Marquesses at the Masquerade(75)
Her stomach turned. She felt she might vomit.
The only suitable wedding gown she possessed was a simple, unadorned white gown from her first Season. In her fantasies of marrying Patrick, she had envisioned having a lovely dress made that was embroidered with bluebells that matched her mother’s wedding veil. Annalise didn’t even know where that old veil was now. When she showed her aunt her choice of bridal attire, the woman pressed her palm to her forehead, aghast. “That old rag of a thing!”
Annalise uncharacteristically lost her humor with her aunt. “Oh, who cares what I marry in?” she said and then burst into tears.
Her aunt shooed Mrs. Bailey and Phoebe away. Then she sandwiched Annalise’s face in her hands. “Come now, I know you are worried,” she said with maternal knowing. “But Exmore will be gentle with his wife. It’s an awkward act that a wife must tolerate. But think, my love. You shall have an infant of your own.”
Annalise stared. Her aunt misunderstood entirely. How could she say, I was supposed to marry someone else? She knew her aunt wouldn’t understand. She lived in a very small, flat, defined world, where she never looked over the edges or questioned herself because what she would discover would be too painful.
“Now, now, see yourself in the mirror,” her aunt continued. “Aren’t you radiant? Exmore will have a very pretty wife. You should always strive to make him happy, my dear. Your happiness will be in his happiness.”
Annalise peered at her reflection. She didn’t see any radiance, only dark fear dilating her eyes. This marriage would be a sham. Friends shouldn’t marry.
The rain continued throughout the day. On the way to the church, Annalise clutched the flowers and watched the swollen, filthy gutters flow like rapids along the roadside. She kept telling herself that she was getting married today, yet it didn’t seem like it was really happening. Wasn’t her wedding day supposed to be more than this? Shouldn’t bells toll and horses be adorned with white ribbon? Shouldn’t she feel happy?
Her uncle’s manservant held the umbrella over her as Annalise lifted the edges of her gown and dashed to the vestry. Inside, the church was gloomy, gray stone with heavy wooden beams. The chapel was empty except for Exmore conferring with the vicar by the altar. This is wrong, she thought. This is not the man I’m supposed to marry. She should turn around now.
“Ah, there she is,” Vicar said.
She didn’t wait for her uncle to lead her down the aisle, but walked quietly on, gripping her orchids to her chest. She needed Exmore to gaze at her with those tender, reassuring eyes to calm her fears. He needed to be her hero again, saving her from her fears. But when he turned, the lines of his face were ashen, as if he hadn’t slept. His gaze was hollow and tired.
Oh God, he knows this is a huge mistake too. He acted out of honor and now he’s trapped.
The next minutes were a blur in her mind. The words of the ceremony streamed through her head. “Wilt thou… thy wedded husband… forsaking all others… I will…”
Exmore held her hand, his eyes averted as he uttered the fateful, un-retractable words, “And thereto I plight thee my troth.”
It was her turn to pledge her life. She gripped Exmore’s hand. The vicar waited. The audience of her uncle and his family grew silent. She had imagined this scene a thousand times or more. She had planned her wedding to Patrick in minute detail. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Lovely light should shine through the stained glass like God blessing the union. Her betrothed should gaze at her with a loving glow in his eyes. Her father should be beside her as her mother looked on.
Be strong, Annalise. Stop this madness.
“Miss Van Der Keer, your vows,” the vicar prompted.
Exmore lifted his gaze to hers, imploring.
Her voice cracked. “I—I t-take thee…” She didn’t know how she formed the remaining words. She couldn’t feel the air rising through her throat or her lips moving. The vow came out halting and brittle. “I give thee my troth.”
The vicar joined their hands together. “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Blackness filled Annalise’s vision. The flowers tumbled from her fingers, and white petals scattered on the cold stone floor by the hem of her gown. Exmore caught her in his arms before she hit the ground. He kept her nestled in his embrace as the vicar hurried through the rest of the service.
“All will be well,” Exmore whispered. “All will be well.”
But Annalise knew it wouldn’t be so as she gazed at the gold band encircling her finger. It felt heavy and unnatural. What had she done?
*
The next hours were akin to watching a horse race by the fence line—the streaks of motion, the thundering of sound. She held Exmore’s arm like it was a raft keeping her afloat. She was beginning to awaken to the extensive duties that accompanied her vows as the staff of Exmore’s London home streamed into the rain to form a line to meet her. She mustered her courage, holding the tears at bay, and tried to be as courteous as possible. She remembered very little of his home from her one visit years ago, and she had been too distraught then to take in its enormity and ornateness. A huge portrait of Cassandra waited above the double staircases entwining up a series of balconies. Annalise was arrested by the image of the woman who had destroyed Exmore’s heart. She had forgotten how beautiful Cassandra had been. She seemed to peer down at Annalise as if to say, You don’t belong here.