Chapter 2
Ambrose Brandon Jonathan Griffin, the eighth—and arguably proudest—Duke of St. Ives, waited impatiently for his bride to stroll down the aisle. He had already reminded her once the ceremony would commence in four minutes time, and it was a mark of blatant rebellion to delay any longer than that.
He caught himself glancing at his pocket watch and slowly put it away. He knew it would be the only act that betrayed his impatience, because he knew no emotion betrayed his features. His mask was in place. Everything was in place. As it ought to be.
Everything except his bride.
Who was purposefully late, he was sure.
It was no secret, at least to him, that Holly Middleton did not wish to marry him. Not anymore. Not since she had glimpsed his true temperament.
Ambrose had watched firsthand as the stars faded from her eyes. The realization of what it would truly mean to be his wife had struck her then. He had borne witness to the girl’s hopes and dreams vanish before his eyes. And any emotion welling up in his chest at the sight, like empathy, he had pressed down. Hard.
His heart had hardened a long time ago. There was nothing tender left inside of him to give. Emotion didn’t sway him. Nothing held power over him. Even if he was so inclined to provide Holly Middleton a way out of their betrothal, he couldn’t. His father’s will had seen to that.
In the end, Miss Middleton had accepted her fate and the rules he had handed her. If her sudden reluctance had been noted by her family, none made any comment of it. Not that their disapproval would have made any difference. The betrothal agreement had been signed.
It was done.
He caught one of Holly’s sisters surveying the church and had to suppress another wave of annoyance at his bride’s lack of punctuality. That same displeasure had him seeking out his pocket watch again. To hell with what anyone thought.
What the deuce was taking her so long?
Finally—after what felt like eons—the bride appeared across the aisle and the piano started up. The tension in his shoulders eased.
She wore a veil. Not uncommon, though most brides preferred to do without them. This one wasn’t particularly long, and it was layered. He could hardly make out any of her features. Did the veil hide swollen eyes from a night of weeping? Or a face flushed with misery?
But before he could ponder the matter further, Ambrose’s attention was pulled to the rousing of hushed whispers. He surveyed the snickering guests with growing unease.
Inside his belly, his innards clenched.
His eyes darted back to Holly. She appeared the perfect bride. Her gown was fit for a duchess. Only . . .What the bloody. . . Creamy pale flesh met his view when his gaze lowered to the hem of her dress. Her skin stood out in stark contrast to the blue slippers that nestled on her feet.
Ambrose fought down the urge to scowl. What had Miss Middleton done?
This was all his fault. He should have known she’d act out in some way. The Middletons usually skirted around convention effortlessly enough. She had been bound to do something. He ought to have anticipated this. But call him mad, he hadn’t expected Holly to make their wedding the spectacle of London.
Damn his father and the conditions of his will. He hadn’t been able to find a single flaw in the document, and by Jove, he had searched. And because of that search, he had waited until the last possible moment to take a wife, leading him to partake in desperate measures to secure one. And now here he stood, waiting for the ankle-displaying Middleton chit to make her way down the aisle.
Had he a choice, Ambrose would not have taken a wife at all. Let the title pass to his brother, Jonathan and his offspring. It was the perfect solution. All tied up in a neat little bow.
Except his father hadn’t agreed.
The man must be laughing in his grave this very minute.
And where was his brother anyway? He ought to have been here, beside Ambrose. Luckily no one had taken notice of his absence, compliments to his bride and her ankles.
What was Holly thinking? Did she mean to punish him? The rules were there for her well-being, to keep her healthy and strong. Was this one last attempt at defiance? Or the beginning of several?
Frustration rode him hard. Still, his mask never once slipped. Already, his brain devised a story to counteract any gossip. It would take much more than setting a new wedding trend to ruffle his proverbial feathers.
Then a booming voice called out, his words echoing off the walls of the church. At that, Ambrose admitted one little feather did ruffle. Fortunately, years of practice had awarded him with remarkable composure. He made sure that he did not move a muscle as silence stretched out like a vast ocean in response to the cry “What on God’s green earth are you doing?”
Had the little minx arranged that too?
One could almost believe the voice belonged to God, seeing as, from his position at the front of the church, the voice had no shape or form attached to it.
What a spectacle.
