Free The Dark Affair by Máire Claremont Page B

him. No one could ever take his life from him again; nor would she be able to manipulate him.
    He tilted his face, attempting to catch the cold morning breeze dampened with the rain that dashed down upon the square. Nothing had felt so marvelous in a very long time. If he could have, he would have stood out under that rain, allowing it to soak him through, to wash away the poison of that place and the memories that woman had evoked within him.
    He was never going to forgive her for that. For forcing his wife and child and their demise back into his thoughts.
    One of his father’s carriages raced up before the steps, its black wheels whirring and the white horses tossing their drenched manes.
    Protocol suggested that he now move into the nave of the church and march up to the altar. Following it would be the sane thing to do, but Miss Maggie still believed he needed to be worked upon. So he wouldn’t follow protocol. In fact, he was going to make her work for his
recovery
. If she thought he was going to make this marriage an easy one, she would be surprised.
    For once, there was no guilt in his heart as the carriage door swung open, the liveried footman’s shoulders perfectly square despite the growing deluge. She’d pushed him into this marriage, for all her pretty sentiments. It had been marriage or a lifetime in that hell. Perhaps she had not considered his character carefully enough before embarking upon her harebrained scheme. For she had not considered that as her husband, once proved sane,
he
would have the power over
her
.
    The footman reached into the carriage, and his bride’s delicate hand appeared, braced on the footman’s forearm.
    A bark of laugher rumbled up James’s throat. At least the woman had a suitable sense of humor.
    Swaths of black bombazine tumbled from the vehicle as she descended. Given the fashion of the day, she could barely squeeze through the small doorway with her skirts. And when her face was revealed, it was covered, as appropriate for a bride . . . but it was black lace that veiled her.
    She was in mourning.
    For her life, he would assume. Ah. How perfect it would be if only he could find an armband. Then they could march up the aisle in connubial mourning.
    Droplets of rain bounced down upon her, slicking her like damp obsidian. Before his father could climb down behind her, she was heading up the steps in purposeful strides, but the full bell of her skirts gave the oddest impression that she was floating. A netherworld specter in the fog and rain, come to claim him.
    When she reached the top step, his father still only just alighting from the carriage, he inclined his head ever so slightly.
    She held out her black-lace-gloved hands, the tips of her fingers peeping from the fabric. “Do you like it?”
    “Prodigiously suitable for the occasion.”
    “Thank you.” Her face was invisible, but there was a rich drollness to her tone. “It is the only suitable gown I possess.”
    He held out his arm. A mourning gown? Who had died? It struck him then that he knew almost nothing about her.
    “I thought your father would escort me down the aisle.”
    “My father has had too much to do with this occasion already.”
    He could have sworn she laughed, but the sound was muffled by the veil, and before they could banter in any more foolish ways, he took her small hand and placed it atop his dove-gray coat and marched her through the doors.
    They were halfway up the nave, her skirts batting his legs, when she tugged slightly at him. “Yes?” he asked. “Doubts? Would you care to reconsider? Give me my sanity without the vows? Hmm?”
    “No doubts, my lord. I am quite fixed in my decision.”
    “Then why the unmaidenly pawing at my person?”
    “You are walking too fast.”
    “Am I?”
    “Your legs are considerably longer than mine.”
    He angled his head. “I cannot see your legs, so I cannot adequately judge such a statement.”
    “I am also considerably shorter.”
    He paused,