My fingernails are cutting half-moons into the flesh of Alden’s palms. I can feel the concern radiating off him in waves. I can’t blame him — it’s all I can do not to bolt, and I’m certain he knows it.
I lock my knees together to keep still as the archbishop begins the ceremony in earnest.
“We are gathered here today in the presence of God and Country to bear witness to the union of Her Royal Highness Emilia Victoria Lancaster and Lord Alden Nottingham Sterling, in the holy covenant of matrimony.”
I sway a bit.
Alden’s grip tightens on mine.
“O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, giver of all spiritual grace, author of everlasting life: send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy name; that, living faithfully together, they may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made, whereof this ring given and received is a token and pledge; and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to thy laws; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
Don’t think.
But it’s not working. Not anymore. My thoughts race like a marathon running, circling through my head too rapidly to track.
The archbishop sucks in a deep breath, his voice booming out over the crowd. “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. The most honorable state of holy matrimony is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly — but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, and solemnly. Into this holy estate, these two persons present now come to be joined.”
I think my heart might rip its way right out of my chest.
Thump-thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump.
“If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together,” the archbishop continues. “Let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
Alden is staring at me. I see the moment he realizes what I’m about to do. The heartbreaking awareness that the woman he loves does not, in fact, love him back. That she is about to break his heart on a massive scale, with the entire world bearing witness.
“Emilia,” he pleads lowly. “Don’t.”
But I must.
I have no choice.
I thought I could do this — for my country. For my crown. Yet it seems I cannot.
My lips part, the objection poised on them. My throat clears lightly. “I—”
“I OBJECT!”
The male voice swallows mine, shattering the silence of the church. A gasp goes up, the crowd stunned someone would dare interrupt the royal wedding.
Heart in my throat, I turn to face the man striding down the aisle. His booted feet swallow its length in determined strides, closing the distance between us in mere seconds.
I think, in that prolonged instant before he reaches me, the whole world ceases to turn. The very atmosphere holds its breath in anticipation. The church is frozen, a tableau of shock and fascination.
Who is this man, come to claim our queen?
But when he reaches the altar, halting at the base of the steps, I find myself asking that same question. For this is a man I have never seen before. At least… not in person.
It takes me a moment to recognize him. To look away from the scarred flesh marring the left side of his face long enough to examine the familiar planes of the right.