The minister began to speak.
Her look seemed more and more clearly like a challenge.
“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife,” the minister began. Terribly nasal drone, there. Like a hive of bees.
Her brow lifted as the minister fell silent. Alex had the faintest inkling of suspicion. “I do,” he said slowly.
The minister nodded and turned to Gwen. “Do you take this man . . .”
She nodded along as the question was being asked of her. When the churchman concluded, she glanced away to survey the whole room before returning her gaze to Alex.
“What a novel question,” she said.
The minister gave a visible start. “I beg your pardon?”
He was not mistaken. He knew what was coming. She was going to give him a taste of the panic she had experienced. A queer mix of feelings stirred in him—amusement and pride and love warring with regret and the inevitable disbelief. With an effort, he produced a droll tone. “She never has made it this far before,” he told the minister.
“No, never,” she said thoughtfully. Alex tried for a smile in reply, a silent message to her: You see how well I understand you?
But a moment’s doubt sabotaged his attempt at lightness. She looked to be biting the inside of her cheek. That he did not understand. Did she need the pain to control a smile, or to steel her will? But no act of will was required. Did she not realize that? He would give her as much time as she needed to decide, here. He would even sweat for her, if she would enjoy it.
“Well, miss?” the minister prompted.
“Speak, Gwen,” Elma said irritably. “This game is not amusing.”
Gwen took a breath. “No,” she said. “It is not amusing. None of it. I do not take this man to be my husband.”
Well. Alex exhaled.
That was a bit more than indecision.
How comical to have hoped, even briefly, that she would settle for merely twitting him.
Not a coward, she looked him squarely in the eye. “I cannot marry you,” she said.
He had not expected this. His disbelief was too large to manage, or marshal into words.
The stunned silence could not last, though. “What?” Elma cried.
Gwen looked toward the gathered company. “I do beg your pardon,” she said, then paused to clear her throat. Her voice only trembled a little as she pushed onward. “I know this is a disappointment to everybody.” She looked down to the bouquet, fumbling as she tried to remove the strap from her wrist. The gesture, after a moment, became a frantic sort of clawing.
As if in a dream, Alex watched himself reach out and slide the ribbon off her hand. Freed, he thought. Remember this moment, Gwen. From here on out, you’re fair game for the chase.
She gave him a look of astonishment as he took the flowers. He no doubt looked equally astonished. He could not believe she’d done this. She was braver even than he’d imagined.
The thought clamped down on his next breath. In fact, he had counted on her being less brave than this. Lovemaking was not without possible consequences, and—so he realized, all at once—he had assumed, God forgive him, that her fear of those consequences would hold her to him as much as the love that she did, she must feel for him.
But if she was so unafraid, what might she not do? She might well walk out of this room and never look back to him, no matter what had passed between them.
He looked down at the bouquet. His mind felt strangely sluggish. “Lovely roses.” Oh, brilliant remark. “Gloire de Dijon, I think?” A thousand times he’d won the advantage in tricky negotiations by thinking on his feet, and now a remark on flowers was the best he could manage?
Her chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “Sir,” she said. “I do hope you will survive this, the tarnish of your first jilting.”
Smart girl. She would not be distracted by talk of roses.
“But you will understand,” she continued, “at least I think you will, when I tell you that there can be no more sham marriages for me.”
Sham marriages? His brain latched onto that phrase and demanded that it anger him. His senses were attuned to other, more important details. Her blanched face. Her shoulders, which kilted at an unnaturally straight angle.
His wits began to reassemble. She was jilting him by the skin of her teeth, here. It was costing her some great and terrible effort.
There was hope in that fact. More than hope. She would never come to him out of fear. She would only come to him in honesty. He almost wanted to take her hand and give her the encouragement she needed. To say, It’s all right; keep going. Give me hell. You’re almost done.
A thorn stabbed his palm: his hand was crushing the bouquet. He did not look down. “Bravo,” he murmured to her. Her courage deserved his admiration. “Well done, Gwen. Fearless.”