So...in honor of all things nuptial (just in case you have not had quite enough of weddings and British nobility)...here's another.
It's a continuation from my March 6 Six Sentence Sunday snippet from one of my gazillion WIPs, Lilacs of Dawn.
You may remember (well, of course you don't, that's why I've handily provided the date!) very briefly meeting Marc Antony Warren, Viscount Webb (who has a great deal in common with Healing Heart's Adam, actually), who was on a secret mission in France the night before his wedding. As he's shot, he falls unconscious to the ground, clutching his bride-to-be's garter.
Some of you guessed he'd make it to the wedding the next morning. Some of you guessed right. More or less.
Sabrina's fingers bit into Chase's forearm, her legs turning to water as she gazed down the flower-strewn aisle and saw her tall, handsome, impossible bridegroom standing at the altar with his brother, magnificent in his wedding clothes.
Her foreboding returned full blast as she noted the odd pallor washing the color from Webb's grim face, his awkward, unnaturally stiff posture.
He does not want to be here.
"He loves you, Sabrina," Chase whispered, as if guessing her thoughts.
But Webb did not resemble a man in love or a bridegroom eager to be wed.
He looked. . . foxed!
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