Page 115 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

She didn't care.

She had her impossible man. And she was never letting go.

Chapter thirty

Becoming Mrs Carrick

Florence

Three days after Carrick's arrest, Florence stood in the parlour of the Raines residence and prepared to marry her husband.

Again.

The room was smaller than any Society wedding demanded. The wallpaper was faded, the furniture mismatched, the carpet worn thin in places. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light across the assembled guests.

It was perfect.

Sylvia had transformed the space with hothouse flowers and gas lamps. White roses climbed the mantelpiece. Garlands of ivy draped the windows. The scent of lavender hung in the air, mingling with the wood smoke and the faint medicinal smell that never quite left a building that had once been a brothel and was now a women's health centre.

Florence smoothed the front of her dress, a simple cream silk that Dahlia had produced from somewhere, altered to fit her in the space of two days. No veil. No orange blossoms. Just Florence, as she was.

"Nervous?"

Sylvia appeared at her elbow, her sharp eyes soft and warm.

"Terrified."

Sylvia patted Florence’s shoulder gently and adjusted a fold of her skirt. "I'd changed my mind three times before breakfast on my wedding day." Sylvia smiled. "Best decision I ever made to go through with it."

A knock at the door. Dahlia's head appeared.

"They're ready for you."

Florence drew a breath. Then another.

"How do I look?"

"Like a woman in love with the second best man I’ve known," Sylvia said. "Now go before Matthew marches in here to carry you out."

The parlour had been arranged with chairs on either side of a narrow aisle. Not many chairs, there wasn't room for many, but every one was filled.

Florence paused at the threshold, taking it in.

On the left side was the Society. Her brother sat in the front row, his posture rigid, each strand of his hair arranged with the utmost precision. Beside him sat Viscount Rochford and Adeline. The Lockwoods were behind them. Julian Cassidy had positioned his wheeled chair at the end of the row, Clair radiant beside him.

On the right side were fighters. Brennan took up nearly two spaces, his massive frame squeezed into a coat that looked ready to split at the seams. Tam sat beside him, his beard tames for once, looking profoundly uncomfortable in his borrowed cravat. Duff was there, gap toothed grin already spreading across his ruddy face. The other men from the Hollow filled the remaining seats: giants and brawlers, their hands scarred from fists and rope, their necks straining against unfamiliar collars.

Two worlds. United in this faded parlour for this unlikely wedding.

And at the front of the room, standing before the minister, was Matthew.

Time seemed to stop.

He wore a simple dark suit, not the fine tailoring of Carrick's household, but humbler. It suited him. His hair was tied back. His stubble was trimmed. The bruises from the fight had faded to yellow and green, and the cut above his eye was healing.

He looked nervous. In fact, he looked like he might bolt.

Their eyes met.