As the ceremony progressed, she avoided even glancing at her tall, wickedly handsome groom. It was safer not to look into vivid blue eyes that were the same hue as his superbly fitting coat, or to contemplate how his pristine, intricately tied cravat set off his striking, aristocratic features. Yet she knew every woman present felt a spark of envy.
At that moment, Brynn would have gladly exchanged places with any one of them. She listened with growing dismay to the vicar intoning words that were ancient and binding. She was being joined in holy matrimony to a stranger.
Brynn winced as Lord Wycliff slipped a gold band onto her finger, yet the enormity of their vows didn’t truly sink in until her new husband lightly brushed her mouth with a kiss. His lips were cool, restrained, yet somehow scalding, and they drove home the finality of their union like a blow.
She had bound herself to this man forever, for better or worse. And it was very likely to be worse.
Unnerved, Brynn turned away, almost stumbling.
Wycliff’s hand reached out to support her elbow, and for a moment her gaze locked with his. To her dismay, the burning look in his eyes held possessiveness, triumph.
With deliberate care, she extricated her arm from his grasp. “I truly hope,” she whispered in a hoarse voice, “that you don’t come to regret this day.”
“I don’t intend to,” his lordship replied tranquilly, showing none of the inner turmoil she felt.
Her hand trembled as she signed the church register, cementing the marriage. Then, chastising herself for her cowardice, Brynn straightened her spine and plastered a smile on her lips as she accepted the seemingly endless good wishes of the guests.
The Duke of Hennessy’s barouche carried the wedding party to Caldwell House, where a feast had been laid out on the terrace by the duke’s vast army of servants. The wedding breakfast was torment for Brynn, for it seemed to last for hours. The July afternoon turned so warm, she felt light-headed, despite the cooling salt breeze that blew off the sea. It took all her willpower to serenely endure the countless toasts drunk in the bridal couple’s honor, beginning with the aging duke’s salute to his good friend Wycliff. The expensive champagne, along with everything else she managed to swallow, tasted like dust.
It was the night ahead, however, that loomed threateningly in her mind. When the guests began to trickle away, Brynn felt her panic rising at the thought of the obligatory bedding.
As a rule, she didn’t consider herself a coward, but she had to acknowledge that she feared the physical aspect of marriage. The concept of surrendering her body to a man-even her husband-felt alien to her. Indeed, she’d spent so much of her life avoiding men, resistance was second nature to her.
Wycliff could so easily become carried away. And what if she couldn’t resist him? His mere touch affected her more than anyone else’s had ever done. She could be a terrible danger to him if she fell for his practiced seduction.
The sun was low on the horizon when the duke and duchess took their leave, signaling the end of the festivities. Shortly, Brynn found herself sitting at the bridal table alone except for her new husband and her oldest brother. Theo had long since grown bored with the proceedings and escaped to his laboratory.
When Grayson rose to embrace her, Brynn had to fight against the ache of tears, knowing this might be one of the last times she would see him in a great while. She clung to him for an extra moment, drawing on his strength.
Gray kissed her cheek, then stepped back, his gaze fixed on Wycliff, his expression intent. “You will take care of my sister?” he asked, his tone solemn to the point of grimness.
“I won’t harm her, I promise you,” Wycliff answered easily.
Grayson shifted his gaze to Brynn, who stood awkwardly beside her new husband. “If you need me, you have only to call.”
She forced a smile. “I shall keep that in mind.”
Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, Gray pressed another kiss on her temple and took his leave.
“Your brother is quite protective of you,” Wycliff remarked when they were alone.
“For good reason.”
“I have no intention of ravishing you, Brynn.”
“So you say,” she muttered in a low voice. “I only hope you can remember your honorable intentions when the time comes.”
Wycliff didn’t respond to her obvious concern. Instead, to her surprise, he motioned to the manservant who was hovering at the terrace doors.
“Thank you, Pendry,” he said when the servant presented him with a slim, flat box.
He waited until they were alone again before handing the box to Brynn. “For you, my lady. A wedding gift,” he said in response to her quizzical glance.
Brynn accepted the box warily and nearly gasped when she opened it. Inside was an exquisite array of emerald jewelry set in gold-necklace, bracelet, and ear bobs.
“Emeralds to match your beautiful eyes,” Wycliff said softly.
She schooled her expression to indifference. If he thought he could breach her defenses by showering her with flattery and jewels, he was much mistaken.
“I do not want your bribes, my lord,” she said stiffly, setting his gift on the table.
“My name is Lucian,” he merely reminded her.
He glanced beyond the terrace toward the vast ocean sparkling golden in the distance. “It is a lovely evening, and much too early to retire. Why don’t you go inside and put on a more comfortable gown? Something older that you don’t mind getting soiled.”
She stared at him. “Why?”
“I fancy taking a stroll along the shore.”
Brynn considered asking if he’d taken leave of his senses, but she was more than willing to postpone the moment of reckoning as long as possible.
She did as she was bid, taking a great while to change out of her gown. She couldn’t help noticing that her nightdress was laid out on the bed where she had slept for all of her twenty-four years. Brynn shivered, not wanting to think of the night to come.
When she made her way downstairs, her husband was waiting for her on the lower landing, holding a basket and what looked like several woolen blankets draped over his arm.
“Strawberries and champagne,” he replied to her unspoken question.
“You mean to hold a picnic at this time of day?” she asked, her brows arching in astonishment.
“Something of the sort. I thought a private celebration was in order. And I hoped perhaps we might call a truce for the evening.”
Brynn was uncertain quite how to respond. She didn’t want a truce. Didn’t want to let down her guard. Yet she made no protest when he took her hand and led her back to the terrace and across the lawn, toward the cliffs.
Beyond them, the sun was a red ball on the horizon, sheening the sea before them with golden fire. At the cliff’s edge, Lucian paused for a moment, drinking in the sight. Brynn couldn’t fault him for being spellbound; the view was magnificent.
They negotiated the narrow path down to the rocky shore. He was headed for her own private cove, she realized, not knowing whether to be more alarmed or dismayed. When he took her arm, offering unnecessary assistance, Brynn uneasily drew her arm away, although she refrained from pointing out that she could find her way blindfolded.
Near the rock pool where they’d met, he found a short stretch of sand, where he spread one of the blankets. When Brynn was seated, he fished in the basket and held up the bottle of champagne. “Would you care for a glass?”
“Yes, please,” she replied, needing any courage spirits could give her to get through this evening.
He poured two glasses, then settled himself beside her on the blanket, stretching on his side, supported by his elbow. Defensively Brynn drew her knees up and sipped her wine in silence.
At least the setting was spectacular. The breeze had died to a gentle caress, while the timeless rhythm of the waves washing up on the rocky shore helped soothe her frayed nerves.