Merryton paused before another door in the back of the small offices. He rapped on the door, and as they waited for it to open, he tapped the jamb with his fist.
Grace glanced heavenward and sent up a silent prayer for courage.
The door opened, and a man of the cloth stood behind it. He was the same height as Grace, and his disdainful gaze slid down to her toes and up again. “This way, my lord,” he said to Merryton, and gestured behind Grace to the front door of the offices.
Merryton swept his hand before him, indicating Grace should precede him. She followed the clergyman out of the offices and up the road to the little chapel. She could hear Merryton walking behind her, but she could not see him. She glanced over her shoulder at him. His gaze was locked on her.
Why did he not speak? At the very least he might tell her he was so angry he did not intend to ever speak to her. Surely she deserved at least that explanation.
Grace slowed her step so that he had to walk beside her. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, debating what she might say to somehow improve this wretched situation. “Perhaps,” she said carefully, “this...arrangement...won’t be as bad as one might fear.” She looked at him hopefully.
Something dark flashed in his eyes.
“I mean only that, sometimes, it is best to look for hope than to find fault.” Oh, that sounded ridiculous.
He must have thought so, too, because he said nothing. Grace was beginning to think his silence might be the worst of it all—that he would never utter a word.
Cousin Beatrice and her disagreeable husband were waiting inside the chapel for them, and Beatrice looked again as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Grace sincerely hoped she would not.
There was no one for Merryton, she noticed. Not even Amherst.
Her heart was pounding as they moved up the aisle to the altar. She’d never felt so alone—they may as well have been leading her to the gallows and her execution.
The clergyman spoke in near-whispers to Merryton, almost as if Grace was not even present. He announced he would begin. He drew a breath and fixed his gaze on Grace. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God,” he said, as if Grace wasn’t aware that God was watching. As if she needed to be reminded. As if she wasn’t acutely aware of how dreadfully she must have disappointed her maker.
She surreptitiously pressed her damp palms against the skirt of her gown. She felt a little light-headed as the weight of what was happening began to sink in, and fixed her gaze on the stained glass over the vicar’s head, of Jesus on the cross. Her thoughts jumbled and raced ahead to her duties as this man’s wife. She was aware when Merryton shifted beside her, felt the heat in his much-larger hand when he took hers—literally picking it up from her side to hold it when Grace failed to hear the vicar’s instruction. The vicar began to read the assumptions of a married couple, including fidelity and honor. She noticed that Merryton’s eyes seemed to narrow the more the vicar spoke.
“My lord,” the vicar said, his voice soft and even kind, “will you take this woman...” He began to rattle off the requirements of him. To hold her from this day forward. To honor and cherish, for better or worse—
Now there was a laugh. There was no accidental honoring and cherishing at this altar. The notion that he should have to vow such a thing was so absurd that Grace could feel a slightly hysterical, completely irrepressible smile begin to curve her lips.
As the vicar continued to speak, Merryton looked at her curiously at first, then crossly. He undoubtedly did not find any of this amusing, and in spite of her attempt to hide her hysterical smile, neither did Grace. But the more the vicar spoke, the more absurd it all seemed, and Grace’s laughter was rising in her like a storm tide, threatening to explode on the gentleman standing before her. She bit her lip, but she couldn’t keep that damnable smile from her lips.
“I will,” Merryton said curtly.
Grace hadn’t even realized the question had ended.
“Miss Cabot,” the vicar said, “will you take Jeffrey Thomas Creighton Donovan to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, to honor and obey until death do you part?” he asked quickly, his gaze on the book he held.
Oh, dear. Until death parted them seemed an awfully long time. Grace thought of her fantasy of escaping, of running away. She would do that long before death ever thought to part them, and that, therefore, begged the question—
Merryton squeezed her hand. Her hesitation had earned her twin stern looks from the vicar and from Merryton. “Oh, yes,” she said quickly, and looked at the vicar. “I will.” Her voice was surprisingly strong for all the roiling in her belly. She shifted her gaze to Merryton. His expression was either a devouring one, or it was a very heated one, and she was mystified as to what, exactly, his gaze meant.
She looked away, finding the stained glass once more, praying for wisdom, forbearance, hope.
The vicar reminded them both that they had said these vows in the presence of God, and then intoned, “I pronounce you man and wife.”
The moment he said it, Merryton dropped her hand.
“If you would, my lord, sign the parish register,” the vicar said, his hand on Merryton’s elbow, showing him the way to the register.
Grace didn’t move from her spot at the altar, feeling quite at sea.
The vicar paused and looked back. “Mrs. Donovan!” he said, as if she were a lagging child, and held out the pen to her.
Well, then, that sealed it. If she was addressed as Mrs. Donovan, she must be married. Grace signed the marriage book, her hand shaking beneath the firm strokes of his signature. Merryton, he’d written. Cousin Beatrice signed as witness, wiping tears from her face as she did. Her husband signed next, and when he laid down the pen, he looked at Merryton and said, “My sympathies, my lord.”
Grace gasped with disbelief and gaped at Brumley, but she was so inconsequential to him that he never even glanced in her direction.
Merryton did, however. He turned that dark, cold gaze to her and said simply, “Come.” He turned on his heel, walking from the chapel, his cloak billowing behind him. He had not even removed his cloak.
A sob came from somewhere behind her, and in the next moment, Beatrice’s hands were grasping at Grace, turning her about, pulling her into her chest. “You poor dear,” she whispered. “Please let me write to your mother! She will be a source of great comfort to you now.”
Grace had to physically push away from Beatrice to draw a breath. “I’ve already sent a letter,” she lied.
“Oh, right, of course you have,” Beatrice said, and clasped Grace’s face between her hands. “Be brave, darling. It will not do to cry and carry on when you yourself have brought this on yourself.”
Grace blinked. She gave a small, rueful laugh. “No, of course not,” she agreed.
“Lady Merryton,” Merryton called sternly from the entrance.
It was a moment before Grace understood that he was speaking to her. She peeled Beatrice’s hands from her face and stepped away. She could still hear Beatrice’s whimpering as she walked down the aisle toward the sunlight streaming through the open door. Bright, cheerful sun, as if this was the happiest of days.
Grace stepped out into the sunlight and lifted the hood of her cloak over her head.
At the bottom of the hill, Merryton stood beside a black coach pulled by a team of four. It was deceiving in its lack of ornamentation; Grace knew it was one of the new, expensive landau coaches. The only nod given to the