When one is the rightful heir and the other wants everything just for himself. Josephine realised that she was caught in the middle of a succession war.
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Josephine sat in the open carriage, striving not to take offense that her husband was fairly hugging his side of the conveyance, his gaze averted, as though he wished to be as far away from her as possible.
Within the vestry of the church they'd signed their documents before heading out to the carriage. Because an aristocrat's wedding tended to draw a crowd of strangers, they'd had to weave their way through the gathering, she clinging to his arm while he tried to keep his top hat from flying off. They'd both waved at the people milling about as they'd been driven away from the church, but she'd sensed that he held little enthusiasm for the ritual. It was ceremony only, something to be tolerated, and now that they were beyond the crowds, he seemed to have forgotten that she sat beside him.
She fought to hold on to her happiness and push back the ominous sense she had that something was dreadfully wrong. That she'd somehow disappointed him beyond measure, perhaps in the choice of her gown or the style of her hair. When she'd joined him at the altar, he'd stared at her as though he couldn't quite determine who she was.
Or worse yet, perhaps he'd sensed her misgivings. She was so terribly unskilled at hiding her true feelings. Although she'd been wearing a veil, he might have been able to see through the lace to the doubts reflected in her eyes.
But they would have been apparent for only a moment. Because she'd seen the same qualms swirling within his, and she'd wanted to quickly reassure him that all would be well. One of them needed to believe that if their marriage was to have any success at all. And so she'd smiled as lovingly as she could, with all the hope for a blissful future that she could bring forth. Her overture seemed to have given him the confidence to offer her his arm.
Once they'd taken their places before the archbishop, she'd found herself returning her attention to Hero, unable to believe that she was about to truly become his wife.
He was so amazingly handsome, now and in the church. The deep wine color of his frock coat enhanced his dark features, brought out the incredibly rich hue of his eyes. Her plants always reminded her of him, when she was watering them,it was at its most vibrant green. The light gray of his cravat gave him an air of nobility.
But now they were no longer in the church, no longer in need of concentrating on ceremony. They were free to give their undivided attention to each other. Yet here he was, glancing around as they traversed through the crowded streets as though he'd never before visited London.
After his courtship, and the time they'd spent together while she planned their wedding, she knew she should be accustomed to his penchant for staring off into space, but it always managed to unsettle her.
"Is it Eros?" she asked softly.
He jerked his head around, his brow deeply furrowed, something akin to fear in his eyes—which made absolutely no sense.
