Free Trapped at the Altar by Jane Feather

then filled a second one before carrying both up the stairs. The chamber was softly lit with the candles on the sill and another one beside the bed. Ari sat up against the crisply laundered pillows, her rich black hair fanned around her face, which was almost as white as the cambric of the pillow. She was naked beneath the sheet, a nightgown lying across the end of the bed.
    â€œYou might find this welcome.” Ivor handed her the goblet.
    â€œMy thanks.” She took a sip and was heartened by the welcome burn of the spirit. She couldn’t remember whenshe had last felt warm, but she knew the cold came from within her, a deep, icy block of it. She regarded Ivor over the goblet. “How could you agree to that . . . that travesty of a ceremony, Ivor?”
    â€œI have no say in the decisions your uncle makes,” he responded. “The marriage was to take place anyway. It seemed to me immaterial if it was this day rather than any other. It’s not as if a delay would have brought you to a willing agreement.” His eyes forced her to acknowledge the truth, and she turned her head away from the steady gaze.
    â€œNo, it wouldn’t.” She sipped her brandy. “At least you saved me from the worst of the bedding, and for that I thank you, even if it was only to salvage your pride.”
    He gave a short laugh. “Oh, my dear Ari, that is unsalvageable, believe me.” He turned his back on the bed and went to the window, looking out into the still torch-bright night. The reflection of the flames flickered on the dark surface of the river. “How do you think it feels to be married to a woman who makes it clear she would rather be in her grave than in my bed?”
    â€œThat’s not true,” she exclaimed. “Of course I would not. But I can’t make myself love you, Ivor, when I love someone else. How do you think I feel, forced into wedlock with a man I cannot love? Oh, I care for you, I like you, you’re my friend. But that is all, and now that I know what love between a man and a woman can be, I don’t know how to settle for less.” She plaited the edge of the sheet, the candle lighting emerald fires in the betrothal ring, which quite dwarfed in size and splendor the plain silver wedding band behind it.
    â€œWell, that brings us to an unpleasant but necessary discussion,” he said, turning back from the window. “I take it you are no longer a virgin.”
    The harshness of his voice, the flatly definitive statement, shocked Ari. Her eyes widened, and then anger came to her aid. She had not betrayed him or deceived him. He had no right to sound so accusatory, almost as if she disgusted him in some way. “True,” she responded. “I have never pretended otherwise.”
    He shrugged. “Maybe not. Nevertheless, it poses certain problems. When do you expect to bleed?”
    Ari stared at him. “What has that to do with anything? A week, maybe ten days hence . . . I don’t keep an exact record of these things.”
    â€œWell, you should,” he said bluntly. “Did your mother tell you nothing?”
    Comprehension dawned finally. “Of course she did,” she snapped. “But I fail to see what business it is of yours.”
    â€œWell, then, I suggest you think a little. We cannot consummate this marriage until after your next bleeding—”
    â€œWhat are you saying?” she interrupted.
    â€œI am saying that until I am certain you are not carrying another man’s child, I will not consummate this marriage.” He drained his goblet. “Do you understand, Ari?”
    â€œOh, yes,” she said slowly. “I understand. But you should know that Gabriel did not . . . did not . . .” She stopped in frustration, wondering why she was so embarrassed to say the words. How could she be embarrassedany further in this dreadful farce? “You need not fear