Bride Behind the Mask

Chapter 3: Wedding Fireworks (Part 2 of 2)

Chapter 3: Wedding Fireworks (Part 2 of 2)

The Great Hall of Steersberg Manor brimmed with the merriment and lively chatter of servants, townspeople and friends from Steersberg's neighbouring estates. They cheered, danced and drank to the minstrels' performances, the little episode from the morning ceremony already slipping from their wine-intoxicated minds. So long as their bellies were filled and the music continued to play, Lady Amelia's extraordinary demeanour was the business of the lord of Steersberg, not theirs.

At the head table, Amelia sat quietly next to Drake, barely touching her food. If one didn't know better, they might have thought her a shy maiden nervous about her wedding night.

The awkward silence between them had stretched morning to night, through their wedding feast and celebrations. Not a word had passed between them since Drake growled "You bitch" after her hand had connected with his cheek in the most... ungentle way.

Song after song, Amelia peeked at him out of the corner of her eyes. Her curious gaze traversed over the blackness of his short, wavy hair, his straight nose, and the slight curve of his lips, down to the wide expanse of his chest and thick sinewy arms, their shapes just visible beneath his silken shirt. Was this how a handsome man looked?

Marge was right; he had a nice smile. Yet the one he wore now did not touch his eyes. For that, she was guilty.

Secretly, she cared not for bows and curtsies. She only wanted to irritate Drake so he would send her back to Marlborough. But striking him—or anyone for that matter—was never part of the plan. It was the way that woman in red looked at him, the way he looked back at her, and the way she touched him... They made her angry.

She was the daughter of a duke, the new Emira of Steersberg. Though she did not want this marriage, he could not shame her by publicly displaying his affections for another. A nagging voice at the back of her mind kept telling her that 'shame' may not have been the real reason for her outburst. What a silly voice. What else could it be?

As if sensing her ogling, Drake broke the silence. "Care for a dance, Amelia?" He extended a hand to her in invitation and his voice was gentle. Gentle with an undisguised trace of weariness.

Amelia stared at his hand for a long minute, as if his fingers were the claws of a sea monster. No, she might be his wife in name, but she refused to be any more than that. She shook her head.

"Drake," the woman in red called to him from her seat just below the dais. Amelia glanced up to see her curling a finger to beckon him forth. Was the woman giggling and blushing from wine? Or from the whispers of men that leant in close to her? Or from the sight of Drake? It was hard to tell.

Unlike the dispassionate, polite invitation he'd extended a bare minute ago, Drake responded to Isabella with an easy smile and descended the raised platform of the dais to meet her. "Lady Isabella," he greeted, laying a hand on her shoulder as if intimate touches like such were as natural as the air they breathed.

As soon as Isabella rose from her seat, she stumbled—into his arms. He righted the giggling girl but did not push her away. Instead, he slid his hand to the small of her back and led her to the space in the centre of the hall.

Soon, Drake and Isabella were turning, dipping and spinning in tune to the music, the skirt of her red gown swirling about her feet with every graceful move of her hips and legs. What a scene to behold. With the exception of a few, all attention in the room were drawn to them—the tall handsome lord and the alluring dark beauty. They were a match made in heaven, unlike...

A sudden taste of bitterness rushed to Amelia's tongue as she admired them. Isabella was the sort of lady she never was and never could be. The sort that walked and spoke properly like a proper lady. The sort that could sing, dance and probably sew. The sort that people praised and adored. The sort that made a perfect mistress of an estate, without the pompousness of the noblewomen in Lyons.