“Agree? Of course not. But what choice do I have?” The man threw his hands in the air. “The girl seems smitten and will come of age in a few months. Her head is so full of romantic hogwash she’s liable to flee to Gretna.”
A profound sense of relief filled Matthew’s chest. Miss Smythe’s dowry was within his grasp. But oddly that was not the primary reason for the sudden rush of excitement coursing through his veins. He wanted the golden-haired beauty in his bed. He wanted her curvaceous form sprawled between his sheets. Damn. It had been an age since he’d lusted after a woman.
Once he’d satisfied his sinful cravings, he would need to handle the situation delicately. They could be friends, occasional lovers, but never more than that.
Chapter 4
After a glorious week of sunshine, their wedding day suffered a torrential downpour with puddles deeper than a copper bath tub. A loud crack of thunder echoed beyond the roof of St. George’s. A sudden gust rattled the doors. The wind found a way through the gaps and crevices and rushed down the aisle to whistle its objection. Two gentlemen hurried from the box pews and pushed against the doors as though fighting to keep the Devil out.
Despite the formidable storm, the rector’s monotone voice recited the relevant passage from the Book of Common Prayer.
Priscilla’s hands shook. Perhaps it was an omen. Perhaps their lives were to be as bleak as the weather. She struggled to hold Mr Chandler’s assured gaze. Needing to rouse an ounce of faith in the future, she glanced beyond the altar at the painting of the ‘Last Supper’.
The biblical scene brought little comfort.
“You’re allowed to smile,” Mr Chandler whispered whilst holding her hands. “This is a love match after all.”
“Promise me all will be well.” Her chin trembled though it had nothing to do with the draughty stone building. “Promise me we’re not making a mistake.”
“I promise.”
The pledge was oddly reassuring, totally believable. The firm grip of his hands, the playful grin illuminating his handsome face, gave her the confidence to continue. With her mind in a bit of a daze, she went through the motions, speaking when required, not really listening to the rest of the service. Once the declaration was made — the pronouncement that they were joined in the eyes of God — her fears faded.
Still, she felt lightheaded, dizzy, detached from reality. Had she not been able to hold Mr Chandler’s arm while passing through the group of well-wishers hugging the door, she would have crumpled into a heap.
“Come,” Mr Chandler said as they hovered under the shelter of the portico. “A little time alone in the carriage will lift your spirits. We’ll circle the park to give our guests time to reach the house before we arrive.” He cupped her elbow, and they raced down the steps. After fumbling with the wet handle on the carriage door, he assisted her inside.
“The rain is coming down so hard one might think the Lord wants to wash away our sins.” Priscilla shook a few droplets of water from her fingers and dabbed her cheeks.
“It would need to rain for forty days and nights to rid me of mine.” Mr Chandler sat back in the seat opposite, removed his hat and brushed his hand through his hair. “But you have done nothing to warrant His censure.”
“Have I not just sworn to love you?”
“And you will.” He squirmed in the leather seat, but she doubted the movement had anything to do with a broken spring. “If only in the physical sense.”
Heavens, he would expect her to share his bed this evening. The thought brought conflicting emotions. While nerves created a hollow cavern in her stomach, the promise of more kisses heated her blood.
“Is that how you interpret the vow?” she asked. As a man who stressed the importance of honesty, she had wondered how he wrestled with his conscience.
“The ancient Greeks recognised six different varieties of love. I intend to follow the theory of Eros and worship you with my body. I lack the ability to give more than that.”
It was an odd conversation to have on one’s wedding day. “You believe yourself incapable of any deep and long-lasting affection?”
“The poets claim that love is the pinnacle of happiness. In my experience, love brings nothing but pain. Therefore, one must cultivate happiness in other ways.”
The comment proved enlightening. To speak of such a pain, he must have loved once. The thought roused a flicker of hope. There was every chance he could learn to love again. But what was his story? Had a lady broken his heart? Had his father’s death left a permanent scar?
“When you speak of cultivating happiness are you referring to your love for gambling and a crowd of dissipated debauchers?” She hadn’t meant to mock.
His raised brow conveyed an air of displeasure. “I speak of my love for independence, for a mind free from worry and a heart free from shame.”
Shame? It was an odd word to use.
Priscilla studied his profile as he gazed out of the window. His full and wickedly sensual lips were drawn thin. His muscular shoulders sagged. No doubt his eyes swam with sadness as he observed the rivulets of rain running down the glass pane. Somewhere inside he harboured a profound sorrow.
Priscilla’s heart thumped against her ribs as the need to soothe him took hold. “So, my new home is to be on Grosvenor Street,” she said hoping a change of subject would lighten the mood.
When he turned to face her, his mask of indifference disguised any hint of sadness. “I live at number twenty-six, or should I say we do. The house is the only one in the row with a long garden and access to the mews. Both aspects have proved useful for entering on a grand scale.”