Regency Redemption. Christine Merrill

you not see the resemblance?’ He tilted his head to the side, tongue lolling out of his mouth and eyes rolled to show the whites. And, despite herself, she laughed.

      ‘No, it’s an old family name, and the window was commissioned after some particularly reprehensible St John before me. Probably lost his head over a woman, the poor soul.’ He touched his blond hair and admitted, ‘There is a slight resemblance, though. Most of the art in this room was made to look like family. It is my brother who looks more like my mother’s indiscretion than my father’s first child.’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ she remarked, pointing at a marble statue. ‘That scowling martyr in the corner could well be him. See the profile?’

      St John laughed. ‘No, my brother was never named from the bible. He was named for a Roman dictator. Quite fitting, really.’

      ‘What are you doing still here?’ St John was right. It was an imperious voice, and its owner did nothing to hide the contempt in it as he spoke to his brother.

      ‘You needed witnesses for this little party, Marcus. And how could I miss my brother’s wedding?’

      ‘You could miss it because I ordered you to,’ growled Marcus. ‘I believe I told you to vacate your rooms and be off this morning.’

      ‘But you meant after the ceremony, certainly. I doubted you’d allow me as best man, but surely someone must give the bride away.’

      She frowned. She’d already been given away, certain enough. She didn’t need any presence of her father to remind her of that.

      ‘And I suppose that is why, when I went to Miranda’s chamber to fetch her, I found it empty.’

      ‘Dashed bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.’

      ‘For you as well as me.’ There was a murderous tone in her future husband’s voice.

      ‘Please, your Grace,’ she interceded. ‘Would it be so wrong of St John to stay for just one more hour, if I wish it so?’

      ‘If you wish.’ The short phrase seemed as though it was being wrenched from the heart of him. The duke pointed down the aisle and towards the altar and muttered to his brother, ‘If you insist on being party to this against my specific instructions, then try my patience no further. Walk her to the altar and we can commence.’

      St John linked his arm with hers and set off on the short walk to the front of the chapel at a leisurely pace, with Marcus a step behind. She could feel him behind her in a cloud of irritation as thick as incense. St John twitched next to her as his brother’s hand prodded him to speed up.

      ‘In a rush, Marcus? I could see why, of course, with such a lovely bride awaiting you. But we must try to respect the solemnity to the occasion. No need to race up the aisle, is there?’

      ‘Just walk.’ He almost spat the words. She was afraid to turn and face him, but could already guess his expression. It was the one he got right before he began to swear.

      They reached the front of the chapel and the vicar looked down at them with a beneficent smile. ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God, and the face of this congregation …’ He faltered as he looked out over the empty pews and a snort escaped from St John.

      His voice rose and fell monotonously. ‘… nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly …’

      She bit her lip. Taken into unadvisedly, indeed. What could be considered unadvisable about this?

      ‘… let him speak now, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’

      There was a loud and disapproving sniff from the vicar’s wife in the front pew, to fill the dramatic pause.

      He turned back to them. ‘I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know of any impediment …’

      Dear God, forgive me for what I am doing today. I swear that I will be a good and faithful servant to this man, she prayed fervently. And do not punish me for the secrets in my heart, for I swore to keep them. It was wrong, I know, but I swore to Cici and to my father …

      She felt her husband’s hand tighten on hers even as she was praying. Without realising it, he had pulled her closer to him and she leaned against his arm, which was as solid as a marble pillar. Perhaps this was some sort of sign, his strength guarding and upholding her as she faced her fears.

      The vicar led them through the vows, the duke answering with a firm, ‘I will’, and maintaining the grip on her arm that inspired her to manage the same.

      He plighted his troth with equal confidence, although his eyes barely flickered in her direction as he said the words, and she promised ‘to love, cherish, and obey’.

      Then the vicar called for the ring, and the duke looked down at her with a dazed expression, clearly having forgotten. He glanced once at an amused St John, then slipped the signet from his own finger and handed it to the vicar to bless. When he muttered, ‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow’, his voice was a self-conscious apology for everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. And he kissed the ring once before slipping it on to her finger.

      He folded her fingers into a loose fist to keep the ring from slipping off and for a moment she felt as though she had trapped the kiss in her palm and could feel the warmth of it seeping through her.

      The vicar droned the ceremony to its conclusion and she clung to the kiss in her hand. Cici had been correct all along. It was going to be all right. He might be gruff, but there was a tenderness in the way he’d said the vows and made her believe the words, and supported her when she was afraid, and given her his ring.

      Then it was over, and her hand was firmly trapped in the crook of her husband’s arm as they turned to accept the congratulations of the congregation. All two of them.

      The vicar’s wife sniffed politely and allowed that it had been a lovely ceremony, such as it was, and wished them happiness in a tone that stated she thought the chances of it were remote.

      St John’s smile was as bright as ever, if a trifle sad. He clasped his brother’s hand, and Marcus accepted stiffly.

      ‘Good luck, Marcus. Once again you have more good fortune than you deserve.’ He turned to her. ‘Miranda, dear sister.’ He reached out to grip her hands as well and said, ‘I must be going this afternoon, as my brother wishes. But if there is ever anything I can do for you, the innkeeper in the village will know where to reach me. And now—’ his eyes sparkled ‘—let me be the first to kiss the bride.’

      And before his brother could object, although she saw the storm gathering in his eyes, St John’s lips had come down quickly to buss her own. It was sweet and harmless, and she couldn’t help but smile at his impertinence.

      ‘St John, I believe it is time for you to be going. Long past time, as a matter of fact. And you …’ He looked down at her and she realised again how massive a man he was and shrank away from him, but he pulled her close. ‘You must learn to take care whom you kiss, madam.’

      He stared into her eyes and his own grew dark. She was lost in them, paralysed with nerves and anticipation. Then his mouth covered hers and his hand went to the back of her neck, stroking her hair and sending shivers down her spine. Despite herself, she relaxed and leaned against him, running her hands under his lapels to feel the solidity of his body, letting it support her as his other hand slipped to her waist.

      This was wrong. It must be. The ideas rising within her had no place in a chapel. She opened her mouth to protest and his tongue dipped into it, stroking her tongue and thrusting again, simulating. And she felt the feeling rushing through her in a great shudder.

      She fought for control of her emotions. Dear God, no. She mustn’t respond so. What must he think? She pulled herself out of his arms and stood back,