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Stephen realized with horror that his mouth had dried up, and his chest continued to tighten, the familiar sensation of arousal coiling in his gut.

Beatrice was looking around the church a trifle nervously, her eyes blinking rapidly behind her spectacles. He suddenly found himself glad that she hadn’t removed them. She suited the spectacles, in his opinion.

At long last, almost with a tangible effort, she met his gaze and held it.

He blinked, hoping that his customary composure had not deserted him. As far as he could tell, it had not. She eyed him anxiously, clearly trying to search for some emotion on his face, but she did not find it.

They reached the top of the aisle, and her father—misty-eyed, the old fool—unwound his arm from hers and kissed her on the cheek. Then he limped to the front pew, where his wife sat waiting for him.

Then it was just Stephen and Beatrice, side by side at the altar, staring at each other.

“You look very pretty,” Stephen heard himself say. Perhaps the greatest understatement of the year.

Beatrice bit her lip. “People are staring like they did when I wore the other gown.”

He allowed himself a tight smile. “I think they are staring for a different reason, this time.”

She didn’t believe him, he could see it in her eyes. Still, that was not his problem.

The vicar suddenly cleared his throat and launched into the usual spiel.

Stephen was vaguely aware of people whispering and shifting in the pews, clearly wondering if some drama would break outand end this wedding, just like before. He had a brief vision of Cornelia storming in, rouge smeared on her cheeks and tears streaming down her face, but he dismissed it immediately. She would never dare to do that.

“Beatrice Haversham, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

He flinched, suddenly aware that the vows were taking place.

“I do,” Beatrice responded, her voice admirably even.

“And do you, Stephen Walford, Duke of Blackwood, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. I do.”

The vicar let out what might have been a tiny sigh of relief. “Then I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

With an irritated flinch, Stephen recollected that he had not mentioned to the vicar that he did not want to have the call to kiss his new bride at the end of the vows. Kissing a woman—any woman—in front of a crowd was not his idea of romance.

Still, it was happening now, and he was going to have to go along with it.

Turning to face Beatrice, Stephen flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Her face was tilted up to him, trepidation and anxiety written all over it.

I will make it quick,he promised himself and her and then bent down to fit his lips to hers.

It felt… it felt different from any kiss he had ever shared.

Stephen had shared plenty of kisses in his time, some pleasant, some less so, but this one was something else.

For one thing, he could have sworn that fireworks shot across his skin from where Beatrice’s soft lips touched his—which was not a comfortable sensation, but also not a terrible one. She gave a little surprised gasp, which was muffled by his mouth, sending a shiver down his spine.

What was more, the arousal that had stirred deep in his gut at the sight of her in that frankly marvelous dress suddenly woke up with a roar, hungry—no, ravenous—and filling him withwanting. Desire stabbed at him, urging him totake, to make herhistruly and undeniably.

Her.He wanted her, more powerfully than he could ever remember wanting anyone, with her snide remarks and her fearless stare and her cool, logical mind, and those fascinating curves of hers. He tilted his head just a little, deepening the kiss.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny voice reminded him that he was in a church, with half of London watching.

With an effort, he abruptly pulled back, careful not to look down at Beatrice’s bewildered face.

The congregation broke into applause, and he tried in vain to catch his breath.