Page 20 of The Spare

Oh, Jesus.

He looks down at my chest and then back up to my face, biting his lip as he smirks at me. It’s so completely inappropriate and so Benedict that I can’t resist smiling.

‘Gorgeous,’ he whispers. ‘You okay?’

I nod. He really does have an incredibly attractive mouth. ‘You?’

‘I am now.’ Another pointed eye-fuck of my breasts, which I have to say look pretty great in my stunning Dior corsetry, and a comical raise of one eyebrow. I resist the urge to giggle. The bishop is right here.

Maybe Benedict isn’t the worst person to be doing this with. He certainly knows how to lighten the mood. An image of Xavier, uptight as hell and socially awkward, flashes into my head. That would have been brutal.

‘Dearly beloved,’ Bishop Faulkner intones, ‘we are gathered here today…’

Oh, holy hell.

This is happening.

The beauty of an elite education and the kind of upbringing I’ve had is that they allow you to present the perfect front when, inside, absolute chaos is reigning. On the outside, I’m Margaret Thatcher-level implacable; on the inside—well, it’s like a toddler being let loose on the family china. But perception is reality, so I lean into the centuries-old prose of the Church of England wedding rites, as comforting as they are turgid.

At least the de Veres ditched Catholicism half a millennium ago. That would be far longer and more painful than this is.

Hymns are sung, the congregation tackling—and, in some distinct cases, butchering—them with gusto. They’re rousing if pitchy. There’s always someone who goes for the wrong octave—or indeed, the wrong key—and regrets it as the verse soars, or someone who is flat-out tone deaf.

Then it’s time to say our vows. Given that we’re being married by a bishop in an ancient cathedral, and given that we don’t actually love (or truly know) each other, we’re going by the book.

Benedict takes my right hand. He won’t know or care that I hired Sophia Ritchie’s wedding manicurist to do my nails—men never notice these things—but I’m beyond happy with how soft my hands are, how expertly shaped and painted the creamy ovals are.

‘I, Benedict John Edward de Vere,’ he says, following the bishop’s lead, ‘take you, Selena Grace Wentworth, to be my wife.’ His thumb brushes over my (beautifully exfoliated) knuckles as he says the words, and his eyes don’t leave mine. That gravitas I spotted as I walked up the aisle is back. I realise he has to give this congregation the performance of a lifetime, but holy hell, is he plausible. I’m having an out-of-body experience just watching him, listening to him speak vows as old as time.

To me.

I have a sudden and extremely unchristian thought: I wonder how many of my peers and so-called friends in the congregation want to stab my eyes out right now, or how many are desperately calculating how to land Xavier.

Just wait until they find out that Benedict is inheriting the title.

Focus, Selena.

‘To have and to hold from this day forward,’ the bishop intones. We are totally winging this. For obvious reasons, there was no rehearsal yesterday. Instead, we did a Zoom with the bishop, who talked us through the proceedings.

‘To have and to hold from this day forward.’ I could swear Benedict emphasises the hold. Cheeky bastard.

I press my lips together to hide my smile, and he spots it, flashing me a quick grin of his own. Before I know it, his vows are finished, and I’m saying my own. I keep my head up and my voice loud and clear. God knows, there are two of us involved in this charade. Benedict may have publicly declared his love for me, but I said yes. I allegedly threw my fiancé over in response to his brother’s impassioned plea, so I’d better milk this for all it’s worth.

Besides, approaching this as a performance is the only way I know to survive it. If I consider that I’m actually making lifelong vows, I may crumple to the floor in a very expensive pile of lace and diamonds.

‘To love and to cherish,’ I tell Benedict, ‘until death do us part.’ His hand feels warm in mine: warm and solid and reassuring. He has nice hands. Nice fingers—long and elegant.

Selena Wentworth. Do not go there.

It’s hard not to go there when we exchange rings. Benedict is using Xavier’s ring, which, thankfully, we didn’t have engraved. I slide it onto his ring finger, and satisfaction slices through me, cleanly as a hot knife through butter. It’s done. He slides my diamond-and-white-gold eternity band onto mine, and it honestly feels more erotic than solemn.

And then, a moment later, it’s crunch time.

‘I therefore proclaim you husband and wife,’ the bishop says loudly. He explained on yesterday’s Zoom that it’s not customary in the Church of England to actually suggest a kiss, but he gives us an avuncular smile and nod as if to say, Knock yourselves out.

The congregation beats us to it, breaking into applause that sounds to my ears every bit as relieved as I know I am.

A beat passes as everyone claps. Benedict’s eyes lock with mine, and he gives me a panty-melting grin. Honestly, that grin could cause pregnancies. It’s smug and wolfish and possessive. It’s definitely not the grin of a man who has no interest in having gained a new wife.