Regency Scandals. Sophia James

      Big surprise. “Like what?”

      Paul cleared his throat. “She doesn’t want us to mix with the servants or with her or Dr. Dylan.” He licked his lips. “I know you’ll dislike her caste system, and I’m afraid you’ll tell me you won’t do the job, but we’re welcome in the greenhouse and nowhere else.”

      Clair had dreaded telling anyone about her upcoming wedding. If she didn’t tell Paul now, he’d wonder why later. She’d agreed to make her marriage look real, but her heart pounded as if she were pointing herself headfirst over the edge of a cliff. “I’m marrying Nick Dylan.”

      Paul gaped at her, obviously trying to decide if her engagement helped his business or hurt it. “I guess Mrs. Dylan will have to modify her policy for you.”

      HUSHED TONES filled the church. A sibilant “she,” repeated over and over, as the wedding guests spoke of Leota. “She’s not coming. Her own son’s wedding, and she’s not coming.”

      Clair listened from the vestry. The undertones sounded almost like a laugh track from a bad TV sitcom. She didn’t care so much for herself. She didn’t embarrass easily, and she might have had to wrestle herself into the church if she were Leota. But Nick probably wanted his mother’s approval. According to the discussions they’d had during the prenuptial negotiations, Leota was one of the executors they had to convince.

      The lace cap on Clair’s veil made her scalp itchy. She slid her fingers beneath and scratched, mindful that Leota Dylan didn’t suddenly show up and catch her being unladylike.

      With each passing second, escape looked more attractive than marrying Nick. She’d give Leota five more minutes, and then she’d beg the judge to run her down the aisle before she sauntered out there and called the whole thing off.

      “Clair, she’s finally here.” Selina fluttered into the vestry, plucking at Clair’s dress like a small bird trying to put its nest in order. “Are you ready?”

      “Stop, stop.” Clair caught her hands. “I’m so nervous, Selina.”

      “Brides are supposed to be nervous. Your wedding wouldn’t feel real if you weren’t. Can I tell the minister you’re ready?”

      “The moment Leota takes her seat.”

      “Let me peek outside and make sure the judge is ready to give you away. Oh, you look so lovely. I can’t help thinking of my own wedding.”

      Clair slid a finger under her left eye, where a tear burned. Would she ever love a man enough to marry and mean it? Was she capable of real love?

      Selina beckoned from the door. “Come on.”

      “You’d have made a great matron of honor.”

      “You don’t need me.”

      “Not true.” Clair hugged her mother’s friend—her friend. “Thanks for your help. The church is beautiful.” She grinned. “The judge is beautiful.”

      “Make him use his hanky if he cries.”

      Selina slipped out. Clair and Nick had agreed to forgo attendants except for the judge. She waited for Selina to take her place in a pew before she stepped into the aisle and took the judge’s proudly offered arm. Clair returned his warm smile, but faltered as she looked at the man who waited for her at the altar. She hadn’t prepared herself for Nick in a tux and candlelight.

      He looked gorgeous. No other word for it. His black hair gleamed. His suit embraced him, defined the lines of the tall, strong body to which she was about to pledge her troth. The determination in his gaze pulled her up the aisle.

      The music she’d chosen, a piece from Massenet’s Thais, overwhelmed her. The traditional “Wedding March” hadn’t seemed appropriate, but she loved this music. It seemed to flow into her body, making her powerful and womanly. She should have gone for the traditional. It might have been another lie, but it wouldn’t have meant so much to her.

      Nick came forward, and the judge pressed their hands together.

      The minister spoke. Clair clung to Nick’s heat, wary of her own pounding pulse. During a small silence, she realized the minister had asked if anyone knew why she and Nick shouldn’t be married. She looked into Nick’s dark boundless eyes. No one answered, and the minister went on. Nick took her other hand.

      A physical connection vibrated between them, startling Clair, increasing her uncomfortable awareness of him at her side. Dreading the kiss they had to share, she stole a glance at his full, firm mouth. In truth, she wanted to feel him against her, wanted to know how he tasted.

      The minister gave his permission, and Nick slid his hands up her waist. As he grazed the swell of her left breast, Clair stopped breathing. He brushed his cool lips against hers. With a surprised breath that felt hot against her mouth, he pulled her closer.

      “I give you Dr. and Mrs. Dylan.”

      Amid more whispers, the church doors banged open, and two men rushed inside. “Fire!” one shouted. Everyone froze. “Fire!” he yelled again.

      Men and women in their Sunday best began to pour toward the exits.

      “Here?” someone demanded.

      “Where?”

      “Whose house?” a woman shouted.

      The first man answered, just loudly enough to make everyone stop and listen. “The Atherton house.”