The Perfect Arrangement (The Not So Saintly Sisters #4) - Annabelle Anders Page 0,23

upon arriving at Gretna Green. Becky was sent up to ride with Mr. Simmons. Christian and Mr. Smythe were to ride with her.

And Horace, of course.

And before they had even pulled away from the inn, Christian had opened the table and Mr. Smyth placed a collection of papers on the surface, as well as a quill and a small bottle of ink.

“The contracts.” He explained as he flipped through the stack.

Lillian nodded solemnly but then smiled when, glancing down, she caught sight of Horace looking up at her curiously.

“Does he make you uncomfortable?” Christian asked.

“Not at all.”

Christian pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and then turned his attention back to the papers spread out before them.

“Mr. Smythe will read them over with you and explain anything that doesn’t make sense. Stop him if you have any questions.” He was quite serious this morning, but not so much that she was concerned.

Today was a very serious day.

Lillian swallowed hard but nodded and then forced herself to concentrate on the papers set before her. And since they were written in mostly indiscernible legal speak, she quickly became caught up in asking questions and then hearing explanations from Christian’s very forthcoming man of business.

The only misgivings she experienced were at the generosity in the provisions set aside for her. By the time she assured Mr. Smythe that she understood every line, they had been driving for nearly an hour.

“It’s just up ahead,” Christian said. “Do you need more time…?”

“No.” Nonetheless, her hand shook at the gravity of her decision when she signed on the line Mr. Smyth indicated.

Becky awaited her near the other carriage, which had arrived ahead of them as usual. “The anvil priest is expecting you.” Mr. Simmons gestured for them to enter the building. The smell of smoke and burning coal, and something else—it must be the iron—met her nostrils when she stepped onto the dirt. She’d known logically that she was going to marry at Gretna Green, and that marriages in Gretna were performed by the blacksmith, but the reality of such a ceremony didn’t strike her until that moment. “My Lady, Your Grace, if you will follow me.”

Lillian nodded and clutched her hands in front of her as Christian placed a hand at her back, steering her into the low-roofed building.

It seemed that neither one of them intended to change their mind.

Mr. Simmons held the door wide with a flourish, and the smokey air grew even heavier as she stepped inside. Lillian swallowed hard and stepped forward.

A heavyset man with charcoal streaks on his face approached them, smiling. Initially she thought he was dressed in all black—black hat, black shirt, black pants. But when she glanced at his hands she realized it was from the coal—from the smoke.

She glanced over her shoulder and met Christian’s gaze questioningly. None of it seemed real.

He rubbed the small of her back and nodded, silently communicating some reassurance. The blue of his eyes, she realized in that moment, was nearly the same color as the gown she’d donned that morning.

She smoothed her hands down her skirt, suddenly feeling foolish now that they were actually here. She’d chosen a sapphire gown that nipped in at her waist, made of silk with delicate flowers embroidered at the hem and three-quarter-length puffed sleeves. It wasn’t fussy, but it certainly was not a simple day dress.

It was to be her wedding, after all.

Having no reason to delay, Christian took hold of her hand and the two of them stepped across to where the blacksmith awaited them.

This was her wedding—to the Duke of Warwick. A roaring sounded in her ears and a drop of perspiration trailed down the back of her neck.

Holding a large hammer looking thingamajig, the soot covered man met Lillian’s gaze.

“Are you of marriageable age?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Christian repeated beside her.

“Are you free to marry?” Again, both she and Christian answered in the affirmative.

“You are now married. No need to pay, your man has already taken care of the charges, but you’ll need to sign the license.” And then he lowered his hammer onto the anvil and sent a loud ringing sound that echoed so loudly, everyone within three miles was likely to hear it.

There was no vicar, no congregation to pray for their marriage, no reciting of vows, ‘for richer, for poorer’, no ‘til death do they part’. Her throat thickened. Perhaps it was for the best.

And yet it was a marriage, nonetheless.

Till death…

How long would he remain in