Home > Finale : A North Security Novella (North Security #4.5)(5)

Finale : A North Security Novella (North Security #4.5)(5)
Author: Skye Warren

My mother picked out the wedding party. My father picked the venue.

And my new husband commissioned the dress.

“Shall we?” my father asks, his lips curved like we share an inside joke.

What would he say if I told him no?

I barely even know the man at the end of the aisle. Who is he? Who am I? I can’t do this. Don’t make me. He’d probably say I’m being hysterical.

And anyway, I’m not a child. I know my duty.

My family paid exorbitant sums of money in private schooling so that I could repay them in precisely this way—with an advantageous match.

“Lead the way,” I tell him with a wink.

It makes him chuckle. “That’s my girl. A Bradley at heart.”

We reach the entrance to the cathedral. The powerful organ reverberates through the floor. Every single person—man, woman, and child—stands and turns to face me. It would be so easy to flush. To let my heart pound out of my chest and the blood rush to my face.

Instead I lift my chin. I face them down with a calm expression. A Bradley at heart.

Only, I won’t be a Bradley for much longer. Fifteen minutes, give or take.

My father steps forward. I grip the sleeve of his tuxedo so tight he must feel it. He must feel my terror, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps walking, and so I do the only thing I can—I follow his lead. I float down the long carpet covered in rose petals.

At the end of the aisle, my groom waits for me.

Francisco Castille, the exiled Duke of Linares.

I suppose I should leave the “exiled” part off. It’s probably a touchy subject in his family. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met anyone on the right side of the church. They move in European high society, while my family has been strictly New York City upper crust. This will be a merger of more than two people. It will combine businesses and connections. And, above all, this wedding will save my family’s entire world. Our livelihood. Our reputation. And the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands of employees. So if my groom is as controlling as my brother warned, then that’s the price I’ll pay.

That is the price I’ve promised to pay.

Francisco wears a tuxedo, naturally.

Some men stand stiffly in them. He looks as if he was born in that tux. As comfortable as I might be in my favorite sweater and worn jeans. It’s the royalty in him, I suppose.

Black hair. Thick brows. A stern expression.

So far away. The cathedral has to be huge to fit the guest list. Walking closer is like coming into focus, seeing the brackets around his lips, the small slash in his eyebrow. A scar, perhaps. How did he hurt himself? I have no idea. We’re basically strangers.

We reach the end of the aisle.

My father moves my hand into Francisco’s grip.

Then we’re left alone, two of us standing in a sea of people. About to be married.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he murmurs.

Through the delicate satin of my glove, I feel his strength. His heat. It’s a comfort, even though I barely know him. I match his dry tone. “I heard someone’s getting hitched.”

His lips quirk. “A wedding, you say. Nothing too fancy.”

This from the man wearing a five-hundred-thousand-dollar watch. Though it might be an ordinary daily wear watch when you’re a duke. “I thought about dressing up, but then I thought, nah.”

His black eyes are molten. His gaze sweeps over me from head to toe. I have the sense he can pull back all the layers of lace and gauze and see me standing here naked in heels. “You look stunning,” he tells me, his voice intense. “Gorgeous. There are no words.”

“Is that why you proposed?” The question slips out. My mother sits only ten feet behind me. If she could hear me, she’d be horrified. It’s not a proper question, especially not as the priest delivers a sermon in a carrying voice. Something about obeying and honoring.

Francisco doesn’t appear shocked by my forwardness. “That’s part of the reason. You’re a beautiful woman. I desire you. Is the attraction mutual?”

The question is a knot in my throat. What would he do if I said no? Would he put a stop to the marriage? It’s a ludicrous idea as we stand in the middle of the ceremony.

Then again, in order to say no I’d have to lie.

He’s handsome in the tabloids. Distinguished in photos from ceremonies. He takes my breath away in person. It’s more than bone structure or tanned skin. It’s charisma. An inherent power that he holds as easily as my hand.

“I see,” he murmurs. Apparently my pause was answer enough.

“Would you have called the wedding off if I said no?”

He gives a small shake of his head. We’re barely moving our lips, barely moving at all. The people in the pews are too far away to see or hear us. We look like any engaged couple in breathless anticipation. “I want you too much for that. Why? Are you looking for an exit?”

I grant him a demure smile. “You are handsome. And rich. And titled. It did make me wonder why you wanted a wife you barely even know.”

Arranged marriages are common enough among our friends. They aren’t announced that way, but when two wealthy families join together, it’s often planned. It’s not like they randomly meet on Tinder. But the bride and groom do meet beforehand. They’ve known each other for years, usually. They can both object early and discreetly if it’s clear they won’t get along.

This? This doesn’t happen.

“I know what I want. That’s not going to change.”

“Not even if I snore?”

His lips quirk. “Do you?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never slept with anyone else.” As soon as the words are out I wish I could call them back. My cheeks heat. I didn’t intend to confess that to him—and certainly not in a church. Then again, maybe he thinks I meant sleeping.

The curiosity in his eyes proves otherwise. “Interesting.”

“You didn’t ask.” It’s a little much to assume that a young woman is a virgin in these modern times, but he’s technically royalty. If there’s been a request for verification of my virginity, my mother would have had the family doctor between my legs before I could blink.

“It wasn’t a requirement.”

The priest is becoming louder, and I sense that we’re getting close to our vows. Close to the moment when the plain gold band slides on to my finger, joining the five-carat diamond that was delivered by armed couriers six weeks ago. “What are the requirements then?”

“Honor and obey me.” There’s challenge in his eyes. He expects me to balk.

I’m considering it. His lineage may go back centuries, but I live in the twenty-first century. Women expect independence and autonomy. I expect those things, too.

Then again, I can hardly feign surprise. A man who wanted a modern marriage wouldn’t approach a woman with an offer that included a dollar amount.

No, I knew he’d be traditional.

And I was groomed to be the perfect society wife.

Francisco's expression turns intent. “You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

Do I? I thought so, but I have no time to ask. No voice left.

The priest’s voice booms between us. “Francisco Absolon Castille, will you have this woman to be your wife in holy matrimony? Will you comfort her, honor her, and keep her in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?”

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