Ominous rain clouds hovered, but did not dare break over London on Lady Elizabeth Fentworthyâs wedding day. Her mother forbade it. The sky stayed dry and Saint James Church hosted its nattily dressed occupants with its usual venerable standards. After all, it was not every day a firmly on-the-shelf old maid of twenty-two married the catch of the season, the sixth duke of Walthingburn, Harry Reedburn.
Lady Elizabeth stood, knees shaking, in front of the large crowd and looked up at her new husbandâs handsome face. He didnât notice.
He was too busy scanning the room for his own lover, Arthur.
She passed a discreet glance around the room also. Ah, there he was. âFifth row from the back on the right side,â she whispered under her breath to Harry. As the third son of the earl of Mayhue, poor Arthur could not be seated toward the front of the church. Her mother reserved those seats for the very highest levels in the ton.
Harry responded with an easy grin at her that had the romantics in the audience pressing lacy handkerchiefs to their eyes and sighing about young love. Elizabeth wished for a hankie herself, because she was the sole occupant of the room, save Arthur and her brother, who knew that while Harryâs grins were for her, his kisses were for Arthur.
What had she signed herself on for? When this past February Harry had suggested a marriage between them, sheâd agreed with her eyes wide open, but now she stood in church and felt the lie pressing in on her soul. Sheâd recited her vows in a daze and barely heard Harry do the same. Heâd pecked her on the cheek, a fitting dignified ducal kiss, and now he placed her hand on his brocade coat sleeve and she put one foot in front of the other to the exit of the church.
She saw her brotherâs gaze on her and sent him a consoling smile heâd see right through. Iâm fine. Worry about yourself. Heâd no doubt be in Harryâs position in a few yearsâ time, with a false bride. She stepped past her family and smiled blindly at the rows of well-wishers and gawkers. The vast room was a sea of stone dotted with brightly colored hats and flowers. Cheers and good wishes passed through the pews and bounced off her like coins in a fountain. She felt numb to anything save her own thoughts.
One personâs gaze managed to penetrate her fog; Lady Violet Blackstone sat near the back, malice dripping from her false smile. Elizabeth raised a brow at the overdecorated girl wearing a violet hat and gown of the same shade, her signature look. A fashion affectation unbecoming in a fellow debutante. Giddiness washed through Elizabeth as she realized sheâd never again have to sit on the side of a ballroom listening to Violetâs snide and cutting remarks hidden in the guise of witticisms.
It hadnât always been this way. Two seasons ago, both girls had debuted and supported each other through the endless torture of holding up pillars and potted plants, while waiting for an invitation to waltz. But as the years progressed, Violet became more bitter and hostile. Elizabethâs marriage to the Elusive Duke must be the icing on the cake, and Violet now saw her as an enemy.
She turned away, but not before Violetâs seat companion tossed her a wink and a snide smile. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at the young man. Did she know him? Oh, yes, that was Michael Finchley, Harryâs heir. Harry must have seen the wink also, for he hurried his step to block her view of his cousin, and bodily pulled her away from Finchley and âLady Violent,â as sheâd been dubbed for slapping one too many maids,
Harry pulled his bride along till they stumbled out the church doors and into the gray, muggy day. His magnificent, glossy black coach stood waiting steps away, six matched bays stamping and sweating in the unusual spring heat.
âUp you go,â Harry said, launching her into the carriage with all the delicacy of a child throwing a ball.
âOof,â she gasped as she landed on the plush cushions. Burgundy fabric swathed the seats and walls of the sumptuous carriage. Thick, leaded glass bedecked with ivory curtains allowed plenty of light into the carriage. She slid over to make room as Harry followed her up into the enclosed space, crushing the train of her wedding gown.
âRight, sorry âbout that,â he told her.
Trust him to detect a detail like that. Sheâd once danced an entire set with a suitor whoâd caught his sleeve button on the lace of her dress and did not notice till the set ended and he tore her gown in his exit. Luckily, a maid in the ladiesâ retiring room had been able to repair the damage. No detail like that would escape Harryâs attention. He prided himself on his first-in-stare appearance; it would take some effort and several hours per day to keep up with her dandyish new husband. No matter; it was worth it. Becoming the duchess of Walthingburn and escaping the snickers and pitying glances were worth any amount of trouble. She promised herself a trip to the best modiste as soon as possible. Harry had given her a chance to escape the stares and whispers of the ton. Sheâd repay him by molding herself into the perfect duchess.