The Reluctant Husband Read Online Free Page B

by his future wife and, heaven forfend, his widow. After, Dacre called for refreshments, and they drank a toast to the happy couple. Ormiston stood beside Cecilia. As soon as the champagne was drunk, Marchmont made moves to leave.
    â€œWe need to rest and dear Cecilia must gather her strength for the morrow. You have fixed the ceremony for eleven, is that right, Dacre?”
    The marquis confirmed the arrangements for the wedding itself and the Marchmonts took their leave. In the carriage, Cecilia sat back, mute and confounded. Marriage to such a man as Ormiston—such a boy—was the last thing she had wished for herself. Yet, now she had seen him, she knew there was nothing more she wanted than to be married to him. To be loved by him. She gave a small gasp of surprise.
    â€œCecilia, is all well?” her father asked.
    She nodded.
    â€œWe need not proceed. Dacre will understand.”
    She shook her head. “I will marry him.” Her tone suggested she was taking a vow as binding as the one she was to speak the following day.
    That night, as she lay in her bed, Cecilia searched her own heart. Now that she had seen Ormiston, the case had altered. She had not expected the sight of him to affect her so, and she wondered at it. But she also understood that he had been unmoved by their meeting, and probably would remain so. She could not imagine what powers of persuasion Dacre had used to force the young man to comply with the arrangement, but she had recognized that Ormiston was being coerced into the match in a way she was not. A way that could only result in a detestation of the match and anyone participating in its completion.
    Recently, Cecilia had taken to reading novels. Marchmont was a subscriber to Mudie’s and they had enjoyed reading aloud to one another and to Mademoiselle Lavauden once the youngsters were in bed. Marchmont had even purchased a special lamp for the parlor which shed more light than candles. All three had fallen into stitches at the antics of innumerable foolish heroines who persisted in exploring strange castles in the depths of night and who consequently had to flee villains, thereby allowing them to fall into the arms of some eminently suitable suitor. They had spoken of love at first sight and hopeless passions, and Marchmont had even felt able to speak of his own late wife and the very different, deeper passion he had felt for her, and the sorrow her death had brought. Cecilia had since hoped that she might inspire a similar devotion.
    Now, the encounter with Ormiston had awakened in Cecilia an awareness that passion might strike one even without love. For how could she love the viscount? She had met him twice, and on this occasion, had seen him for scarcely an hour. Tomorrow, she was to become his wife, but it was clear that he had no interest in becoming her husband. Yet some small part of her wished, however foolishly, for the miracle that he might respond to her as she had reacted to him.
    She spent the night building fantasies, imagining that Ormiston would insist on her accompanying him to Europe, that he would leave for Europe and then summon her, that he would find her presence absolutely necessary to his well-being. But every airdream came tumbling down when she remembered his swiftly concealed reaction to her appearance.
    When she woke, she was wan and listless, her eyes red-rimmed and lackluster. A maid brought a tray of food to her room, but for the first time that she could remember, breakfast held no interest. A little while later, the maid returned to wrestle Cecilia into her clothes. More time was spent on fussing at her hair, attempting to fix onto it a veil and flowers. Finally, she was ready to meet with her father. He drew her to him.
    â€œYou look a picture, my Ceci.”
    â€œI look a fright.”
    â€œWell, I have something here that I hope may give you heart.” Her father handed her a box covered in black velveteen. She opened it and drew