After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(24)

“Annulments?”

“Yes, annulments.” He leaned across the table to look at her. “You must consent to be married, and saying ‘I do’ at gunpoint is not consent.”

Camilla swallowed. “But—the witnesses, our witnesses. One of them was a rector who knows me exceptionally well. The other was my particular friend.”

She had used to hope Kitty was something like her friend, at any rate. After what she’d said? After the key ring that had appeared in her pocket as if by magic? Obviously, Camilla had been wrong again.

“And we were married by a bishop. Who will believe our version of events?”

“My uncle.” He sounded almost uncertain, but as she watched, his jaw set. “My uncle,” he repeated more definitely. “I told you I worked with my uncle, the Bishop of Gainshire? He cares for me and my family. I know it sounds ridiculous. I know you have no reason to believe that I would know a bishop on such intimate terms, but it is true. If I were lying, I’d come up with a better story. If I can swear to him truthfully that we qualify for an annulment, he will help us get one.”

Camilla bit her lip. “So that’s it, then? We just ask your uncle?”

What would happen to her after the marriage was annulled? She tried not to panic at the thought.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. There’s this thing called consent after the fact.”

Camilla was tired. The day had been interminable. But that made no sense, no matter how she turned it over in her head. Either one consented or one didn’t. Her nose wrinkled. “That’s a thing?”

“Law,” he said in commiserating tones, making a face similar to hers. “Ecclesiastical law. But it’s not that tricky. We must continue to show that we haven’t started to consent to the marriage until it’s properly annulled. That means we can’t tell other people we’re husband and wife.”

That sounded very convenient for him.

“I see,” she said suspiciously.

“And we cannot, um…” He looked away.

“I’m not a child,” Camilla said. “You can say it. We cannot consummate the marriage.”

He looked relieved not to have to voice the words. “The non-marriage.”

She pulled her bravado about her again. “I have no wish to do either of those things.”

“Lovely. We’re in agreement.”

There was no point wishing that he would say something appreciative at a time like this. It would do no good to idly hope that he would say someone would be lucky or I’d be sorry not to be able to or any of the polite locutions he could have employed to soften the blow of his not wanting her at all, not even in the slightest.

Camilla was used to harboring ridiculous hopes. She pushed these particular ones away and reminded herself of the truth. He didn’t want anything to do with her; that made him like every other person on the face of the planet.

He took a bite of potato and made a face. “Dear God.”

There was nothing to do but put on her bravest face. “You’ve given yourself away. Now I know you’re just finicky. It’s not possible to ruin a potato.”

“On the contrary. Try it.”

“That’s the beauty of potatoes. They’re good mashed, they’re good in soup, they’re good baked. They’re practically a perfect food in and of themselves.”

Wordlessly, he speared a pallid section and held out his fork. She took it, and tasted a bite of… Dear God.

“What did they do? Did they cook it in vinegar?”

“I think they might have tried to pickle it.”

“Pickled potatoes?” Camilla made herself swallow the food. “At least it’s alliterative.” She frowned at the potato. “Wait. Give that here.”

“Be my guest. If you can stomach it, by all means, do so.”

She unceremoniously dumped the potato in her soup.

“What are you doing?”

“There.” She took a bite of the concoction. “It’s not bad. The vinegar of the potato balances the tastelessness of the soup.”

When he raised an eyebrow, she reached across the table and filled his spoon. He took it from her, sipped, made a face, and shook his head.

“Well, I’ve learned something about you. You’re one of those people who can find the good in anything, aren’t you?”

She’d hoped and hoped and hoped for so long, and it had never done any good. Still, she kept on, hoping, tumbling into love for no reason.

She couldn’t protect her heart; she had bruised it too many times to believe she would ever stop. She was going to do it with him, too. She already knew it.

He didn’t want to marry her. He didn’t want to have sexual relations with her. He didn’t want to do anything but break their tepid connection as swiftly as his uncle could manage it.

And still she felt her hope flare, blossoming from the most tepid of compliments. He liked her, a little. That was something. It was a start.

“Yes,” Camilla said, with a nod of her head. “I am. That’s me.”





Chapter Eight





Camilla’s hope lasted until she reached her room and opened her tired valise.

She had not packed her things herself; she supposed Kitty must have done so.