Leslie LaFoy by Come What May Read Free Book Online Page B

slightest social censure often produce financial disasters of great proportion. Since we're to be shackled to oneanother until such time as your uncle cancels the note of credit, it behooves us to have a clear understanding of expectations.”
    “I'm to conduct myself as a proper lady at all times,” she said evenly, her gaze locked with his. “That much has been made abundantly clear. What might I expect of you, Mr. Rivard?”
    Devon gave her a half-smile. “That I'll conduct myself as a gentleman.”
    Her brow arched slightly as she clasped her hands demurely before her. “Am I permitted to observe that your role in this farce grants you a latitude of conduct far greater than mine?”
    “You may indeed,” he answered, deciding that he could bear being married to Claire Curran if she were to maintain the temperament she now displayed. If such were the case, he could afford to meet her halfway. “I assure you that I'll take reasonable care to be discreet.”
    She nodded and stared down at the floor at her feet. After a moment she softly said, “How civilized of you.”
    “Very.”
    Her gaze came up ever so slowly to meet his. Her eyes were beautiful … sparkling sapphires and diamonds … and he heard himself seize a deep breath at the sight. Only as the smile curved her lips did Devon realize that until that instant he hadn't seen Claire Curran truly angry.



C HAPTER F IVE

ROM THE INSTANT he'd filled the doorway of Edmund Cantrell's office, Claire had known that Devon Rivard possessed an uncommon strength, a force of will wholly unlike that of other men. She was wrapped in it as she stood beside him, feeling tiny and frail and consumed by a sense of mortal dread that seemed to have taken up permanent residence deep in her soul. For the first time in her life she half doubted her ability to overcome an obstacle thrown across her path. The possibility oddly both chilled her to the center of her bones and warmed her blood.
    Claire tried to still the trembling of her hands by focusing her attention on the others around her. Edmund Cantrell stood on her left, still holding the documents she and Devon Rivard had authored and signed before the ceremony had begun. On Devon's right stood his brother, Wyndom, shifting restlessly and casting sidelong glances at her. He wasn't anything at all like Devon. Short and slight and blond and exceedinglynervous. He reminded her of some of the tiny, exotic birds she'd seen during the dozen or so trips she'd made to the Caribbean for her uncle.
    The vicar was a portly, almost bald older man whose eyes clouded with pity whenever he happened to glance her way. Which thankfully wasn't very often. Pity only made the dread harder and colder and ever so much more paralyzing. She should have run when she'd had the chance in the tavern courtyard. Or bolted out the door of the parsonage in that moment when Devon Rivard had released his hold on her arm so that he could sign Cantrell's papers. But she hadn't. She'd foolishly stood her ground every time, for the sake of dignity. Not that dignity had done anything to help her escape or even delay her fate. Had she had her wits about her, she'd have demanded the moon and stars in exchange for her participation in this farce. Instead she'd settled for the hope of getting Crossbridge back. She was a mouse. A pathetic, timid, quivering little mouse.
    “Mistress Curran?”
    She started, instantly noting the quick, nervous glance the vicar cast at the man standing beside her.
    Rivard didn't so much as turn to look at her as he quietly commanded, “Say ‘I do.’ ”
    Oh, how she wanted to say “I don't. I won't ever.” How desperately she wanted to pick up her skirts, turn, and haughtily walk way. Only she had nowhere to go and no way to get there. And Hell's Hound would only come after her and drag her back.
    “I do,” she said, grateful that at least the words hadn't come out in a mousy squeak. The vicar swallowed hard and gave her another