Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(8)

“Thank you,” Iris murmured to the woman.

Nicoletta met her eyes and nodded. Her soft mouth was still pursed in disapproval or irritation, but her eyes had gentled a bit.

Or at least Iris hoped so.

One of the manservants came running into the room. He said something in Corsican.

Dyemore replied, “Send the vicar up, then.” He turned to Iris. “Come here, my lady.”

She swallowed. Was she really going to do this mad, mad thing? Unlike some widows, she’d not discreetly taken a lover. She’d waited—perhaps naively—for a gentleman who esteemed her enough to make her his wife. More than that, she wanted to be cherished when next she lay with a man.

When next she married.

She’d not wanted another cold, loveless marriage.

This was not at all what she’d planned.

Dyemore watched her hesitate. He’d dressed in a black silk banyan while Nicoletta had tended her hair. It was buttoned all the way to his neck, making him look severe and dour. He might just pass at a glance for a gentleman lounging at home, perhaps a little the worse for drink.

He held out his good arm to her, his hand commanding. “Come now. The vicar is here. We haven’t much time.”

He should look weak, sitting there in front of the fire, his face pale and sickly, his black, shoulder-length hair sticking to the sweat at his temples. He seemed a stark figure of death, here at the center of this house of gloom.

But his eyes were icy gray and in control.

She wished desperately that she knew what he was thinking.

He’d already saved her once. What other choice did she have?

Iris crossed the room and placed her hand in Hades’s palm.

Raphael gripped Lady Jordan’s hand with the hazy notion that if he let her go she’d flee his rotting abbey. Leave him here all alone in his house of death and despair.

Take her light away from him.

He blinked, straightening. His shoulder was throbbing, as if some animal had burrowed within his flesh and were steadily gnawing, attempting to reach his heart.

But that was fantasy.

He needed to focus his mind. Keep and protect her, this woman with the blue-gray eyes and sweet pink lips.

Valente entered the sitting room. Behind him was a small spare man, his bobbed wig askew on his shaved head. The man gripped a black book in both hands. He looked both completely bewildered and completely terrified.

Bardo brought up the rear, towering over the vicar. “He thinks we will murder him, Your Excellency.”

Raphael nodded. “Vicar, what is your name?”

The man, who had been staring at Raphael’s scar in horror, started. “I … Er, Jonathon Webberly, sir, but I must protest. Who are you and what—”

“I am Raphael de Chartres, the Duke of Dyemore.” He hadn’t time for histrionics. “And I sent for you so that you might wed me to my fiancée.”

He drew Lady Jordan closer to him, ignoring how she stiffened.

The vicar’s gaze shot to her. “Your Grace … That is … This is very unusual. I—”

“Can you marry us legally or not?” Raphael rasped.

“I … Yes, of course the marriage would be legal, Your Grace. I’m ordained in the Church of England and need only register a marriage. But this is highly irregular, especially for a gentleman of your importance.” The vicar licked his lips nervously, glancing at Lady Jordan. “Surely you must wish to call the banns and celebrate your nuptials in the village church?”

Lady Jordan made an aborted movement.

Raphael tightened his hand around hers, keeping her still. “Do I need to call the banns or be married in a church for this marriage to be valid?”

“No, Your Grace,” the man said, looking distressed. “The Church naturally frowns upon such hasty weddings, but legally there is no requirement to call the banns. That is—”

“Then I have no desire for delay. I wish you to marry us at once.” He stared at the man coldly, well aware of the impact of his visage.

Mr. Webberly nodded jerkily and opened his book.

Raphael concentrated on staying alert. He let the vicar’s words wash over him, aware of her fingers in his hand all the while.

She was … different from other women in some way he still was unable to understand. She was more pure, more bright, more golden. She called to him on an animal level. Her song had seeped into his veins, his lungs, and his liver until he could no longer divide her from his marrow.

He needed her.

And now he was marrying her, Iris Daniels, Lady Jordan.

The notion was as wrong as that of a spring robin tied to a carrion raven.

Yet he would not stop this monstrosity. More, he’d kill any man who tried to gainsay him.

He wanted her.

Past reason. Past honor and good taste. Past his own vows and the things he must see done in this life. Perhaps this was madness.

Or the evil of his father.

If so, he’d succumbed.

The vicar droned on until it was time for them to make their vows. Raphael turned to see if she would protest at this late stage. Perhaps weep and say that she was being forced to do this. Beg Mr. Webberly to help her from this dreadful place and her hideously scarred presumptive husband.

But how could he forget that this was the woman who had faced him down with a pistol? Who had shot him only an hour or so before?