Page 10 of The Prince’s Wallflower Wife (The Wallflower Academy #4)

In the mouth of another man, it could have been a delightfully romantic thing to have said. In the mouth of the man she was about to marry, it was…matter of fact. Cold, even, as though he did not particularly mind which woman stood before him, as long as she came with sixty thousand pounds.

Do not be foolish , Daphne tried to tell herself as her father handed over her palm to rest on Christoph’s. You are not being tricked into this marriage; you know full well that is what he wants. Funds. Money. That is all.

‘Dearly beloved,’ said the vicar, appearing so rapidly, and seemingly from nowhere, that Daphne started, fingers tightening around Prince Christoph’s arm. ‘We are gathered together here, in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join this man and this woman…’

The words became a wash that soothed Daphne’s mind. She had heard the words before, after all, at Gwen’s wedding, at Rilla’s and at Sylvia’s, only about six months ago. They were what was said, there was nothing unique about them, and she knew so well the gentle rhythm.

‘I said, do you take this man…?’

Daphne started. The vicar’s voice had become aggrieved and apparently with good reason. Were they at the vows already? Surely not?

There was an awkward cough behind her. Someone muttered something, something she could not quite hear, and laughter rippled out from the jester.

The burning sensation was back. Daphne was certain that her face, neck and décolletage were blotching as she stood there, panicked, frozen, unsure how to unlock her jaw and say something—anything—let alone the right words that Prince Christoph needed her to say.

Prince Christoph.

Daphne forced herself to look up and meet his gaze. The intensity of his look made her lips part.

He was…just looking at her. Strange though it was, he was just looking. There was no anger at her hesitation. No exasperation. No bitterness, no rolling of the eyes or tutting.

Daphne had expected it, all of it. That was what people did around her, and it always made her want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

The rare times when her inside thoughts escaped, there was shaking of heads, hands raised to astonished mouths and mutters that ladies could not say such things.

But Prince Christoph, in his very best with gold buttons, epaulettes and a few medals on his chest, now Daphne came to look, was doing none of those things. He was looking with no judgement, no irritation, just a tenderness that she could feel as though he were the sun beaming down on her.

‘Take a breath,’ he murmured, his dark eyes never leaving hers.

Only then did Daphne realise her lungs had turned to stone. A desperate, long breath brought well-needed air into her lungs, and Prince Christoph squeezed her hands. Her hands… Since when had they been holding hands?

‘And another breath,’ Prince Christoph said quietly. ‘We’re not in any rush. You have to be sure.’

Be sure? Daphne desperately tried not to glance at her father, but she could not help it. There was a stony look on her father’s face. Lord Norbury in fact looked…resigned.

It was not a pleasant thing to notice. Oh, God, if that was how her father looked, then what about the rest of them—the hundreds of people who had come here to stare, watch her, watch her fail…?

‘Daphne, look at me.’

Almost unsure how she did it, Daphne dragged her focus from her father to Prince Christoph.

He had lowered his head slightly, bringing himself closer to her eye level, and there was a lilt of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

As though…as though he was not angry. As though he did not care that she was shaming him.

‘These are your vows, because you and no one else is making them,’ Prince Christoph said quietly. ‘Ignore them. Ignore all of them. Look at me. Do you trust me?’

She did. He was handsome. He was also kind.

That was what Daphne latched onto in this moment of panic: that this man was kind.

He saw the very best in her when perhaps she could see none of that herself.

He saw the truth in her, as well as the fear.

Warmth spread from her chest through to her fingers and toes, but it was not the scalding, unwelcome warmth of shyness or embarrassment.

It was something else. Something that strengthened, rather than pointed out her weaknesses.

Do you trust me?

Daphne did not waver in her focus, looking straight into Prince Christoph’s eyes. ‘I do.’

‘Finally,’ muttered the vicar, making her start.

She had almost forgotten he was there.

‘And do you, Christoph Augustus Heinrich Maximus Anton Philip von Auberheiser, take Daphne…?’

Of course her father had never given her a middle name. That would have made her more like his daughter, and he had never wanted to accept her when a child.

‘To be your wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy covenant of matrimony?

To have and to hold from his day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish and, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, for so long as you both shall live? ’

Daphne blinked, momentarily breaking the connection between Prince Christoph and her, but he did not waver nor hesitate.

‘I do.’

What was it about him that did it? she wondered, as they somehow managed to get through the rest of the vows. That stabilised her, gave her a solid ground to stand on that did not shift under her fluttering panic?

Perhaps it was his firm hold of her. Her hands were in his, the grip of his fingers entwined and tight, but not possessive. Perhaps it was his gaze, without judgement and without censure, that never let her go. Perhaps it was his calm, the way his breathing never shortened as she shamed him.

All she knew was that, for a few moments, it was just them. Just Prince Christoph, her and no one else. And it was wonderful. Nothing could interrupt this moment, as a rushing tingling swept over her skin.

‘I pronounce that you be husband and wife.’

Every muscle in Daphne’s body stiffened and her instincts overcame her, her hand flinching away from Prince Christoph’s touch to return to the safety of her side.

Except it didn’t. His grip was soft, but firm. She was unable to withdraw her hand from his, and for a moment, just a moment, he smiled.

Daphne’s pulse skipped a beat. The tingling sensation suddenly heightened, as though a gentle breeze was blowing over every inch of her skin, and she wanted to lean forward—why, she did not know—to be closer to him, so much closer so that she could…

Prince Christoph looked away and nodded curtly at someone behind her.

Turning round, Daphne saw with no surprise that it was her father who returned the nod.

Because this was a transaction, she reminded herself.

This was a bargain, an agreement made between men.

She was an asset, handed from one man to another.

That was all. This was not a love match.

This was something far more clinical, far colder.

Her friends might have had the love stories, but that was not going to be Daphne’s tale.

When she looked up at Prince Christoph, it was to see the shutters come down on his eyes and the distance somehow appear behind them once again.

‘Shall we depart?’ he said quietly.

Daphne blinked. There was usually a sermon after a wedding…

‘Princess Daphne,’ her husband said in a low, proud voice. ‘Are you ready to depart?’

Her mouth was dry when she spoke, and her voice was but a whisper, but she managed it. ‘If you wish it, my lord.’