My Groom Abandoned Me At The Altar — So I Married The City’s Most Feared Man Instead

Part 1

The lily smelled exactly like a funeral.

That was my very first thought when the clock in the cathedral finally struck the half hour.

The groom wasn’t simply running late or caught in traffic.

He was entirely gone.

In the suffocating, heavy heat of the massive cathedral, two hundred guests watched me standing rigidly at the high altar.

They were all waiting for the complete financial ruin of my family to become officially recognized.

I didn’t weep or allow a single tear to fall.

I merely calculated my extremely limited options.

My knees locked completely beneath the sheer, crushing weight of my heavily embroidered silk skirts.

If I bent them even a fraction, the massive amount of fabric would pull me straight down to the cold stone floor.

The intricate bodice of my expensive gown dug a slow, steady trench into my lower ribs with every breath.

Breathing itself required a conscious, painful effort that I could barely sustain.

A single drop of sweat traced a tortuous path down my jaw and vanished into the high, stiff lace collar at my throat.

Tyler was now thirty full minutes late.

Behind me, the massive congregation finally abandoned any polite pretense of respectful silence.

The initial low, insect-like hum had rapidly swelled into a steady, rhythmic buzzing of gossip.

Elaborate fans snapped open and fluttered furiously like panicked birds in the heavy July heat.

Heavy velvet pew cushions creaked loudly as the elite of London shifted their weight to exchange venomous, delighted whispers.

I stared straight ahead at the ancient, trembling vicar.

His elaborate vestments hung off his frail, bony shoulders like laundry left out on a line to dry.

He wouldn’t dare meet my eyes.

He just kept looking anxiously past me toward the heavy oak doors at the back of the nave.

Sheer force of will wasn’t going to magically conjure Tyler from the stifling summer air.

I knew it with a cold, settling certainty in the pit of my stomach.

Tyler was a man composed entirely of soft edges, nervous laughs, and a spine made of wet paper.

Liking my sharp wit was never going to be enough to weather the storm of marrying into my family’s staggering debts.

My father stood immediately to my left, breathing heavily through his open mouth and producing a faint whistling sound.

He smelled strongly of stale gin and panicked, desperate sweat.

His entire estate was liquid, poured down the throats of thoroughbred horses and dealt away on green-baize card tables over the last decade.

Tyler’s promised dowry settlement was the single only thing standing between my father and the grim debtor’s prison in Fleet.

A side door near the dark wooden choir stalls suddenly creaked open.

The vicar’s head snapped up with a desperate, pathetic eagerness.

My father let out a wheezing gasp of profound relief.

It wasn’t Tyler.

A young footman dressed in the Harrington livery scurried along the stone wall, keeping his head completely bowed.

He handed a folded piece of thick parchment to the vicar with trembling hands.

The massive church went completely, terrifyingly dead.

Two hundred people held their collective breath at the exact same moment.

The vicar slowly broke the heavy wax seal with a loud crinkle that echoed off the vaulted ceilings.

His face drained rapidly to the sickly color of old parchment.

He looked at my father, and then finally turned his terrified gaze to me.

I didn’t care anymore.

The vicar stammered out the devastating news that Tyler had taken a ship for the continent.

A collective gasp ripped through the cathedral like a sudden gust of wind.

An explosion of frantic, malicious whispering followed instantly on its heels.

My father stumbled backward, clutching his chest and leaning heavily on the wooden railing of the altar for support.

I simply stood there, absorbing the crushing physical weight of utter, inescapable ruin.

The merciless bailiffs would arrive by Tuesday morning at the absolute latest.

The butchers and bakers would stop delivering immediately.

My father would likely drink himself to death in a rented room in Cheapside before the year was out.

The vicar leaned over the rail and desperately suggested I step into the vestry to preserve my dignity.

Dignity felt like a useless, hollow, and completely absurd word in that moment.

I looked down at my expensive white silk dress, realizing it was essentially a highly decorated shroud.

I turned and walked steadily toward the antechamber without ever looking at the crowd.

The heavy silk dragging against the rough stone made a loud, abrasive scraping sound that filled the church.

Let them look and whisper all they wanted.

Pushing open the heavy door, I stepped directly into the cool, dusty darkness of the vestry.

The latch clicked shut securely, leaving me entirely alone with the smell of old paper and damp stone.

I dropped my ruined, sticky bouquet to the floor with a dull thud.

My trembling hands clumsily pried the pearl-tipped pins from my intricate veil.

One pin snagged my scalp hard enough to bring tears to my eyes, but I yanked it free anyway without hesitation.

The heavy, suffocating lace landed carelessly on a nearby wooden chair.

Gripping the edge of a heavy oak table, I leaned my weight against it to catch my breath.

The door banged open violently behind me.

I fully expected my father and his impending torrent of pathetic self-pity.

The man who stepped into the vestry was entirely too large and imposing for the small, confined room.

He wore a heavy, dark riding coat that was entirely inappropriate for a formal morning wedding.

His knee-high leather boots were heavily caked in dried mud.

I straightened my spine immediately.

Craig Rothbrook did not offer a single word of apology for the sudden intrusion.

He kicked the heavy door shut behind him with the solid heel of his boot.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in the tightly enclosed space.

His formidable reputation as a ruthless northern industrialist preceded him everywhere he went.

His face was composed of harsh angles and deep shadows, highlighted by a jagged scar cutting through his eyebrow.

His slate-gray eyes looked at me without a single trace of the suffocating pity I had endured out in the church.

He reached into his thick coat, flicked open a silver pocket watch, and noted the time aloud with zero emotion.

He calmly informed me that my father owed an astronomical sum to highly violent men who broke kneecaps.

By tomorrow morning, I would be a social pariah, and by next week, entirely destitute on the streets.

My knuckles turned pure white against the oak table as I processed his harsh, unforgiving truths.

Then, Craig looked me up and down with absolute, chilling pragmatism.

He flatly stated that he required a wife immediately to secure massive land patents before the fiscal quarter ended in three days.

He had zero time to court anyone and needed a woman who expected absolutely nothing in the way of romantic sentiment.

The solution was incredibly obvious to him.

If I walked out the door alone, my life was completely over.

If I walked out with him, my father’s debts would be entirely cleared by three o’clock this afternoon.

I would have a powerful title and never want for food or shelter for the rest of my natural life.

In return, I was simply to sign the register and travel north with him tonight.

My heart hammered a violent, frantic rhythm against my deeply bruised ribs.

I stared at his rough, calloused hands, realizing exactly what kind of devil’s bargain he was offering.