Chapter 8
Wedded and bedded in a trice.
That was the saying, was it not? Ophelia swallowed, wondering how her life had altered so entirely in but a few minutes.
Somehow, she knew she was standing on the precipice of a momentous moment. A moment which could lead to bliss or the banality of ton life.
Drawing in a slow breath, she let her gaze wander to her beautiful husband. He was hers. Forever. By law. A voice deep within her called upon her to seize this chance and make him hers in every way.
Fear called to her. Fear wanted her to choose safety. The safety of assuming he could never love her. That they could never have the happiness of couples she’d read of in so many tales.
She refused to listen.
She had not yet been bedded.
The wedding had occurred so quickly that she could still see her entire family’s agog faces as they stood in the small chapel and the bishop had prattled on.
Her brother and Peter had gotten the license in the middle of the night. It had taken about an hour, rousing the old fellow from his bed, plying him with brandy and at least twenty guineas, possibly more, to make certain that there was absolutely no difficulty in obtaining the paper that would allow Peter to declare her legally his. And then, of course, with a slightly stunned face, her groom had met her at her family chapel.
She had been marched up the aisle by her brother as her mother looked on. Her poor dear mother, who was still apparently in such a shock at the turn of events that she had not been able to utter a word since dawn.
Copious amounts of coffee and tea had been taken. After all, they had all gone to bed at a ridiculously late hour after the wedding had been confirmed for the morning.
The wedding in the small chapel had been rushed, with little flattery or vanity, and now the wedding breakfast seemed just as rushed.
Much to her delight, the cook had somehow managed to produce cake, even though wedding cakes usually took several days, if not weeks, to make.
Ophelia stared at her pretty sisters, all of them in a state of amazement, and wondered how the devil this had all happened. How she’d gone from being the one no one wanted to being Peter’s wife.
For it seemed she had made the greatest marriage of all. The wallflower, the one in the corner, the one no one would ask to dance. Somehow Ophelia had made the best match, the greatest marriage, the one with the most prestige and money.
She still didn’t know how it had happened. Not truly. Of course, she knew the actions of it, but there was more. So much more than a stolen kiss in the dark that had led to this.
The Wallflower’s Guide.
It was the only explanation for all of it. The book had done it, even if it had not done it in the way promised. She was half tempted to think that the book was akin to witchcraft. Of course, such a thing was absolutely absurd. She believed in reason and science, but some little part of her heart wondered if simply by believing such a thing was possible, she had made it happen.
Most would say that was utter tosh. She wasn’t so certain anymore. After all, if anyone had asked if she’d be married to someone like Peter but a week ago, she would have laughed so hysterically she might have been committed to Bedlam.
She looked over at Peter, who looked as if he did not fully comprehend the fact that he was now a part of the large, boisterous Price family.
To her relief, he didn’t seem upset or angry.
Actually, it rather looked as if he couldn’t believe his luck, which was strange in itself. But he didn’t seem to know what to say, for he had been a bachelor one moment and now a married man in the next. After all, marriage to his best friend’s sister when ruination was on the horizon was the only possible course of action to take, good man that he was.
She wished she could reach out and take him in her arms and tell him that all would be well, but she didn’t know that it would, so how could she do such a thing?
As if he could hear her thoughts, he turned to her, a slow smile tilting his lips as if he was amused rather than horrified by his sudden married state.
He passed her a glass of champagne, and he gazed down at her with those oh so winning eyes of his. “We mustn’t be bothered by this,” he said. “It’s happened to more couples than I can count through the annals of English history and the wide world.”
She beamed up at him, relieved that he wasn’t angry or bitter.
He looked over her family gathered in the salon that had been crowded with guests the night before. “I know I was reticent last night, but Ophelia, I think we shall do better than most.”
She took the glass of champagne and raised it in salute, her stomach twisting as she recalled his concern. “Do you?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” he said with a wink that appeared slightly too jolly.