A Bride Of Honor. Ruth Axtell Morren

say you’ll never marry. I know the Lord has someone out there for you, too—a good, worthy girl who would make a fine wife, someone who would be your right hand in your ministerial duties and have the same heart for God.”

      He gave a wan smile, looking away from Florence, trying to appear as if the sentiment meant little to him…even as a picture of Miss Phillips flashed through his mind. His fingers tightened on the clock part. He must erase such foolishness from his very thoughts.

      Lord Eldridge leaned toward her. “They tell me you are the toast of the season, my dear.”

      Lindsay smiled faintly at the heavyset gentleman on her right. He lifted his crystal goblet to her. “I can well believe it, from the look of you. Let me pay homage to your beauty before you are snapped up by one of these dandies who won’t appreciate your charms like this old connoisseur.” He took a long swallow of the burgundy.

      When decently appropriate, Lindsay turned away from him and looked back down at her plate. Thankfully, Mr. Stokes, on her left, was momentarily engaged with the lady on his other side. All evening she’d felt hemmed in by his presence.

      Her lips felt stiff from keeping a smile in place. She broke the crab-stuffed sole into pieces with the edge of her fork, but her stomach balked with each mouthful she forced herself to take.

      She pressed her hands to her stomach now, hoping she wouldn’t be sick before the night was through.

      As the waiters removed the covers in preparation for the pâtés to follow, she glanced down the table at her father. By his jabbing forefinger and heightened color, she could tell he was in a heated debate with another member of the Royal Society. She sometimes wondered if she were a disappointment to him, not being a son who could follow his interests in mathematics and science. Perhaps if she’d been born with a more forceful character, she could debate with him as he so enjoyed…and refuse to marry the man he’d chosen for her.

      Her father’s glance strayed to her. He gave her a reassuring smile, which she forced herself to return. With a subtle nudge of his chin, he communicated his wish to her.

      With a sinking heart, she turned in the direction he’d indicated.

      Jerome Stokes swallowed a healthy draft of his ruby-colored wine and eyed her. His full lips were still stained crimson, and Lindsay couldn’t tear her gaze away, even as a wave of repugnance filled her.

      “The sole was excellent, was it not? Although I found the mullet a trifle dry.” His tongue roamed over his teeth as if savoring the last remnants of fish.

      She forced herself to look away from his mouth. As his wife, she would have to…kiss that mouth. “I didn’t have any.”

      His hooded gaze wandered over her features. “You’re looking a bit haggard. Haven’t the megrim, have you?”

      “I’m quite all right.”

      He eyed her plate as it was being removed. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

      “I…wasn’t too hungry.”

      “As soon as dinner is over, I shall take you for a turn outside. That will put you to rights.” He covered her gloved hand with his large one and pressed it.

      She could only nod and turn away from him, knowing the real reason he would be taking her outside.

      Although there were a dozen courses to be got through, and she ate little, she found the meal going by too quickly. It was with dread that she watched the final dishes being cleared. The glacé cherries had helped refresh her but it signaled the end of the meal.

      As soon as the other ladies rose to go to the drawing room, she knew her time was short.

      “Are you quite all right, dear?” Beatrice asked as they seated themselves. “You seemed quiet at dinner.” She frowned, looking at her more closely. “You look awfully pale.”

      Lindsay smoothed down her silk gown. “Just a bit of headache.”

      The hostess came by and asked her to play a piece, and Lindsay almost jumped up at the chance to be doing something—anything—to forget for a few moments what the evening was for. She sat down at the pianoforte and looked over the sheet music. With shaking fingers, she finally settled on an ode of Handel’s. As she began to play and sing, her breathing steadied, and for a little while she managed to put aside thoughts of what awaited her.

      “That was charming. You have a lovely voice, Lindsay.”

      “Thank you,” she murmured to the hostess as she resumed her place beside Beatrice. Another guest took up the instrument and Lindsay pretended to be listening to the music.

      All too soon, the gentlemen rejoined the ladies. Her father wasted no time, strolling over to her with a purposeful step, bringing Mr. Stokes with him.

      “My dear, Jerry tells me you were feeling a bit peaked at dinner. He suggests a stroll in the garden. It will be just the thing.”

      She rose slowly, trying to steady her breathing. “Yes, Papa.”

      Mr. Stokes took her by the elbow and led her to one of the doors to the garden.

      She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her once they were in the chill night air.

      “It is not too cold for you?”

      “No, but perhaps we can soon return to the drawing room.” All she wanted now was for the evening to be over. She’d been fretting about it and dreading it for so long that she’d decided it was best to simply comply with her father’s wishes and make everyone happy.

      “Yes, of course.” They walked along the gravel pathway until they were a distance from the house. The lights spilled out of the upper level windows onto the dark garden.

      “Your father has given me to understand I have found favor with you.”

      She moistened her lips. How could she pretend this was what she wanted? She tried to think of the pleasure she’d take in pleasing her father but her mind was numb. “Ye…yes…”

      He took her hand in his. “In that case, I should like to ask for the honor of your hand in marriage.”

      She was silent for what seemed a long time. It was as if she stood poised at the edge of a cliff. Behind her was all that she was familiar with—her happy childhood spent in her mother’s company, her girlhood friendships at her boarding school, even the amiable times recently with Beatrice. A brief flash of Reverend Hathaway—but no, she blocked out all that his image evoked. She would break down if she thought about him.

      Finally, the word came out, a mere breath on the night air. “Yes.”

      “You have made me a most happy man.” He took her chin in his hand and guided her face upward. Her first impulse was to pull back, but his face came down too quickly, his fingers locking onto her chin. His sweet cologne filled her nostrils, bringing a wave of nausea over her.

      The next second, his wine-stained lips touched hers, and she recoiled. But he pressed against hers, hard, until she felt she would suffocate.

      “Please,” she gasped when he released her lips a fraction.

      “You are so lovely,” he breathed against her skin before assaulting her lips once more. His whiskers burned her cheeks. She tasted the residue of tobacco and port on his lips. She beat her hands against his chest, but he was immovable. Waves of dizziness swept over her.

      Finally, it was over. She gulped in the night air.

      “You will make me the happiest man,” he murmured, his hooded eyes staring at her heaving chest. She turned away from him, shielding herself from his view.

      But he reached out and took her elbow, forcing her gently but firmly around. “You will grow to like it, dearest Lindsay. I may call you that, may I not, now that we are to be wed? You’ll grow to like it,” he repeated, his voice a velvety threat.

      “Is