“And what do you know?” their father snapped. “Nothing. You know nothing. Why should I pay attention to you? Almost twenty years old and not a single suitor.”
Emma fell silent, looking down at her feet, while Arabella felt as though her beautiful wedding gown was tightening around her throat, squeezing the breath out of her lungs.
“Come along,” the Earl bellowed. “We cannot keep him waiting.”
He waved his hand, and Arabella rose, with Hanna carefully gathering her train so it would not drag on the floor.
As they made their way downstairs to the family chapel, where she would take her vows and become the Duchess of Sheffield, Arabella could do nothing but hope—hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this wedding and the future it promised would not be as dreadful as she feared.
CHAPTER 10
The ceremony passed in a blur, yet it seemed to take an eternity. Arabella stood at the front of the chapel, listening to the vicar as he recited prayer after prayer. They exchanged vows, followed by yet more prayers.
Throughout, Arabella felt as if she were in a dream. Not a pleasant one, but not a nightmare either. Just a dream where she watched herself perform these actions and speak these words without truly having any control over them.
Harry stood beside her, looking handsome and smiling that crooked smile of his at times, but she couldn’t bring herself to smile back.
His uncle stood next to him, his shoulders squared as though he were a soldier in a regiment, his eyes cold, suggesting his displeasure with the proceedings.
Arabella was only grateful for the company of her sisters. Though she couldn’t see them from the altar, she knew they were seated behind her with their father. Some of the household staff were present as well, and she thought she heard someone crying softly at the back. She suspected it was Viola, her maid, who had been informed she would not be moving to Ridlington Estate.
After the ceremony, she felt as though she stumbled out of the chapel on Harry’s arm, into the garden, where, during the service, their guests had assembled.
“Well,” Harry said as they stepped onto the pristinely cut lawn, “that’s done.”
“That’s done.”That was how he chose to acknowledge the start of their marriage.
“It is,” she replied.
“Your trunks are packed?” he asked as they made their way toward the top of the steps, where their guests would soon file past, offering greetings and congratulations.
“Everything is packed and ready. I believe a carriage left this morning to transport some of my belongings to Ridlington Manor while we…” She paused and looked up at him. “While we were getting married.”
She thought she saw him grimace when she said the word ‘married,’ but she couldn’t be certain. Sometimes she imagined things that weren’t really there.
“Very well. We will leave soon after the wedding breakfast. I wish to introduce you to the staff today so that you might meet your new lady’s maid and become acquainted with everything. After that, your time is your own.”
“I assume you will wish me to attend events with you?” she asked, feeling foolish for not having broached the topic earlier.
“There will be time to discuss such matters—now is neither the time nor the place,” he said coolly, his tone making her hackles rise.
But there was no time to dwell on his words or what they might mean, for their guests were arriving.
For the next hour, she stood beside her beaming father, who already smelled of spirits, while Harry and his uncle shook hands, received kisses and congratulations, and pretended to be pleased about it all.
When their guests were finally seated, and the garden had erupted into a symphony of chattering voices, clinking glasses, and the strains of the orchestra her father had arranged, Arabella allowed herself to relax. Wine and other cordials flowed freely despite the early hour, and the guests appeared merry, though the same could not be said for her and her husband.
“Are you not enjoying your meal?” she asked, noticing the untouched hare on his plate.
“I do not care for hare,” he said. “Nor do I like carrots.”
“Neither do I,” she admitted, glancing down at her plate.
He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “So, the guests of honor sit before plates containing food we do not like, at a wedding neither of us truly desired?”
There was an amused note in his voice that somewhat disarmed her.
“I also do not like the traditional wedding cake,” she whispered, as though sharing a secret.
