“Why should she marry me?” he had demanded, the night before his wedding. That was just like Rafe up to the very last moment he was worried that Imogen would realize what a poor bargain he was. He bent his head and kissed his bride, ignoring the bishop, who was still reading out of his prayer book. She gave him a reproving little frown and turned back to her prayer book.Īt the altar, Imogen looked up at Rafe and said clearly, “I do.” Relief was clear in every lineament of Rafe’s body. “Good,” he said, bending over so that he breathed it into her ear. “Stop looking like that!” she whispered to him in her enchanting French lisp. There was nothing superfluous about her, nothing loud, nothing inelegant. Her face was a perfect triangle, from her delicately flaring eyebrows to her high cheekbones. He trembled just to be standing next to her, bored his friends by speaking about her whenever she wasn’t near, found himself watching her whenever she was.Īs if she felt his eyes on her face, she looked up and smiled. She accepted it, with a tiny bend of her head, as her due.Īnd he…he was almost afraid that what he felt went beyond love. The daughter of the Marquis de Caribas, who luckily escaped with his estates intact from the carnage in Paris, would never insult herself or him by naive murmurings. Sylvie was an aristocrat, from the tips of her delicate gloved fingers to the jeweled heel of her slippers. He didn’t need to boast, even to his closest friend, about the affection that Sylvie felt for him.
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