![]() She read the verdict on the guests’ faces: She was the usurper here. It didn’t matter that Millie had no say in the matter it did not matter that the devil’s own claws were in her heart. But in everything else-his ashen complexion, his dimmed eyes, his despair of a soldier who’d lost the war-he and Miss Pelham were exact matches, their beauty only made more so by their anguish. She could not stop herself: She looked at Lord Fitzhugh. Such a public display of emotion was alien to her-wanton, almost. With infinite slowness and clarity, a teardrop rolled down her face. Suddenly Millie saw her, Miss Isabelle Pelham, wan, defeated, yet at the same time almost majestic in her pride and stillness. A clump of ladies, their heads bent together, whispered and pointed. None of the groom’s friends extended a congratulatory hand to him. The congregation rose as they began their walk toward the church door. Now they were man and wife, and would be for as long as they both drew breath. And when he lifted the veil to kiss her chastely on the cheek, she concentrated on his waistcoat, mist grey with the subtlest weaving of checks. Not once did Millie look at her bridegroom during the wedding ceremony.Īt appropriate times she would turn her face toward him, but behind the veil, she stared only at the hem of her wildly extravagant gown-the beading as heavy as her heart. Then, head held high, he marched the rest of the way to his doom. ![]() ![]() His eyes still locked on Isabelle, he mouthed, I love you. ![]() He needed no one else to drag him to the altar. He was the man he had been brought up to be. ![]()
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