“Take your hands off her, Vincent.” Cyrus’ voice was like a bolt through the swirling tide of guilt and regret. “You cannot shake a woman into obedience.”
Vincent let his hands fall from Teresa’s arms, defeated. “You do not understand what you are bringing down upon yourself, Tessie. This is… a terrible, terrible mistake.”
“But society is already cruel to me, brother,” she said quietly. “At least, this way, I have asked for it and am expecting it.”
A shadow fell across her, and as Vincent stepped back as if he had been instructed to do so, Cyrus filled the gap. He offered no comfort or words of reassurance, but stood there, peering down at her with those celestial eyes. It took a great deal of effortfor her to gaze right back, their intensity difficult to bear, like staring into the sun.
“If you do not want it, you do not have to marry me,” he said, a moment later, “but, know this, nobody can ever force me to do anything. I am doing this because it is the right thing to do. I am not the beast you think I am.”
Teresa blinked, a gasp lodged in her throat.A beast? I… do not think that is what you are. I do not know you, so how could I think that?
She remembered the ‘stories’ that Vincent had mentioned, and her heart shivered, skipping an anxious beat. Perhaps, it would have been wise to demand a few of those stories before this moment, so she was better prepared. But she doubted it was appropriate to ask to hear them now, with their protagonist standing right there.
“I will ask you one last time,” Cyrus said. “Look at me when you answer.”
Swallowing thickly, Teresa nodded, struggling to keep her gaze fixed on him.
“Will you be my bride?” he asked, as devoid of emotion as if he were asking her to pass him the salt.
But the longer she looked into his beautiful, glittering eyes, the more the actual question faded into unimportance. Subtly, hetook a half step closer, bending his head slightly, so she did not have to strain so much to keep looking up into those wondrous eyes of his.
She was transported yet again to the night before, and the compulsion that had madeherstep closer; the madness that had made her want to be as near to him as possible, and to discover if imagination or reality was better withhiskiss. She still wanted to believe it had been pure revenge but doubt lingered. Seeing him cross out her name might have been the spark that brought her into the room, but it had not been the fuse nor the fuel that had made her want to kiss him.
Keeping her gaze on him, that feeling began to trickle back into her veins: a sensation like jittering nerves and anxious butterflies, but wilder somehow, making her heart race. The powerful feeling of not caring about consequences, not caring about the next moment, just what might happen in the current one. The breathless, intoxicating feeling of anticipation, not knowing, and being as bold as the heroines in the books she loved so much.
The feeling of being seen, after three years of being invisible.
Last night,hehad seen her; he had not turned away, had not looked through her. He was looking at her the same way now. And as she weighed up the choice between becoming obsolete and being married to someone who wanted to do the right thing, despite what he had been told about her and despite what she had done, she felt her mouth moving, not in a kiss, but in the shape of the words, “I accept.”
Cyrus continued to stare at her, searching her face as if hunting for doubt or deceit, his expression unchanged. And she gazed right back, determined not to be the first one to look away.
He took a step back, glancing at Vincent. “I will be back in a week for the wedding. Leave the arrangements to me.”
Without another word or another look at Teresa, he walked out, and as the door clicked back into the jamb, she swayed as if his presence had been the only thing holding her up. Dizziness swelled in her head, a dull pain pounding behind her eyes, prompting her to lean on the nearest chair for support.
“What have we done, Tessie?” Vincent whispered, staring at the closed door.
Teresa shook her head, waiting for the feeling to pass. “The right thing, I hope.” She paused, catching her breath. “But now might be a good time to start telling me a few of those stories.”
“No,” Vincent replied, hastening to the door. “No, I do not think that would be wise at all. Besides, dear sister, you cannot believe everything you are told. Stories are just stories.”
He darted out, unable to escape fast enough. Evidently, what hedidknow was not something he wanted to tell Teresa, not now that she had sealed her fate, destined to become the Duchess of Darnley in a week’s time.
How bad could it possibly be?
She prayed that question would not come back to haunt her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The weather had decided to sympathize with Teresa, a gray, drizzly morning dawning on the wedding day that she had never asked for, yet had accepted as her fate.
In the week since the proposal, such as it was, she had gone back and forth on her decision until her head swam and her stomach had twisted into knots. Not that she could change anything. Cyrus had written to inform Vincent that a special license had been acquired, naming the church where the wedding was to take place: a church Teresa did not know, and certainly was not the one she had attended every Sunday since she was a child.
What was worse, Beatrice would not be there. Vincent had forbidden it, still holding her somewhat responsible for this turn of events, though she was entirely innocent.
“How about that?” her lady’s maid, Holly, asked with a sad smile. She had just put two small, white roses into Teresa’s braided bun.
Teresa forced a smile in return. “It is lovely, Holly.”
