Call of the Heart by Barbara Cartland

it back into focus.
    She was conscious of the heavy scent of lilies, with which the Chancel was decorated; of the lights flickering on the Altar; of the peace and silence of the Church itself.
    “I will not say the ... words which make me his ... wife,” she told herself. “I will wait until we ... come to them and ... then I will say ... no!”
    “Will you, Inigo Alexander, take this woman for your wedded wife?” she heard the old priest say.
    He went on, the words soft and mesmeric, until Lord Rothwyn replied loudly in a voice that seemed to ring out in the Church:
    “I will!”
    He was still very angry, Lalitha thought with a quiver of fear. The Clergy-man turned towards her. Then there was an interruption.
    “What is your name?” Lord Rothwyn asked.
    “Lalitha ... but I ... cannot ...”
    “Her name is Lalitha,” Lord Rothwyn said to the Clergy-man, as if she had not spoken.
    He nodded. Then to Lalitha in his gentle, tired old voice: “Repeat after me—‘I, Lalitha . . .”
    “I ... c-cannot, no ... I cannot!” she began in a whisper.
    She felt the pressure of Lord Rothwyn’s fingers tighten on her arm.
    They were extremely painful and compelled her as her Stepmother compelled her by sheer force to do what she was told to do.
    She felt flickering through her the same fear that she felt when she waited for a blow of the cane on her back.
    Now almost without conscious thought and without the agreement of her brain she heard herself stammer:
    “I, L-Lalitha ... take ... t-thee ... I-Inigo ... A-Alexander ...”
    They left the Church and were driving together through the darkness.
    Not in the hired carriage in which Lalitha had arrived but in a luxurious vehicle with crested accoutrements of real silver and with a sable rug over her knees.
    She did not speak but knew without words that Lord Rothwyn was still as angry as he had been before.
    She could almost feel his fury bubbling within him.
    She could feel it exuding from him like thunder to fill the carriage and frighten her with its intensity.
    She tried to think of what the consequence for her would be for taking Sophie’s place at the Altar.
    Somehow she could not believe that it was true. Everything was still out of focus.
    “What will . . . happen to me? What will I . . . do?” she asked, yet the question somehow had no poignancy.
    She only felt frightened to the point where it was hard to breathe, and so exhausted that if she were to fall on the floor of the carriage she would lie there forever and never get up again.
    The carriage drew up at one of the large, magnificent houses in Park Lane.
    There was golden light coming through an open door. Servants in claret livery decorated with gold braid ran a red carpet over the steps and opened the door of the carriage. Lalitha stepped out first and stood bewildered and frightened in the huge marble Hall in which there were life-sized gilded statues set in alcoves.
    “Come this way!”
    Again Lord Rothwyn had his hand on her arm and was leading her across the Hall and into a beautiful room. She recognised from the number of books which lined the walls that it was a Library.
    There was a large flat desk in the centre of the room and he led her to it.
    A footman hurriedly lit two candelabra on the desk although there was already light from the silver sconces which decorated the walls.
    “Is there anything you require, M’Lord?” a Major-Domo asked respectfully.
    “No. Leave us, but keep a groom. I have a note for him to deliver.”
    “Very good, M’Lord.”
    Lalitha heard the doors close and felt herself quiver.
    She was seated at the desk. There was a huge blotter in front of her decorated with a gold coronet over an elaborate crest. Lord Rothwyn opened it.
    “You are now,” he said, “going to write a letter to your sister.” He drew some writing-paper from a drawer, set it down on the blotter, and held out a big white quill pen.
    Automatically Lalitha undid the clasp at the neck of her cloak