The Heir - Catherine Coulter [46]
He saw her wave gaily to the half-dozen farm boys who were busily herding the cows toward the barn for their evening milking.
A gruesome kaleidoscope of images whirled through the earl’s mind. He saw clearly the first man he had killed in battle—a young French soldier, a bullet from the earl’s gun spreading deadly crimson across his bright coat. He saw the leathery, grimacing face of an old sergeant, run through with his sword, the astonishment of imminent death written in his eyes. He wanted to retch now, as he had then.
The earl had no romantic illusions about killing; he had learned that life was too precious, too fragile a thing to be dispatched in the heat of passion.
He turned and walked back to his new home. His shoulders remained squared. His stride was steady, his expression controlled. But his eyes were empty.
12
“It is a joyous and sacred ceremony that brings us together today. In the presence of our Lord, we come to join two of his children, his lordship, Justin Morley Deverill, tenth Baron Lathe, ninth Viscount Silverbridge, seventh Earl of Strafford and Lady Arabella Elaine Deverill, daughter of the late esteemed Earl of Strafford, in the holiest of earthly bonds.”
He saw the comte straightening his trousers when he’d come out of the barn.
But the day before she’d kissed him, spoken so boldly to him, pressing herself against him. Spoken so boldly, as if she knew exactly what a man did with a woman. Jesus, he couldn’t bear it.
Arabella gazed up at the earl’s finely chiseled profile. She silently willed him to look at her, but he did not, his gray eyes remaining fastened intently upon the vicar’s face. He had seemed rather withdrawn, even cold toward her the previous evening, and now she suppressed a grin, deciding that either he was nervous about this whole marriage business, or he had been afraid to get close to her because he would want to seduce her. She wouldn’t have minded another kiss or two. She wouldn’t have minded him telling her again how he wanted to feel her breasts against him. She shivered at that memory. She knew that tonight she would get much more. Exactly what that much more was, she wasn’t exactly certain, but she was eager to find out.
“If there is any man present in this chamber who can state objection to the joining of this man and woman, let him rise now and speak.”
She’d met the comte in the barn and let him take her. She had coldly and freely betrayed him. He had wanted to kill both of them, but he hadn’t. He knew what was at stake.
She’d had straw in her hair, her gown was askew, and she was whistling. She had obviously enjoyed herself thoroughly. He’d wanted to kill both of them. But just that day she had been so free with him, so giving. She’d wanted him, hadn’t she?
Lady Ann felt a brief catch in her throat and swallowed quickly. She had always turned up her nose at mothers who wept with abandon at their daughters’ weddings, usually after they had done everything in their power to bring the wedding about, including many times buying the bridegroom. But a tear or two was certainly all right. Besides, she couldn’t help it. Arabella looked so very beautiful, so much like her father, so much like Justin. Ah, but she wasn’t at all like her father. No, she was good and kind and strong-willed and obstinate as a mule. She was everything a mother could ask for in a daughter. Another tear fell.
The vicar said quietly, “Naturally there would be no one to come between the two of you. Now we will proceed. My lord, will you repeat after me: I, Justin Morley Deverill, take thee Arabella Elaine . . .”
He wanted to choke. No, he wanted to choke her. It was odd though. She hadn’t looked even once in the comte’s direction since she had come into the drawing room, looking so utterly beautiful in the soft gray silk wedding gown. Her hair was braided atop her head, several small diamond combs flashing in and out of the thick braids, several long ropes of hair lying gently on her white shoulder.
Why hadn’t she looked at her lover?