Free Samantha James by The Secret Passion of Simon Blackwell Page B

bubbling in her heart, no chorus of song bursting in her breast.Instead, her every breath grew more bitterly acute than the last.
    For there were no stars out tonight to wish upon.
    And it wasn’t excitement that held Anne from sleep.
    It was dread.
     
    The ceremony took place at nine the next morning.
    A tepid sunshine shone weakly through the curtains in the drawing room. Simon had taken his place beside her, his carriage unbendingly erect.
    Anne swallowed. She gazed through the gauzy veil at the minister—oh, God, her mother’s veil, for Mama had so wanted her to wear it. She had come to her room this morning, carrying it like a treasure beyond price.
    For indeed it was.
    Only then did Anne realize that this particular aspect of her wedding attire had been neglected.
    “Anne,” she said with that tender little smile that had always wrought so much pleasure. “You are my only daughter. I want you to wear the veil that I wore the day your father and I married. May you be blessed as I was blessed. And God willing, perhaps someday your daughter shall wear it too.”
    “Mama—” The swell in Anne’s throat closed off her breath and her words. She felt as if she would break into a hundred little pieces as her mother placed it on her head. With gentle reverence, Vivian tugged the wispy layers into place.
    Mama, she cried brokenly inside. Oh, Mama.
    To her credit, she did not cry. Nor did she waver as she spoke her vows.
    And then the veil was being lifted away, revealing her face.
    She knew she was pale. She could feel her skin whitening.
    Her gaze veered upward. A jolt shot through her as she realized that Simon was staring straight at her.
    Time hung unending…the man unbending.
    Would he kiss her? she wondered wildly. Did she even want him to?
    His head lowered. His lips brushed hers. The contact was polite, perhaps even respectful—and could scarcely be called a kiss, Anne decided almost lividly, for it was bestowed in such a manner that she was convinced it was accorded only out of requirement.
    God, why did he even attempt to such pretense!
    He turned and offered his elbow. She sorely longed to plant her own squarely into his ribs! It was her restraint, she decided, that was accorded only out of requirement.
    As was the custom, Vivian had planned an elaborate wedding breakfast. Meals in the McBride household were never a laborious affair, particularly not when Jack and Izzie were so lively, and neither was this one. At the far end of the table, Vivian and Simon’s Aunt Leticia were engaged in animated discussion.
    She was not, she acknowledged, the first woman to marry a man she did not love; such was the rule rather than the exception. The acknowledgment was both painful and reassuring. No matter how it came about, marriage was intended to be a celebration of two lives joined together, hardly a funeral. What purpose would melancholy serve?
    The dishes were scarce being cleared when Simon leaned over. “No doubt you’ll wish to change into suitable clothing. We’ve several very long days of travel ahead of us.”
    Anne’s gaze swung to his. “What?”
    “It’s time to go home.”
    Home, she repeated silently. Home. Despite her earlier self-admonitions, a part of her wasn’t ready to relinquish so readily—or so soon. This was home, she thought dimly. Here and Gleneden.
    Simon rose to his feet and addressed the assemblage. “I do hope you’ll forgive our hasty departure, but we must be on our way.”
    Anne thought vaguely it was a good thing hermaid had already begun packing her trunks.
    Anne didn’t want to leave. In a few days, perhaps. Tomorrow, at the earliest. Couldn’t he have consulted her? At the very least, informed her earlier? Not that he’d had to. But it would have been the courteous thing to do.
    She could feel his gaze resting on her face. She pressed her lips together. She cared not that her dismay must have been keenly apparent.
    “It’s time I was home,” he said with a lift of