think of something, anything but the itch. Thomas’s hair was such a handsome, true black. She hoped it would overpower her own contribution. While her hair was acceptably close to auburn, Richard and her mother had looked like torches on fire. She did not want her children to accrue nicknames like “Carrot-top.”

Oh, stars above. If she sneezed, Aunt Elma would never forgive her.

Why did Thomas keep looking off to the side?

Gwen followed his glance again. Candlelight flickered over jeweled hat pins, skipping in flashes and gleams across the shifting rainbow of satins. She had the vague impression of smiles, of tears being dabbed discreetly. Warmth flushed through her, and the urge to sneeze subsided. All these dear, dear people! They had come today to rejoice for her. How she loved them for it!

She glanced back to Thomas. He looked very solemn now. But his hand turned under her palm so their fingers could thread together.

She found herself blinking back tears. She would be so good to him, better even than he dreamed. He could have anything he liked; she would not withhold a penny, no matter what her solicitors had advised.

“Do you, Thomas John Whyllson Arundell, take Gwendolyn Elizabeth Maudsley—”

A door closed at the back of the church. Thomas’s glance flickered away again.

“—to protect her and cherish her—”

His face went white. She darted a glance toward the back of the church but saw nothing.

“—as long as you both shall live?”

He opened his mouth.

His mouth closed.

But he hadn’t spoken. Had he?

Surely she hadn’t . . .
missed
it somehow?

She peered at his lips. They twitched and compressed, forming a flat, hard seal. His fingers began to slip free.

She tightened her grip and looked an urgent question at him.

His eyes slid away.

At Thomas’s elbow, Mr. Shrimpton, the best man, was now frowning. Her heart quickened. The oddity of this pause was not in her imagination, then.

The minister cleared his throat. “Sir?”

A faint wheeze whistled through Thomas’s nose.

Heavens above.
The flowers
. Of course! They must have been affecting him, too.

She sent a pleading glance to the minister.
Give him a chance to breathe
, she willed him.

The minister, ignoring her, sent a puzzled look toward the best man.

Mr. Shrimpton’s shoulders squared. He stepped forward, shoes squeaking in the pin-drop silence, to lean near Thomas’s ear.

He spoke too softly for Gwen to hear, but Thomas closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his throat working in an effort to swallow. Oh, the poor man! How awful for him! Would he faint?

A whisper rose from the audience. Her heartbeat escalating, Gwen directed a bright smile toward the crowd.
It’s all fine
, she thought. Should she say it aloud?
Really, it’s nothing. Only the flowers.

An abortive movement yanked her attention back to Thomas. His shoulders jerked, and she almost laughed from relief. Goodness, he was only gathering himself to speak, overcoming a brief bout of allergies. What an amusing story this would be to tell at dinner parties!
We were both battling a sneeze, you see . . .

Then she realized the source of his movement: the best man had planted his fist in Thomas’s back.

This isn’t happening
.

Over Thomas’s shoulder, Henry Shrimpton flashed her a panicked, horrified look. “Say it,” he whispered to Thomas.

I am dreaming.

“Sir,” said the minister.

I will wake now.

“Speak,” Mr. Shrimpton hissed.

Thomas made a choking noise.

“Nicest girl in town,” someone murmured, and something cold welled up in the pit of Gwen’s stomach. A million times she had heard herself described so, but never in a voice full of
pity.

She looked out to the crowd, but it was impossible to find the source of the remark. All of a sudden, a great many other people were whispering, too, their soft remarks and speculative rustling blending into a mounting hum.

Good heavens. Gwen swallowed. She recognized this noise in her bones—had encountered it in her nightmares—but she’d never thought to hear it in truth. Not this time. Not when the groom had actually shown up!

She glanced back to Thomas. “Sir,” she whispered. “They—they think that you’re—”

But her throat closed. A chill danced over her spine. She could not finish that statement. She could not put it into words. Surely he must know what they thought!

He gave her a desperate, pop-eyed look. She could not interpret it. She shook her head—helplessly, frantically.

His bloodshot eyes rolled again toward the crowd.

What was he
looking
at? She tracked his stare but could see nothing remarkable, save a sea of gaping mouths that sharpened and dimmed in time to the roar in her head. Her eye landed on the second-to-last row, and the sight of four brown heads, the Ramseys, briefly penetrated her panic—Caroline hiding her face against Belinda’s neck; Belinda, bright red, twisting away to speak into her husband’s ear (oh, she had no patience for shenanigans, she would not forgive Thomas for this); Lord Weston scowling; and in the aisle seat, Alex, lifting his hand to disguise a yawn.

The sight jolted her. Alex was back in London?

He was
yawning
?

Was he
bored
by this?

Their eyes met. His hand dropped. He gave her a slight, one-shouldered shrug, as if to say,
What of it?

Her thoughts jumbled. Did he mean that gesture to be comforting?

Why, no, he did not. He simply looked
sleepy
. Did nothing surprise him? Her brother had always claimed so. Unaccountably, Richard had loved him precisely for that—his unflappable, inhuman cool.

He transferred his gaze to Thomas. His mouth curled.

She drew a startled breath. The sight of his scorn acted like ice water on her sleeping wits. Because—really, why shouldn’t he sneer? The buzz was mounting to a clamor. Thomas was having cold feet
at the altar.

What sort of woman let this happen to her
twice
?

She pivoted back to Thomas. Sandy hair and a ruddy complexion grown ruddier for his sudden, slack-jawed madness. “I will,” she hissed. “Say
I will.”

His lashes fluttered rapidly. Someone in the audience called out, “Say it!”

From the
audience
! It was beyond humiliating; their wedding had turned into a sideshow! Yet all he did was
stand
there like some gawking chicken!

She cleared her throat. Her knees were trembling. “Viscount,” she managed.
Oh dear Lord only make him say it and I will knit a hundred sweaters! And never again sleep till noon, or think a single unkind thought about anyone—
“Will you not answer the vow?”

Thomas stumbled back a pace. “Forgive me,” he choked, and turned on his heel. Turned—
away
from her
.

Mr. Shrimpton made a lunge for his arm, but Thomas shoved free and bolted past his groomsmen, then leapt the rail into the nave.

The crowd rose amidst a great communal shriek. “Swine!” someone shouted, and “Catch the cad!”

Thomas sprinted across the nave and cut a sharp left toward the arcade. Someone made a grab for him; he ducked into a somersaulting roll, shot to his feet, and bounded out of sight behind a row of pillars.

At her side, Mr. Shrimpton gave a low whistle. She turned, the world trailing sluggishly past her eyes, to look at him.

His brows were at his hairline. “Had no idea he could run like that,” he said.

Vises clamped onto her arms. She glanced down. Hands, they were—pale, slim fingers, wrists bound in fluttering ribbons and white tea roses.
Oh
, she thought. Her bridesmaids were trying to draw her away from the altar.
Again.

God above. It had happened
again.

He actually let me walk up the aisle.

Even Lord Trent didn’t do that.

“Oh,” she said, and the sound startled her. “Oh,” she whispered, as she tripped over her train and the candles seemed to brighten and the scent of flowers sharpened, pricking her eyes and making her nose run. She shook off the grasping hands. This was new; it really was. At least Lord Trent had the decency to have jilted her before the wedding day, to let
her
cry off the betrothal. A terrible mess, informing four hundred guests that their attendance would not be required; the number of notes she’d penned had left her hand cramped for weeks. But this?

Oh, this was
quite
different.
Twice
, now.

She stumbled back a pace, and then another.

The altar began to recede.

There could be no recovery from this.