Once her work was completed, Betty bustled Maeve down the stairs and into the waiting coach. It departed promptly, making swift progress through the wet, London streets, but it stopped abruptly near a church. For a brief moment, Maeve hoped Silverton had changed his mind about her family. Then the carriage door swung open, and a dark-featured man looked curiously into the exterior.
“Greetings to you my lady,” he said brightly. His voice held the slightest of French inflections, and his warm brown eyes settled on her. There was something distinguished about the man. “Silverton has told me all about your recent romantic courtship. It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Miss Walsh. I suggested escorting you personally since your father could not be here. I hope you don’t mind?”
Finding herself oddly nervous, Maeve asked. “And you are, sir?”
“Lord Verne, at your service ma’am.”
The reserve she had felt melted away. She knew of the baron. Her father had spoken warmly of him many times. Taking his proffered arm, she stepped from the carriage and allowed him to bring her towards an austere-looking church that was shrouded in peaty smog. Betty followed in their wake. Maeve glanced at her escort and was surprised to see an equally considering-look on his debonair face.
“You are one of Silverton’s Set, my lord?”
“Indeed.”
“My father spoke most highly of you. My fiancé must have a great deal of faith in you.” There was a stillness to Verne that made him hard to read. Pausing when they broached the steps, he ushered Betty inside and then lowered his voice, “You are here of your own accord?”
There was a kindness to Verne’s voice, and if Maeve said something, she was sure he would help her, but what could she say? How would she explain the last few days? She had willingly compromised herself. Besides, she was sure Silverton had not told Verne that he was dying and thus the reason for the speed of their union. Despite it all, Maeve could not reveal such a secret. It was not hers to tell. “Do you trust your friend? Do you think him honourable?” she finally asked.
“I think him a good man. He likes to hide those qualities on occasion. But I am pleased you bring out his softer side,” Verne replied. “I never thought to see his wedding day. I asked Silverton himself if he was certain about the union, meaning no disrespect towards you. Olympe, my wife, always said that Silverton was a romantic. Against all evidence, it seems she is right yet again. She will be so smug.”
The door to the small chapel opened to reveal a short-haired, dark-eyed beauty whose heavily pregnant belly was visible beneath her fashionable dress. The woman looked first at Verne; the heat of her look stark, then her eyes pivoted to Maeve, and she grinned. “The groom is starting to pace. You must be Miss Walsh? I am Olympe.” She looked back to her husband. “You did as I asked and checked she was here entirely willingly?”
“Yes, my love.” Verne laughed and then smiled at Maeve, encouraging her forward.
Maeve entered the chapel. As she did so, she let out a tiny gasp, probably unnoticed by either of the Vernes, and certainly not by Betty, the vicar, or her bridegroom. It was the sight of Silverton that caused that intake and release of breath to catch and fall from her lips in such a manner. He was dressed magnificently in a black suit, with a fine emerald-green and gold waistcoat to match her outfit, but it was his face that affected her so. He had shaved. Gone was the rough, large, and wild-man beard, and beneath it she could finally see all of his handsome face.
It was the face of an angel, she thought. No, worse, far worse, than that. All those tangled limbs and soul-capturing kisses slipped unbidden back into her mind. He had the face of a fallen angel—but he had previously covered it from view. Hiding the strong, angular jaw and the generous mouth that rarely smiled, and then upwards to his cheekbones that may as well have been carved from rock. Now he was clean shaven, she thought perhaps she really had imagined that any boyishness was possible in a creature like him.
Why had he felt the need to ask her to wed? It made no sense. He was handsome enough to tempt any woman to throw away her virtue. Lord, he’d done that to Maeve herself without much effort.
“Miss Walsh?” It was Verne, turning back to her and offering to lead her to the altar.
Breaking her gaze from Silverton, Maeve took Verne’s proffered arm and proceeded down the short aisle, towards her waiting bridegroom and the watching vicar. Olympe took the bouquet from Maeve, and once at the top, Silverton hastily took Maeve’s hands in his.
It was all a blur, she thought, during and afterwards. The only thing she was able to cling to was the warmth of his hands and the gentle squeeze of pressure during the ceremony.
When Silverton slipped the gold band over her knuckle, he bent closer and whispered, “Don’t be nervous. You can see I’m no longer an ogre.”
The comment seemed designed to shock, but Maeve, who had been bottling up her nerves alongside a healthy dose of confusion, desire, and anxiety, couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing.
As Silverton leant back and the Vicar declared them wed, she tried to stop herself again, but it did no good. The notes of her humour filled the small chapel as she laughed, and then just to further add to her amusement, she raised herself on tiptoes and kissed his revealed mouth.
Maeve had intended it to be a brief, friendly kiss, one which would be symbolic of their marriage, but Silverton’s right arm snaked around her waist to keep her close. His left hand caught the back of her neck, locking her lips against his and deepening their kiss.
They had kissed before, numerous times, but nothing had really prepared Maeve for this skilful and smooth exploration of her mouth that seemed calculated to cause her senses to riot throughout her body. When Silverton released her and stepped back, Maeve felt quite dizzy. The witnesses were politely clapping, and their low talk failed to pull her focus. No, that was entirely trained on Silverton. His own intense expression, she hoped, spoke of something akin to the cacophony of desire that seemed to be invading her.
“This way.” The vicar was directing them to sign the register.
There were some more formal introductions, and before Maeve was entirely aware, she found herself back in the carriage with the four of them—Verne and his wife, Silverton, and her—heading home, Betty having been given the afternoon off to amuse herself.
Her entire life had changed. It could not have taken above twenty minutes.
The carriage proceeded at a fast pace through the city. From her squab, Maeve felt a slight nudge at her elbow and looked up to find that Silverton had slipped his hand into her grasp. Holding his hand, the silken feel of his skin against her left palm was comforting, Maeve thought naively. When his hand tensed, and she caught a look at his jawline, she realised it was part of the show—he was putting on a performance of ease, but tension lurked there beneath the surface.
“Almost back home,” Silverton murmured as the carriage started to slow.
“I think,” Verne said, “that we might ask to take your carriage back to our own home. Did you not mention feeling a little unwell?” He looked pointedly at his wife.
“Non,” Lady Verne said. “Morning sickness,” she added in her very direct and decidedly French manner, “passes after the first two months I have found, but—”
