The Dark Affair by Máire Claremont

giving her an exaggerated once-over. At her height, to kiss her thus, he would need to pick her up . . . or find a stool.
    At the very thought of kissing her, his brain melted, tumbling back to that kiss while he’d been strapped to his bed. It had been the most chaste kiss outside of his married life, but the fire that had laced through him had been wilder and more demanding than anything he’d ever experienced. He was determined to blame the morphine and not the woman who had leaned over and taken his lips with such trepidation.
    “My lord? Are you well?”
    “And wouldn’t you love it if I weren’t?”
    “That is hardly the case—”
    He waved a hand and then began a slightly slower walk toward their mutual unhappiness.
    The church was entirely empty except for his father trailing behind and the good bishop who waited at the altar, his hands fervently clasped around the book of prayer. Given the lack of bodies to absorb sound, their steps clattered over the green and pink marble stone. Each slap of the foot was a harsh little smack of ill portent.
    His last marriage had been so different. He’d married at St. Paul’s. The cathedral had been so full of people that they had spilled into the wings, and—
    He shoved the memory aside. He couldn’t afford to think on the past. Or else he would swiftly be heading back to St. Giles. And that, for now, he couldn’t have.
    After what seemed forever, they arrived before the wrinkled old bishop. The bishop didn’t smile. Instead he seemed a grim old fellow who knew he was marrying a madman to a Catholic. But with the promise of a new pension, the bishop had presumably become amenable to the swiftness and unusual circumstances of such a union. James’s father did have a convincing way about him.
    The ceremony began, and as the old man droned, James began to sweat. It was most disconcerting. He was always so composed. He’d been completely composed just moments before, happily tormenting his wife-to-be. Now? Now his skin itched and his stomach jerked within him, vying for escape either through his throat or his abdomen.
    He heard the vows through a mist of nausea. He shook his head, trying for clarity, but panic was setting in and his hands began to tremble. What was happening to him? Sweat moistened the palms inside his gloves, and he felt a strange urge to peel the fabric back and wipe his hands on his trousers. A most indecorous thing to contemplate.
    “I do.” He looked about, trying to see who had spoken in that shaky tone, and then he realized it was he who had vowed to keep Lady Margaret until death they did part.
    Death . . . He swallowed. He’d known so much death. Death was a part of his existence. Perhaps his soul had been consumed by it, for he was certain that his soul was nothing more than a black lump somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.
    “My lord?” the bishop inquired.
    James swung his attention up from the floor to the old man. “Mm?”
    The bishop folded his hands over the leather-bound, gold-embossed book and smiled carefully. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
    The fatal words echoed through the church, as if somehow they could be sent directly up to God. James lifted his chin and stared up at the soaring dome above his head. As he attempted to take in the gold-winged, ruby-gowned angels hovering over his head, the air around him grew hot, his vision grew splotchy, and he staggered forward.
    Hands, firm yet small, latched on to him. “My lord?”
    Lovely voice. Such a beautiful voice. A voice meant for sin and salvation. Christ. What was wrong with him?
    “When was the last time you took morphine?” that lilting voice asked urgently.
    He narrowed his gaze, his facial muscles suddenly very apparent in their movements, and he scowled. “Hours ago. I am not under the influence—”
    Voices buzzed around him, and he longed to swat at them. He also longed to fall to the stone floor and press his naked skin to the chill marble. How