Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Cream, without question,” Selina declared, sweeping into the drawing room ahead of Lucy. “The blue was charming, but cream will soften you beautifully, and you must think of how it will look by candlelight. A wedding is nothing if not a performance of light.”
Lucy closed the door behind them and remained where she was.
“Oh, and the lace,” Selina continued, setting her reticule down and immediately opening it again, almost as if something else might yet be discovered inside.
“Italian, I believe. Or Belgian. I forget which, but it matters less than how it falls. You will want it light, not stiff. Stiffness has no place on a bride.”
Lucy nodded, merely to pretend like she was listening, even though she barely heard a word that Selina said.
Selina crossed the room, already rearranging the parcels that had been delivered before them.
“We did exceedingly well today, Lucy. Far better than I expected, given the notice. Once word spreads, of course, it will be impossible to move without encountering opinion, but for now, we are safely ahead of it. That alone is a comfort.”
Lucy sank into the edge of the sofa, letting out a loud sigh.
The day had been exhausting... shops, fittings, endless measuring and trying on gowns, and Selina flitting from one boutique to another as if the world depended on finding the perfect dress.
Lucy’s head was heavy with ribbons and lace, her arms sore from carrying parcels, her mind swimming with the details of a wedding she could hardly believe was actually happening.
Selina, of course, was unaffected by fatigue. She perched on the arm of a chair, spreading the packages across the room like a queen surveying her treasures.
“We shall need to think of shoes next,” Selina went on. “Something sensible but not dull. You will be standing for quite some time, and happiness is difficult to maintain when one’s feet are in revolt. Trust me, I know.”
Lucy’s gaze drifted to the window. She heard every word, yet it all seemed to pass around her rather than through her, as though the day had left her hollowed out, an observer to her own life.
Marriage. Dresses. Candlelight. A duke.
The words sounded unreal. Seemingly belonging to someone else entirely.
“Lucy!” Anthony’s voice rang as the door to the drawing room pushed open, and he came running inside. Brook was right behind him, bouncing on his heels. “We heard! We heard from Father!”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “Anthony, Brook, what have I told you about running in the halls?” she chastised them.
“You’re going to marry Father!” Brook said loudly, stopping in front of her, practically vibrating with excitement. “Is it true? Is it really true?”
Anthony leaned closer, eyes wide. “We want to know everything! Where will the wedding be? What will your dress look like? Can we help? Will it happen here?”
Lucy blinked at them, strangely puzzled by their excitement. “You’re not upset that I did not find you a mother? You both realize that if I marry your father…”
Anthony frowned at her at once, like she had missed something obvious. “But you did,” he said simply.
Brook nodded, earnest. “You found one.”
Lucy’s breath caught. “That is not what I meant.”
Anthony shifted closer, lowering his voice. “You were trying to find us a mother. That was the agreement, and you have been doing it all along.”
Brook tilted his head. “You just did not notice. You already look after us. You treat us nicely, and you actually listen to us, even when we complain. You do not tell us we are in the way.”
Anthony nodded firmly. “You sit with us. You remember things. You scold us when we deserve it, but you laugh after. You make sure Brook finishes his lessons, and you remember that I do not like raisins in my pudding. Mothers do that sort of thing.”
Lucy swallowed then smiled faintly. “So, you think that already makes me a mother to you?”
“You were finding us a mother because Papa needed one. If you marry him then—” He lifted a shoulder. “—that rather solves it, does it not?” Brook smiled. “It makes you family.”
Anthony’s expression softened. “We thought you were going to leave us when the weeks were done, and we were already sad about it. But now, you’re staying. How could we be upset?”
Lucy’s chest tightened, emotion rising too quickly for her to steady it.
“Father told us,” Brook went on, brightening again, “that you are to marry him. So that means you are not going anywhere.”
Anthony grinned. “That is why we are pleased.”
“We can call you mama, right?” Brook asked.
Lucy forced a small smile though her eyes stung.
This, she realized, was the danger of it all.
Not the marriage, not even the Duke, but the way she had slipped, almost without noticing, into a place she had never intended to occupy.
Their words carried too much truth, too much warmth, and she found herself without any defense against it.
Explanations would only invite questions she was not ready to answer, feelings she had not yet dared to face.
She drew in a steadying breath and forced a smile, bright enough to distract, light enough to deflect. “Very well,” she said briskly. “Shall we take to the gardens? I believe I could be persuaded into a game, provided you promise not to argue over the rules.”
Anthony’s eyes lit at once. “Brook cheats.”
“I do not,” Brook protested, already turning toward the doors.
Lucy laughed despite herself, allowing them to pull her toward the doors, grateful for the excuse to move, to do anything other than think. As they crossed the threshold of the drawing room, she glanced back without quite meaning to.
Selina still sat where she had been all along, hands folded in her lap, her expression seemingly unreadable to anyone who did not know her well.
Lucy knew it all too well. It was the look Selina wore when she had already drawn her conclusions and was merely waiting for the moment to voice them.
A look weighted with knowing. With questions.
With feelings Lucy was not prepared to examine, much less defend.
She looked away at once.
Deep down, she understood precisely what her aunt was thinking, and that was reason enough not to linger.
If she granted Selina even a minute, if she slowed.
.. if she hesitated, the words would come, and Lucy would never hear the end of it.
About the boys. About their father. About herself and the situation she was in.
She would not have that. Not now.
So she tightened her hold on Anthony’s and Brook’s hands and let them draw her onward, choosing the gardens, the game, the blessed noise of motion over reflection.
For the moment, it was easier to run into the open air than to remain behind and confront how easily, how dangerously, she was already being claimed.
“Mind the stone, Brook,” Lucy said, laughing as the hoop wobbled dangerously close to the edge of the path. “If it falls, you must begin again.”
“I can do it,” Brook insisted, gripping the stick with concentration. The hoop clattered, leaned, then righted itself. He grinned. “See? I’ve always been quite good at playing Hoop and Stick.”
Anthony was already several steps ahead, his own hoop rolling smoothly across the lawn. “You’re going too fast,” he called over his shoulder. “Remember, if you rush, you lose control.”
Lucy paused at that, though she kept her smile in place. “You are very wise, Anthony,” she said lightly. “But I think today, a little speed is allowed. How else is he going to catch up with you?”
She took her turn then, nudging the hoop forward with careful taps. It felt strangely satisfying, the simple rhythm of it. Step, tap, step. The world narrowing to the sound of wood against grass and the boys’ voices rising and falling around her.
“You’re good at this, Lucy,” Anthony said, slowing to walk beside her. “Better than Brook.”
“That is not true,” Brook protested. “She just cheats.”
Lucy gasped. “I do not cheat,” she said. “I merely use strategy.”
They laughed, all three of them, and something inside her loosened in that instant. She had not realized how tightly she had been holding herself until now, how every thought had circled back to what awaited her, to what she was becoming.
A sudden shadow fell across the grass, and Lucy looked up to see Rowan standing at the edge of the lawn, hand behind his back, surveying the game with a strange smile across his face. Lucy had seen him smile before, but this was different. This smile was different.
“May I join?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
Anthony’s face lit up immediately. “Yes! Yes, Father! Come see; we’ll show you how it works!” He darted forward, hoop in hand, tugging Rowan gently toward the path. “This is how you hold the stick, see? You must roll the hoop like this, slowly at first…”
“I know how to play Hoop and Stick, son.” Rowan chuckled.
Lucy stepped back a little, letting them take the space, and found a low garden bench near the flowerbeds. She settled there, quietly watching. Brook trailed behind Anthony, eager to demonstrate his own skills, but his father’s attention was now fully on the game.
Rowan’s first attempt was hesitant, the hoop wobbling wildly at first, but Anthony clapped and guided him patiently. “I thought you said you could play, Father? No, not like that. You must follow through with the wrist... see? Like this.” He nudged Rowan’s hand, steadying the movement.
“Ah,” Rowan murmured, adjusting his stance, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Like so? It has been a while since I’ve ever done this.”
“Yes!” Anthony cheered. “That’s it! Now try to aim for the far path, watch the hoop curve, see? You can do it!”