Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
“All men can see these tactics whereby I conquer, but what none can see is the strategy out of which victory is evolved.”
Sun Tzu, L’Art de la Guerre (The Art of War)
JULY 29, 1821
“Hugh! It is not suitable attire! You must tell Lily to change.”
“I think Lily looks lovely.”
“But … but … it is red!”
“More of a burgundy, I think.”
“And gold!”
“What is your issue with gold? She wore gold ribbons with her ball gown last week.”
“It is not the same!”
Lily peered down at her dress. The deep burgundy silk gleamed softly in the daylight filtering through the tall sash windows, its folds catching subtle highlights of claret and plum.
Despite Mama’s distress, she could not contain the huge grin of joy that had her cheeks stretched so widely the muscles in her face were aching.
Signora Ricci had not disappointed. The talented modiste had created a gown that was utter perfection for Lily.
The elegant cut, the delicate gold embroidery about the cuffs and hem, and the way the fabric flowed like poured wine conspired to make her feel radiant. She had never felt more beautiful.
“It is clearly not meant for wearing during the day!”
“It is her wedding, Christiana. It is customary for a young woman to wear one of her best gowns for such an occasion.”
“And her hair! It is far too inappropriate!”
“She has beautiful hair. Quite like yours, wife.”
Lady Moreland stamped her foot in outrage. “I forbid this! Lily shall not leave our home wearing such a frock! She must change and do her hair in a manner appropriate to a debutante.”
Lily paid no mind, still stunned by how mature she appeared. The gown was better than even she had envisioned when Signora Ricci first described it a few days earlier.
“Aunt.” Sophia’s voice was calming amid the family chaos.
Her cousin had always been calculating in her approach to life, clear in her goals and acting with decisiveness.
Since her marriage, Sophia’s confidence had flourished, lending her the poise and authority of a formidable countess of the realm.
“Lily has selected a gown that is appropriate for her complexion. She is no longer a debutante.”
Lily ran her hands over the fine tulle overskirt in reverence, the fabric whispering beneath her fingertips.
“She is a bride.”
The occupants of the entry hall froze, the moment suspended like the hush before a church bell tolls. Then all eyes turned toward Lily. She looked up in amazement, catching Sophia’s gaze. She was smiling gently at her, composed as always.
“I am a bride,” Lily murmured.
“And a bride should choose what she wants to wear.” Lord Moreland’s deep voice cut cleanly through the silence that followed. His tone held no room for argument. “Now, I believe it is time to leave. We have a wedding to attend.”
Lady Moreland was still wailing her distress as they bundled into their carriage.
The butler oversaw the loading of bags and boxes while footmen swung open the heavy lacquered door to admit the family into the waiting barouche.
Sophia joined them, taking a seat next to Lily.
She had promised to accompany her so she could dissuade Mama from interfering with the day’s proceedings.
Outside, the early light gilded the street with a sheen of soft amber.
Inside the carriage, Lily smoothed her skirts once more, feeling the luxurious weight of the silks settle around her like a shield.
She had every intention of forging a happy marriage, one rooted in mutual affection and genuine desire, and the gown, she believed, was a necessary beginning.
She must light the spark of passion in Mr. Ridley before it was too late.
“Signora Ricci is a genius.” Lily kept her voice low out of respect for Mama, who sat across from her, arms tightly crossed and twin lines furrowing her handsome brow.
“She understands color and form superior to other modistes. I was fortunate that Richard sent me to her.” Sophia’s reply was unapologetic, each word polished and deliberate.
Mama gave another indignant cry.
“Hugh! Why would the earl know a modiste?”
This time Lord Moreland appeared rather uncomfortable. He shifted slightly in his seat and shot a glance at Sophia, who met it with a serene smile and a raised brow.
She shrugged slightly. “My husband was a rogue. Thankfully, he has excellent taste, and I have the advantage of his past in my present. Signora Ricci is a veritable artiste who makes her customers look like the subjects of great art.”
Lily giggled. “Lady Slight would agree with you.”
“Lady Slight!” Mama’s voice rang out, shrill in the confined space of the carriage.
Sophia colored, her cheeks blooming pink as she turned to look out the window at the passing traffic. “The viscountess frequents the dress rooms.”
“Dash it, Hugh! We must turn this carriage around.”
Papa cast another pained glance at Sophia, who remained studiously engaged with the view beyond the glass.
“Be that as it may, Lily’s gown is modest compared to Lady Slight. She is embarking into marriage, and she deserves to feel beautiful, Christiana. And she is. Beautiful. I have never seen her look lovelier than she does at this moment.”
Lily peered at her reflection in the carriage window, the distorted surface bending her features. She could scarcely credit the transformation. Her image shimmered back at her, an elegant stranger who resembled herself, yet finer, brighter, more assured.
She had always suspected that the modest colors and virginal flounces she had been assigned did her no favors.
The pale muslins and forgettable trims drained her complexion, leaving her to appear younger and more insipid than she truly was.
It was no wonder that only the oldest bachelors and widowers ever showed interest. Their eyes skimmed past her, as if she were the wallpaper.
The fashionable shades touted for debutantes—powder blue, washed-out lilac—rendered her wan and unimpressive.
It had been a match made in sartorial hell.
But now? Now, in the rich burgundy folds of this gown, with a tulle overskirt that shimmered like mist in candlelight, she might, at last, be considered pretty.
Sophia had brought her abigail to style Lily’s hair, twisting her chocolate brown locks into soft curls and pinning them with gilded combs.
It was the perfect finishing touch. An entire wardrobe was being prepared in her trousseau, but Signora Ricci had worked miracles to deliver several gowns in time for the ceremony.
This one—perhaps more suited to the theater than the church, true—was her favorite.
It gave her confidence, and Sophia had insisted she wear it.
Lily wanted to walk into the church with her head held high, not as a meek offering but as a woman worthy of notice.
She wanted to ignite Mr. Ridley’s interest, even if just a flicker.
She would need every weapon she could summon to distract her groom from the alluring paramour he had left behind.
“Mama, I love you dearly. But this is my wedding day, and I barely know Mr. Ridley. It is imperative that I do everything in my power to set our marriage on the path to success. I wish to enjoy the companionship that you and Papa share, and to do that, my groom must view me as a grown woman and not as a charitable gesture. This will be a happy marriage if I make it so.”
Her family, barring Aidan, who had left for the church earlier, turned to gaze at her. Mama’s face crumpled into an expression of tearful adoration.
“Oh, Lily! My little girl is all grown up.”
Zooks! I hope Mr. Ridley agrees!
The gentleman was masculine elegance in his perfectly tailored clothing, the sort of man whose cravat could probably intimidate lesser men. What would he think now that Lily, at last, had a competent modiste on her side?
Brendan stood at the altar with the vicar, awaiting the arrival of his bride.
The faint scent of polish clung to the wooden pews, mingling with the musty hush of the stone chapel.
Near him, Richard fiddled with his cravat and checked his timepiece, the fob chain catching a sliver of colored light that streamed from the high stained-glass windows.
From the pews, Annabel watched with her hands folded over her rounded belly, while the duke stretched his broad shoulders, the tension in his frame belying his composed exterior.
Brendan’s friend, Lord Julius Trafford, sat behind them in the next pew.
Trafford had been indignant at the news he was to marry and had expressed as much in dramatic terms, but had begrudgingly shown up for the ceremony dressed to the nines in the latest fashion.
Frankly, Brendan thought the elaborately embroidered coat and waistcoat looked rather uncomfortable, not to mention the intricate knot of his cravat, which tilted Trafford’s chin to a haughty angle and gave him the appearance of a man prepared to duel rather than witness a wedding.
Across the aisle sat Miss Abbott’s family, including her brother and Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, kin to Richard. Their expressions were carefully neutral, but Brendan felt their scrutiny like the press of heat through a frock coat.
“My lord, I have services soon.” The vicar shuffled on his feet, a pained expression on his dour face. “I need to prepare.”
“They will be here any minute.” Brendan’s assurance was thin, thinner than he wished it to sound.
He did not know his bride. Not truly. It had been his assumption that the wedding was imperative to mitigating their scandal, a formality to preserve reputations.
But how well did he truly know the Abbott family?
What if they do not come?
Brendan shifted, raising a hand to knead his temple and shield his eyes from the vivid shaft of sunlight pouring through the stained-glass window above the altar. The light scattered in jewel tones across the flagstones, falling like a benediction he did not feel he had earned.