His cravat was slowly strangling him.
This was really happening.
He was getting married.
“No.” His breath hung in the frosty air. “I’m not ready.”
Marcus smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Then you’re like every other groom I’ve ever met. If you can’t look pleased, at least try not to look pained. Lady Diana is a lovely young woman, and I think, eventually, you’ll be quite content with one another.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve no pressure on you to marry at all, much less to someone you barely know.” A trickle of sweat tracked down Evan’s temple in spite of the cold January day.
Marcus laughed, and Evan scowled at him. How could he be so jovial when Evan’s knees were shaking worse than on the eve of his first battle? Restless didn’t begin to describe the night past. Horrible half dreams, waking in a cold sweat, shaking, heart pounding out of his chest. Gunfire and cannon shot, screams, explosions, fire, smoke, and pure terror had stalked him every time he had closed his eyes. And when he’d opened them, he’d faced the stark reality that he would be wed in just a few short hours.
He was losing his mind. And nothing in the past month had helped the situation. He had been pitchforked into an alien land, one as perilous, it seemed, as the war he had nearly died fighting. And now he was going to be married. How on earth was he supposed to keep his wits about him and keep his fragile mental condition a secret from a new bride?
“Are we going in, or are you going to retreat?” Marcus went up the front steps and turned between the pillars supporting the portico. “Do I need to call for reinforcements? Your bride will be here soon, and unless you want to greet her on the steps, we should get inside and into our places.”
Evan took a steadying breath—one that didn’t help a bit—and followed his groomsman inside.
The altar at the front of the church looked a day’s march away. He breathed in the smell of candles and furniture polish and old books, a blend familiar to him from childhood. If only his father could be here to perform the service. None of his family would be in attendance, the time frame being too compressed to allow them to travel from their parish. They would barely have received his letter explaining recent events. What would his father say? What advice would he have for Evan?
A wave of homesickness hit him. What wouldn’t he give for an hour in his father’s study for quiet conversation?
Evan walked up the aisle beside Marcus, his bootheels echoing on the floor. The guests had arrived, a small number, nowhere near to filling the church. Heads turned, and hands covered mouths to whisper in their neighbors’ ears. Evan felt their eyes on him, gauging, studying, and no doubt passing judgment.
“You’re quite the thing now, you know. Punching a viscount in a public place has made you even more of a curiosity.” Marcus spoke from the side of his mouth. “The account I read in the Times made you out to be quite the pugilist. Though my favorite was the caricature. You look quite dashing in that one.”
Evan stifled a groan. The ramifications of losing his temper had rippled outward, and he was reminded of Diana’s comment that his actions in society now affected her as much as they did him. But what else was he supposed to do when someone made such vile advances toward his fiancée? Toward any woman? Fitzroy had deserved a thrashing, and he had been fortunate to have escaped with just a bloody nose.
Following Marcus’s demeanor, Evan kept his eyes forward and away from those in attendance. He had no idea who was on the guest list. His own contribution had been small. One name other than Marcus.
Would he come? Evan hoped so. A familiar face, someone who had known him long before the earldom had descended upon him, long before Salamanca, when his mind had been his own, his courage tested and proven, his abilities sure. Someone who knew the real Evan Eldridge, not the Earl of Whitelock, this persona he now clanked around in like a too-large suit of armor.
Evan and Marcus stopped at the rail and turned, and Evan couldn’t help scanning the faces. With his heart dropping, he looked from one to the next, until … There! A smile formed on his lips. He’d come.
Sergeant Shand grinned from the back row, and some of the unrest inside Evan eased. Warmth rushed through his chest, and he gave a small nod in Shand’s direction.
The rector emerged from the sacristy and took his place in front of the chancel, nodding to Evan. “I’ve been advised that the bride’s carriage has arrived.”
Organ music swelled, filling the barrel-vaulted ceiling, and the massive doors opened at the far end of the aisle. Evan’s heart rate tripled, and he shifted his weight, standing at attention, careful not to jostle the sword at his side. He had chosen to wear his military uniform, freshly cleaned, buttons gleaming. Marcus had raised his eyebrows but then stopped protesting when Evan had insisted. In that one small way, Evan had wanted to both recognize and remember his comrades, and to feel at least a bit like himself. The dark-green wool of jacket and pants, and the high black collar were familiar and comforting. Marcus had drawn the line at the shako, and Evan had given that one small concession. He’d go without a hat.
Marcus himself was resplendent in a forest-green coat and breeches. His dull-gold waistcoat and shining black shoes echoed the colors in Evan’s clothes.
Silhouettes appeared in the back door, a man first, then a woman.
The Duke of Seaton walked stiffly, as if being prodded from behind at every step. But Evan had eyes only for Diana. She looked small next to her imposing father, and Evan barely refrained from trotting down the aisle and inserting himself between them.
She wore a silvery dress and carried the flowers Marcus had reminded him to send that morning, a bouquet of pink hothouse roses and deep-green leaves. Her eyes locked with his, and he could read the desperate panic there, interpreting it well because it matched his own.
No maid of honor attended her, and when they reached the front of the church, her father placed her hand in Evan’s without a word and stepped back. Wasn’t he supposed to wait until the rector asked who gave this woman to be married? But he had abandoned Diana there, as if washing his hands of the entire proceedings. Like she was a stray puppy he needed to rid himself of with all speed. Which meant that other than Evan himself, she had no one up front to support her. Her hand was icy and slack within his grasp, as if she had entered a shocked state where she had no will of her own.
Evan frowned. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way a marriage should begin. Though he had rarely given thought to when or whom he would wed, he had always imagined it would be a natural progression—meeting a girl, making her acquaintance, courting, then after a decent interval and with a mutual feeling of regard, asking for her hand.
Nowhere in his imaginings had an unwanted title, a social faux pas, or a forced marriage entered in.
This was the Prince Regent’s fault from start to finish. And the man wasn’t even here to see the results of his machinations. The organ music crescendoed, and the church door slammed shut, turning every head.
Evan had time to glimpse Percival Seaton’s late arrival before pain knifed through his skull and light flashed behind his eyes. He gasped, nearly buckling. Marcus grabbed his arm, and Diana’s hand jerked in his. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fought a wave of nausea as cold sweat broke out across his skin. Iron bands fastened around his chest, and he couldn’t draw a deep breath. Sparks erupted across his eyelids, followed by flashes of battle. No, not now. Not now.