Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(43)
swore to love me forever. The man I’d just exchanged rings with. Well, almost. I could still faintly pick out the sound of the gold band as it rolled to a stop. It was odd, hearing something so insignificant while my heart cracked wide open.
I glanced at him, but his attention was fixed on what Miss Whitehall was carrying, the muscle in his jaw strained. I closed my eyes briefly, hoping this was a nightmare. That my subconscious was torturing me with fears before our day.
Surely this could not truly be happening. Not when I’d finally overcome my reservations.
Not after we’d spent the night together…
Unimpressed by the deadly stares from our friends and family, Miss Whitehall walked up the last few steps to the dais and handed the priest the envelope she’d been waving about like a declaration of war. I could only watch, horror-struck, as the priest opened the cursed letter.
“I’ve got official correspondence as proof. See?” She leaned her blond head over the document, pointing out a line for the priest. “It says so right… there.”
He fumbled for control, or perhaps an answer from God on how to proceed. I watched him scan it twice, as if he’d hoped what was written there had changed.
“Er… it does say you two are—” The priest glanced at us, brows tugged close.
“When did you and Miss Wadsworth become betrothed?”
My heart thumped wildly. Thomas held fast to my hand, addressing the priest. “I made my intentions for courtship known in December. Miss Wadsworth agreed to our betrothal in January.”
I gripped Thomas’s hand until I was sure it must have been painful, but he didn’t seem to mind or notice. He held me with equal force, as if by clinging to each other our bond could not be broken. We waited, fused together, as the priest’s gaze dropped back to the letter, his mouth tightening.
“And the announcement?” the priest prodded, his expression growing grimmer by the second. “When did you formally declare your engagement?”
Thomas stared at the broken seal on the envelope, his tone clipped. “A fortnight ago.”
“I-I’m sorry.” The priest shook his head, glancing from the letter to us. “This is postmarked the first week of December. I do not have the legal authority to marry you today.” He swallowed hard, and I saw true regret enter his eyes. “Nor ever, if this remains a binding agreement.”
Miss Whitehall shifted her attention to my fiancé, smiling demurely.
“Surprise, Mr. Cresswell. I do hope you’re pleased to see me again. I’ve certainly missed you.”
NINETEEN
DASHED TO BITS
AUDREY ROSE’S ROOMS
FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
6 FEBRUARY 1889
I perched on the edge of my bed, voluminous skirts of tulle cushioning me in case I pitched forward, giving in to the shock still settling in. Honestly, I was surprised I felt anything other than the emptiness where my heart once beat. I could not fathom how the events of the last hour had unfolded. A day full of hopes and dreams, dashed to bits in an instant.
Liza had filled me in on pieces of the story I missed after I’d fled to my rooms. Even now the tale was disjointed and filled with conjecture. Apparently Thomas’s father made the cursed arrangement, but a letter was allegedly signed by my fiancé requesting permission to marry Miss Whitehall. At present, there was a great debate on its authenticity.
Thomas and I were so certain of each other, so confident that we’d battled against our own doubts and were now victorious. We didn’t consider enemies sneaking in, destroying the life we’d envisioned building together. The future that was so close I nearly clutched it in my grasp. My jaw clenched as the scene played back in my mind, each dreadful detail cutting like a knife.
Thomas was betrothed. To another.
It couldn’t be true. And yet… each time I closed my eyes, I saw Miss Whitehall waving that portent of doom about, an expression of glee upon her face. Until this morning, I’d never heard her name uttered. Not once. I’d looked to Thomas for answers, but he’d donned that icy exterior, permitting no one a
glimpse into his heartbreak. The absolute elation I’d seen in his eyes had disappeared, gone so quickly it was as if it never existed. The young man standing at that altar no longer resembled the affectionate, loving man I’d shared my heart—and body—with. This Thomas was remote and cold. Something I recognized as his emotional shield, though it didn’t stop the sting of him leaving me to deal with my devastation alone.
Once the priest had declared Miss Whitehall and Thomas’s betrothal standing and ours invalid, my aunt and cousin sprang into immediate action, whisking me from the church, buffeting me against the dawning horror that our wedding day had been ruined.
I, too, was now ruined. At least in society’s tiny little mind. My hands were clammy and cold as I curled them into fists, my nails creating crescent moons in my palms. I’d discarded my gloves somewhere on the way back to my chambers. They were likely stained beyond repair now, too. Just like—I could barely draw in breath.
This couldn’t be happening. Thomas and I had exchanged our virtues the eve of our wedding, never dreaming everything would go to hell in a few short hours. He’d be all right. Not that I’d wish otherwise; my anger lay elsewhere.
Society never condemned men for their part in untoward romantic encounters.