Oddly, Willow felt nothing but relief. The duke was not a demon spawn, the very devil himself, bereft of any feelings. Deep, deep, so very deep down, the man possessed a heart.
Another realization followed shortly after that. They had yet to sign the registry. And even then, the marriage could still be annulled. Lord almighty, there were a thousand holes in her plan. Large holes. Holes that could ruin her entire family. And he knew it.
Obsidian eyes stared down at her.
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
Don’t you dare annul this marriage, her eyes challenged.
And then, before Willow knew what he was about, his head bent to capture her lips in a kiss. It was so unexpected, so shockingly brazen, that her hands lifted and pressed against his chest and pushed, eyes wide. Beneath her fingers, his muscles tightened, but he didn’t move an inch, didn’t draw his mouth away from hers.
It occurred to Willow then that his kiss was more than intentional. He meant for it to be a bold declaration.This is my chosen bride, the kiss seemed to imply. But merciful heaven, she felt that kiss right down to the tips of her toes, and of their own will, her lashes drifted shut. His lips were soft, such a contrast against his harder features. Her fingers gripped his jacket, anchored there, his teeth scraping her lower lip.
This was no mere peck.
The priest cleared his throat.
His lips pulled away, turbulent eyes lifting to hers. Then he leaned in, a sharp bite laced in his voice as he whispered, “Wife.”
A promise of satisfaction.
Swiftly, the duke pivoted and signed his name across the registry. When he handed her the quill there was only the slightest hesitation before she did the same. He did not so much as glance at her signature, only held out his arm and waited for her to join him at his side.
Willow forced breath into her lungs. She had known what she was getting into, had known her actions would prompt some form of reaction from him. What she hadn’t expected was the thrill of excitement that was now racing along the edges of her backbone.
Her fingers trembled as she placed them on the sleeve of his jacket. The raw strength of him rippled beneath her hand. Suddenly nervous, she listened to the quiet conversation and rustling of movement around her as her husband led her from the church. She didn’t dare seek out Poppy or her father, not ready to face the confusion and shock of her family.
Again, she reminded herself that this was what she had wanted.
And it was. Except for one startling development.
Willow was taking notice of St. Ives in ways she hadn’t before. Not once as her sister’s betrothed had she noticed his scent or any detail about him except that he was tall, arrogant, detached, and a duke. Now, she pursed her lips together, inhaling the woody scent of her husband, drawing it deep into her lungs. It was a rich and earthy aroma, and quite pleasant. For a moment, Willow allowed herself to believe that perhaps this entire day would be as pleasant. After all, he hadn’t stormed out of the church. He’d signed the registry. They were married.
If the worst possible thing had not happened, perhaps she’d pulled it off.
Willow nearly smiled.
Nearly.
Because what happened next was entirely without warning.
The loud wail of her mother-in-law filled the church.
