Forever His(126)
The abrupt way he said it, and the look in his eyes, told her more than she wanted to know. A sinking feeling began in the pit of her stomach. She knew it was inevitable. Knew it had to be.
But realizing that her marriage to Gaston was over still hurt.
Hurt as if someone had run her through with one of the metal-tipped jousting lances.
“Thank you, sire,” she muttered numbly.
The King bade her farewell and left, gathering his men in his wake. The others were busy cleaning up the field and taking down Tourelle’s pavilion. The body had already been carried away for burial. Royce was occupied removing all the hardware from Pharaon.
Standing by herself outside Gaston’s pavilion, the wind tangling her hair, she waited. Waited until the barber-surgeon left. Waited until Gaston was alone.
Then she still waited.
She didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to say what had to be said. But she finally squared her shoulders and forced herself to walk forward, stopping just outside the tent flap. “Gaston?”
“Come in. Celine.”
She stepped inside. He was sitting on a stool beside the trestle table, wearing nothing but a length of linen draped around his lap. Fresh white bandages covered his thigh, circled his ribs, bound his shoulder. The dim firelight bathed his skin in flickering gold.
Her stomach tight with concern, she shifted her gaze to the candle on the table. “Are you really all right?” she whispered.
“A few scratches, no more.”
He sounded almost cheerful. Maybe he was a little delirious from the pain. “I ... I came to say good-bye,” she said softly. “I think it’s probably best if we ... I mean, there’s really no need for us to—”
“You came to say good-bye?”
He wasn’t going to make this easy. “Yes. It’s best if we just part now, don’t you think? You’ve probably got a lot to do here. I could go back to your castle for the eclipse. It’s impossible for us to ... I mean, we shouldn’t ... we can’t ...”
She lost her voice. He didn’t say anything.
“Oh, God, Gaston.” She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling miserable, forcing her gaze to his. “There’s no sense postponing the inevitable. Let’s just make a clean break, right now. It’s really better that way, now that the King has agreed to the annulment.”
“But, my lady wife,” he said in a deep, steady voice, “there is not going to be an annulment.”
Chapter 25
Celine’s heart skipped a beat. She had the unnerving feeling that she was in a dream, her senses unnaturally sharp, making her vividly aware of Gaston’s eyes gleaming with dark heat as they held hers; of the glimmer of candlelight playing over the angles of his face; of their shadows dancing on the side of the pavilion, moving together as the silk fluttered with the wind.
She blinked in disbelief. She was definitely awake. But she certainly couldn’t have heard him right.
“What did you say?”
“There is not going to be an annulment,” he repeated in that same tone, his voice and body both as solid and unmovable as granite.
“You mean you turned it down?” she cried.
“Nay I told the King that I wanted the annulment.”
She shook her head, half dazed with confusion. “Gaston, you’re not making sense!”
“I told him I wished to have the annulment—but I asked him to wait a few months in granting it. He agreed, though he was not pleased. From what he has seen, he believes we should stay married ... and he has a difficult time believing that we have not consummated our vows.”
“But he agreed to it—so we are getting an annulment.”
“Nay.” Gaston shook his head, his eyes locked with hers, potent. “We are not.”
“Would you please stop contradicting yourself’?” She was shivering despite the heavy velvet gown and cloak she wore. “What in the world is going on? Why did you ask him to wait a few months?”
“Because I have a plan.” He stood, his muscular form slowly unfolding until his dark hair brushed the roof of the pavilion and he seemed to fill the small space. The linen knotted around his waist slid low on his hips.
The rhythm of Celine’s pulse shifted, fast and unsteady, and an all-too-familiar heat tingled through her. She backed up a step, turning. This was no time to let him distract her from the very practical and painful matter at hand.
“Gaston, there’s no plan that could possibly let us stay married,” she said quietly, moving away until the table was between them.
He followed, advancing for every step she retreated. “The King has made it possible.” He faced her across the table, leaning forward to brace his arms on the scarred wood. “He was in a most generous mood. He made me a duc.” He shook his head, a wry grin playing about his lips. “Me. A duc.”