Wicked Becomes You Read Online Free PDF Page B

Thomas’s elbow, Mr. Shrimpton, the best man, was now frowning. Her heart quickened. The oddity of this pause was not in her imagination, then.
    The minister cleared his throat. “Sir?”
    A faint wheeze whistled through Thomas’s nose.
    Heavens above. The flowers . Of course! They must have been affecting him, too.
    She sent a pleading glance to the minister. Give him a chance to breathe , she willed him.
    The minister, ignoring her, sent a puzzled look toward the best man.
    Mr. Shrimpton’s shoulders squared. He stepped forward, shoes squeaking in the pin-drop silence, to lean near Thomas’s ear.
    He spoke too softly for Gwen to hear, but Thomas closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his throat working in an effort to swallow. Oh, the poor man! How awful for him! Would he faint?
    A whisper rose from the audience. Her heartbeat escalating, Gwen directed a bright smile toward the crowd. It’s all fine , she thought. Should she say it aloud? Really, it’s nothing. Only the flowers.
    An abortive movement yanked her attention back to Thomas. His shoulders jerked, and she almost laughed from relief. Goodness, he was only gathering himself to speak, overcoming a brief bout of allergies. What an amusing story this would be to tell at dinner parties! We were both battling a sneeze, you see . . .
    Then she realized the source of his movement: the best man had planted his fist in Thomas’s back.
    This isn’t happening .
    Over Thomas’s shoulder, Henry Shrimpton flashed her a panicked, horrified look. “Say it,” he whispered to Thomas.
    I am dreaming.
    “Sir,” said the minister.
    I will wake now.
    “Speak,” Mr. Shrimpton hissed.
    Thomas made a choking noise.
    “Nicest girl in town,” someone murmured, and something cold welled up in the pit of Gwen’s stomach. A million times she had heard herself described so, but never in a voice full of pity.
    She looked out to the crowd, but it was impossible to find the source of the remark. All of a sudden, a great many other people were whispering, too, their soft remarks and speculative rustling blending into a mounting hum.
    Good heavens. Gwen swallowed. She recognized this noise in her bones—had encountered it in her nightmares—but she’d never thought to hear it in truth. Not this time. Not when the groom had actually shown up!
    She glanced back to Thomas. “Sir,” she whispered. “They—they think that you’re—”
    But her throat closed. A chill danced over her spine. She could not finish that statement. She could not put it into words. Surely he must know what they thought!
    He gave her a desperate, pop-eyed look. She could not interpret it. She shook her head—helplessly, frantically.
    His bloodshot eyes rolled again toward the crowd.
    What was he looking at? She tracked his stare but could see nothing remarkable, save a sea of gaping mouths that sharpened and dimmed in time to the roar in her head. Her eye landed on the second-to-last row, and the sight of four brown heads, the Ramseys, briefly penetrated her panic—Caroline hiding her face against Belinda’s neck; Belinda, bright red, twisting away to speak into her husband’s ear (oh, she had no patience for shenanigans, she would not forgive Thomas for this); Lord Weston scowling; and in the aisle seat, Alex, lifting his hand to disguise a yawn.
    The sight jolted her. Alex was back in London?
    He was yawning ?
    Was he bored by this?
    Their eyes met. His hand dropped. He gave her a slight, one-shouldered shrug, as if to say, What of it?
    Her thoughts jumbled. Did he mean that gesture to be comforting?
    Why, no, he did not. He simply looked sleepy . Did nothing surprise him? Her brother had always claimed so. Unaccountably, Richard had loved him precisely for that—his unflappable, inhuman cool.
    He transferred his gaze to Thomas. His mouth curled.
    She drew a startled breath. The sight of his scorn acted like ice water on her sleeping wits. Because—really, why shouldn’t he sneer? The buzz was