Storm Reawakened

The Wedding Part 2

I don't know why I'm surprised. I should have expected this, but Eli and I never discussed how to evade displaying such a bold act of affection in front of the hundreds of guests present.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest repeated, watching us intently.

Hawthorne's eyes steadily hold mine, merely raising a questioning brow as he waits for me to consent. I blink aimlessly, trying to grasp onto my reasoning and step closer.

It's just a kiss. What could possibly go wrong?

Raising my head slightly in acquiescence, Hawthorne lowers his and we're slowly angling towards each other, warm breaths colliding as the crowd follows every moment with rapt attention and agony—some rise out of their seats to catch a better view, an awkward cough, a regretful sniffle, and excited squeals sprinkle the air but it's of little consequence to us. Eli and I remain locked on each other.

Everything apparently can go wrong because the instant our lips connect, I feel myself and the world dissolving. It's slow and innocent at first, yet when my eyes close of their own accord, a hand clenches against my waist and the kiss deepens creating a surge that explodes at my centre.

There's actual need. Real want in this kiss and I'm immediately reminded of our morning exchange when our bodies were pressed together, inflamed annoyance and sexual tension rife in the air.

I swallow back a moan and it's only the cheer that erupts from onlookers and the priest's applause that brings us both back to the present and wakes us from a physical reverie. Eli and I pull apart, glancing away awkwardly to catch our breaths.

Even as we reconnect, my hand resting on my husband's arm as he guides me against a train of spectators who congratulate us, there's still ripples that remain from that sudden surge. Rice and flower petals are thrown at us as we walk back towards the manor, but all I'm hyper aware of is the heat that still lingers on my swollen lips.

Damn the man. The beautiful bastard is making me feel like a Victorian virgin. I need to get it together. It's just a kiss for goodness sake.

The doors glide shut with a flourish and we're both grateful for the chance to peel free from each other—neither one of us says a word and I willingly allow Arin and Ellis to guide me into a dressing room where they undo the wedding dress and make quick work of my reception gown.

An off-the-shoulder flowing dress in sage green with beading lace, Arin and Ellis set it into place and undo the pinnings of my hair and brush it half up with a few stray tendrils framing my face. Matching beads stretch across the divide line of hair placed upward to adorn the back of my head and a matching fan is placed into my palms.

The dress reveals more skin than I've ever exposed before with short sleeves and is nearly backless, but with Evara's beauty and glowing skin, it turns her amethyst eyes into real jewels and her figure one of pure envy.

In other words, I look good.

Really good.

Narcissus would be so proud as I twirl and admire myself in a full length mirror, more strands of hair coming undone which sets the maids fretting over my appearance.

"Duchess! Please!" cried Ellis while Arin giggles.

"Oh just this once. I'm going to be bored and miserable at the reception. Let me enjoy this."

"But the Duke will be there! Surely you two will dance! Oh it'll be so romantic!"

"Dance?" I asked, blanching at the thought. Do I pity myself or Eli Hawthorne's toes?

Arin gleams, a bright smile on her face. "Don't worry, my lady. We've selected an excellent pair of dancing slippers for you. Considering the full length of the dress, hardly anyone will notice."

Telling that to a city girl whose last 'dance' was at a club when she was nineteen and waddling like a duck to the beat doesn't help much. I did 50 Cent zero justice.

Without saying a word, I slip into the shoes and leave the bedroom with a guard slowly trailing behind. Arriving to the massive gilt doors of the ballroom, the sound of music floats through on the other side while the heavy scent of fresh flowers transforms the air.

Signalling to the guards stationed up front, they bow once before pulling the doors aside and I descend the lengthy stairs without so much as stopping—I sense them. The stares, the curious looks, and evident disdain.

Arriving at the last step, I finally lift my head and meet Evara's enemies head on with a placid smile—my shield for the night.

To my astonishment, the women glare or sniff in quick appreciation while the men simply ogle. Yet before my brain can even process what my next move will be, a throng of men rush towards me, all vying to fill my dance card.

"Duchess! May I have the first dance?"

"What? I won our wager, I should get the first dance!"

"You're both behaving like absolute cads! Of course she'll choose a true gentleman to dance with. Shall we, Duchess?"

"No! Me!"

"No, none of you should."

"Oh, go flirt with one of the sad misses hiding in a corner somewhere!"

"And why should I have to entertain a pathetic wallflower?"

Blinking, I take a cautionary step back as they lean in closer with desire and expectation but the hand that firmly plants itself against my back sends a trill of heat up my spine.

Turning, I find Hawthorne silently glaring at them as his orbs shine more dangerously ominous than ever. "Wife. I believe, you owe me the first dance?" he asked quietly, punctuating his words in a way that makes the group of men flinch.

Sighing, I shake my head and delicately place my hand on Hawthorne's arm. "Of course, Duke."

The man better have prayed for his toes.