Chapter 18
18
W eddings aren’t my favorite. They’re actually my least favorite type of societal event, typically filled with sentimentality and stiffness. I’d rather sit through multiple matches at Wimbledon in the baking sun than witness a ceremony in a cool church.
I fiddle with the thin edge of the paper program that was handed out to all the guests as they entered the stone chapel, attempting to hide my impatience even though no one’s being subtle about staring at me.
It took me ten minutes to make it from the doors to a seat in one of the pews. Fig is serving as one of Theo’s groomsmen, so I’m sitting alone.
I read through the program listing the order of the ceremony and the members of the wedding party for a tenth time—my eyes lingering on Elizabeth Kensington for a few seconds longer than the other names.
“Hello, Charles.”
I glance up, the collar of my shirt getting hot when I register who’s standing at the end of the pew. Beatrice Campbell. Her best friend, Alexandra Green, is a step behind.
“Hello, Beatrice.” I nod at her friend. “Alexandra.”
Alexandra blushes furiously.
“Are these seats taken?” Bea asks, nodding to the empty wood beside me.
“No,” I reply.
“Do you mind …”
“Of course not.” I curl the program in my palm, wishing I’d shoved my way into a full pew instead.
I haven’t seen Bea since … my father’s funeral probably. I don’t remember her being there, but I’m certain the Campbells were invited. The time before that was likely at one of Fig’s parties. I’d attended them all back when I was in medical school.
She looks the same as she did then—proper and poised. I’ve never seen her upset or irritated, just a perpetual beam of placidity.
She looks beautiful, too, and I should tell her so. It’s the expected compliment.
Before I can open my mouth, she speaks. “How … how have you been?”
The question is tentative, like I’m a wild animal she’ll scare away if she talks too loudly.
“All right,” I reply. It doesn’t feel like as much of a lie as it used to. Despite a shitty night’s sleep, I feel more energized than I have in a while. Not just from the marathon of sex, but the change of scenery. I needed it more than I’d realized. “How about you?”
“Good. I’m working as a clothing buyer for Harrods now. Is Blythe still interested in fashion?”
I tense a little when Bea brings up my sister. It’s an innocent query—I think—but I don’t appreciate the mention, like she’s trying to fit herself into my family. “Yes.”
She crosses her legs. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”
That, I don’t believe. If Fig heard I was coming, she did too. But I play along.
“Me neither. I’ve been … busy.”
Her nod is understanding. “I’m sure it’s been a big adjustment.”
There’s nothing except sympathy in her voice.
I clear my throat. “Yes, it has been.”
I glance around, taking note of all the attention aimed this way, hoping the ceremony will start soon. But guests are still filing in, packing the pews to capacity.
My grandmother will hear about this before her morning tea, I’m sure. Bea knows exactly what she’s doing, sitting with me. Knows me attending a wedding will fuel speculation about when—who—I’ll marry and is purposefully including herself in the conversation.
The Campbells are one of the most affluent families in Britain. I’ve never even kissed her.
She’s after a title, not money or love.
The transaction I’ve spent my entire life expecting feels emptier than I thought it would. I assumed marrying one of the well-mannered women my grandmother had spent years pushing me toward would be simple and straightforward. Like checking a box on my list of duties.
I’d choose someone I liked. Respected. But I wouldn’t love her. I wouldn’t repeat any of my father’s mistakes. He married my mother because he wanted to, not because she was the best option. If he’d placed less of a premium on beauty and intrigue, Blythe and I would have grown up with a mother.
Marriage is a problem for my future self to figure out. I’m twenty-six. My father was thirty-three when he got married. That’s still seven years of freedom.
Organ music begins to play, signaling the start of the wedding. My head turns with the rest of the assembly, and I smile when Fig saunters by, escorting Lili’s friend who hit on me. Fran, I think.
Lili’s the last bridesmaid to enter, her elbow hooked with Theo’s younger brother’s. Her hair has been curled and partially pulled back; her makeup flawless.
She’s stunning, impossible to look away from.
So, I don’t. I stare openly, tracking her progress down the aisle. When everyone stands to see the bride, I do too. But I’m not looking at the figure clad in white. My eyes refuse to leave Lili.
She doesn’t look my way. Her focus is on her best friend who’s about to get married.
Chloe reaches the altar. Her father lifts the veil, kisses her cheek, and then places her hand in Theo’s. He shaved his beard for the big day, his face fully visible as he beams at his bride.
The bridesmaid next to Lili leans in to whisper something to her. She smiles in response. Nods.
Then, her eyes catch mine.
We stare at each other the same way we did in bed this morning. In a church packed with people, it feels like we’re completely alone.
I can’t tell what Lili is thinking. She’s smiling, but it’s still. Frozen in place. Expected rather than enthusiastic.
When the minister starts speaking, she breaks eye contact.
My attention wanders during the ceremony itself, my focus torn between stealing looks at Lili and fighting the urge to bounce my knee impatiently. It lasts about an hour, and then the procession happens in reverse, Theo and Chloe the last to leave.
I escort Beatrice and Alexandra outside. It’s the polite thing to do, even if neither of them is my actual date. I engage Alexandra in conversation as we file out of the church, hoping that paying her attention will smother speculation that Bea and I are secretly engaged.
The reception is taking place in the nearby carriage house, guests milling around on the lawn and then gradually making their way over to the other building.
I spot my godfather a second before he calls me over. “Charles!”
Louis Haywood was one of my father’s closest friends. The only true one he had possibly. Balding—although his top hat hides it—portly, and good-natured, he never let my father’s sharp tongue cut too deep. Stuck around. I have memories of him scattered throughout my childhood, as if he were a permanent member of our small family.
I haven’t seen him since the funeral.
I’ve dodged him since the funeral.
I say a quick farewell to Beatrice and Alexandra, then head in his direction.
“Good to see you, Louis,” I say and mean it.
“Splendid to see you, my boy!” His smile is so wide that it squints his eyes to accommodate its size. He shakes my hand, then clasps my palm between both of his. “How’ve you been?”
“Better,” I admit.
Louis’s enthusiasm fizzles, his hands releasing mine and reaching up to squeeze my shoulder.
I’ve wondered previously if he knew about my father’s financial decline, and I wonder about it again now. But I didn’t ask before, and I don’t ask now.
This isn’t the proper place, and the answer won’t solve any of my current problems.
“I’ve got some time in my calendar next week,” he tells me. “Would love to make a trip to Newcastle. It’s been too long.”
“I’ll be out of town,” I tell him. “Maybe the week after?”
Louis nods. “Out of town? A vacation?”
“Not exactly. I’m … selling the villa in Saint-Tropez.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I’m worried he’ll ask why directly. He doesn’t.
“How’s Blythe?” he questions.
“She’s”—I smile wryly—“Blythe.”
Louis and I talk alone for a few more minutes before our conversation expands with more people, friends of the Hugheses who are of Louis’s generation. I end up talking with a group of former schoolmates from Oxford.
No one is really sure how to act around me. By rank, I’m the most important person here. But the guys my age are ones I drunkenly played pool with. Me being the future Duke of Manchester mattered a lot less than me being the Duke of Manchester.
I’m suspended in the weird place of recalling those relaxed days during an irresponsible point in my life and now having to interact with the same people from a responsible position of esteem.
It’s strange and slightly uncomfortable.
But I suck it up, same as I do with all my other duties.