His thumb rubbed her bottom lip, and his eyes flared.
“Hello, wife.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Thorn arrived at the church door at six o’clock the next morning. The door was locked, and the village square was hushed and silent. The only sign of life came from the bakery across the square. Since there were no benches he took a seat on a gravestone, and waited.
He had never been one to ride to the hounds. But that was because he saw no point in chasing after animals, when the world of humans was so predatory. Now his entire body was poised for the hunt, waiting for the moment when either the vicar or India would appear. Either one.
But no one came. After some time, the baker’s door opened, signaling that fresh bread was available. As if on cue, villagers began to appear, greeting each other as they headed across the square for a fresh loaf. A few of them glanced at him, sitting with his arms folded, but they said nothing.
Thorn was quite certain that neither his dour expression nor his battered face was welcoming. Moreover, by now his instincts were starting to tell him that something was wrong. If he were Vander, he would take India to the church first thing in the morning.
Unless they were still in bed. Unless . . . His jaw clenched again. If India and Vander were truly together, and India was happy, he would leave. He would probably leave England altogether.
It could be that his father had made a mistake. They had traveled to some other town, which is why he’d been unable to find mention of them at the inns.
As he considered what to do next, two women trotted toward the church across the square. Just as they came by him, one said, “If the groom is handing out shillings, I want to be there. Walk a little faster, woman!” They disappeared down the street to the right of the church.
His mind went blank. It seemed he was too late. He walked after the women and discovered that there was a small chapel attached to the parish house. Three or four chattering villagers were walking away from the door, looking with satisfaction at the coins they held in their hands.
He stopped the same woman who had rushed past him a moment ago. “Have I missed the wedding?”
“Yes, sir, you have,” she said cheerfully. “Friends of yours? What a shame. And I’m sure they would have liked to have you with them, as my husband had to act as one of the witnesses.” She jerked her head toward the chapel. “Go right in, sir. They’re signing the book in the back, but they’ll be out in a moment.”
Thorn followed her gaze. Opposite the chapel was his own damned carriage.
He was too late.
He was too late, and it was his own damned fault. Why hadn’t he realized that he’d never felt lust like that before—which meant it wasn’t just lust? He wanted her, all of her, from the tips of India’s toes to all that gorgeous hair.
Now he would never wake up next to her, roll over, take her sleepy mouth. He would never hold their first child, born in wedlock or not.
The thought nearly drove him to his knees, there in an unfamiliar village where it was starting to drizzle. He had never felt despair like this before—not when he was a mudlark, not when he learned his mother had died without ever returning for him . . . never.
One foot followed another to the door of the chapel. He would see her once more, and after that he would leave the country. Vander would understand. Vander would know precisely what Thorn had lost.
As he reached the door, a flock of people emerged: the vicar, the sexton, a parishioner, another parishioner . . .
The bride.
Chapter Thirty-three
Lala had never been so happy in her life. In fact, she was fairly sure that she’d never had any idea what joy was, because anything she’d experienced to this point had been a pale, sickly imitation.