Page 57 of When We Touch

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Maggie had chosen to keep the wedding as quiet as possible, and Charles had tried to accede to her wishes. But though the Queen had decided not to come, Her Royal Majesty had sent gifts and envoys, since Charles was one of her favorites. Maggie had attended some social functions in the last years, but admittedly, after her marriage to Nathan, she had not been on many guest lists.

So, she only knew half the names Justin murmured to her as they walked down the aisle and there were at least fifty people present. A few were her own friends from the limited circle she had maintained. Andrew and Missy Kelton, from her reading group. Sir Arnold Brighton and his daughter, Lindsey, from the Salvation Army. Father Vickers. She would have smiled at them as she passed, except that she couldn’t seem to do anything other than keep one expression glued to her face.

There, naturally, was her Uncle Angus, her cousins, and their wives. Strange, she never seemed to visit her family. Today, they might have been as close as a band of thieves. She was marrying an important man, so naturally, they were in attendance. Frankly, she should be grateful that Angus had found the husband for her—and not an aging bride for Justin. Angus stood to gain a great deal, if Justin were to perish without a male heir. Before the demise of Angus’s wife a good twenty-something years ago, she had given Angus three sons, Sean, Stuart, and Tristan. In turn, her cousins had married well, and their offspring included half a dozen boys. They were darling children, however, they weren’t at the wedding. She enjoyed the boys, and many times, had tried to tell herself that it wouldn’t be so terrible should one of them inherit the title.

It was only Angus himself who galled her so.

Angus, who watched her come down the aisle, an ever-calculating smile on his face.

She looked away.

Justin gave her a nudge in the ribs.

She realized that her brother was pointing out Her Grace, the Duchess, Lady Marian. Both the Prince of Wales and his son, Eddy, were in attendance, along with Princess Alexandra. That meant, certainly, that a number of the fashionably dressed fellows in attendance were guards for the royal family.

The royalty might have given her a start, except that her attention was diverted elsewhere.

Jamie stood beside Charles, somber and elegant in a black waistcoat, jacket, and trousers, and perfectly starched white shirt. His hair appeared as dark as pitch, an absolute opposite to the snow white cap of hair upon the groom.

He stared at her, straight at her. And she felt a shudder within, for he looked at her with such loathing, and such contempt!

How had he ever been so passionate, so vital, and so tender?

That had been last night . . .

And this was now. And now . . .

She had been engaged to Charles, and still, she had fallen into his arms so easily! Did he hate her just for that . . .

Or because he hated himself, just a little, too?

She missed a step, and nearly tripped. Her brother’s strong arm kept her from falling. She quickly recovered, and knew that she would be all right, as long as she didn’t look at Jamie.

When she refocused her gaze, she saw Mireau. Very handsome in his formal attire, he was near the front, and he smiled encouragingly to her.

You are beautiful, like an angel! he mouthed to her.

She managed a smile.

Then all the names and faces became a blur as her brother handed her over to Charles. She was afraid, at first, that she was going to have to tug away from her brother. He didn’t seem to want to let her go. What a scandal that would make. Brother and sister busy at fisticuffs in the midst of such a noble and solemn rite!

But Justin released her at last and kept quiet when the Very Reverend Father Ethan Miller asked if there was anyone present who might object. Then the ceremony went on, and Maggie felt as if she had entered a netherworld, as if she were there, but not there. She watched as if from afar, as if she had somehow brought her soul to rest high above the altar, as if the proceedings involved someone else entirely, a shell of herself. She heard all the words she had heard before, and she felt in her heart that she was the greatest liar ever to live. Love, honor, and obey? She did love Charles, but as a good friend. Honor? Certainly, he was a man worthy of incredible honor. Obey?

Sadly, it wasn’t in her chemistry to obey anyone, and for one absurd moment, she considered stopping the Anglican priest to argue the point. Why did such a promise have to be in a wedding ceremony? They were not living in the Dark Ages. Women were doing incredible things, laws were changing, and . . .

“You may now kiss the bride!”

And Charles turned to her. She saw his smile, and felt him draw her close, and then he kissed her.

Dry parchment against her lips. She felt nothing, and even as that kiss ceremonially sealed her vows, she found herself remembering a touch that was liquid fire, glorious in the extreme, awakening every fiber of her being.

And then it was over. Charles’s eyes were on her with sheer delight, and they had turned. A hail of rice fell upon them, and she was blinded as they walked back down the aisle.

Charles had hired a photographer, and the man waited for them just outside, determined to take advantage of the last rays of sunlight. He was every inch the Viscount then, noble and kind but authoritative, directing his guests as to where and when to pose. First, naturally, the royals were asked to join with the bride and groom, and they were charming. She had heard that the threesome had been at an opera house lately—the booming industry of the last decades had brought about many changes, and there were those who were heartily against what they considered the excesses of the Royal House. Perhaps with good reason, for though Maggie knew that the Queen was distressed by many conditions within the city of London and its surroundings, she was blind to many of the activities practiced within her own family.

She now knew, with certainty, that the Prince of Wales was a flagrant philanderer, and that Prince Eddy . . . had many different tastes.