Chapter 10 #2
The thought that Miss Abbott might not appear carried more sting than logic could explain.
That sting required examination. She had struck him as a genuine person.
When he had imagined his future marriage, it had always been to someone sincere and enlivened.
Someone with grace like his late mother, someone with courage like his sister, and someone capable of strategic insight like Richard’s wife—or the indomitable woman who had chosen Perry.
It seems Miss Abbott fits the bill.
The young lady was everything he admired in a person.
She possessed sincerity, a quiet intelligence, and a refreshing absence of affectation.
His only objection—if it could even be called that—was the absence of romantic spark.
Yet surely that was a trifling concern in the face of something as enduring as a lifetime partnership.
He was, after all, a man of the world. With time, mutual respect would bridge any such gap.
Confound it!
The thought slipped sideways, turning to the expectations of the evening ahead. Duty would require him to consummate a union with a girl who, in her sweetness and softness, reminded him somewhat of a younger sister—playful, innocent, even childlike in her manner and manner of dress.
Brendan pressed his thumb to the ache blooming at his temple, attempting to relieve the mounting pressure behind his eyes. It was no use. The discomfort only grew sharper.
The vicar shuffled again in agitation, a quiet clearing of the throat reminding Brendan that their ceremony was running increasingly late.
Just then, a burst of movement at the chapel doors drew every head around, including his own.
The countess entered with Lady Moreland, gliding swiftly down the aisle to take a seat near the Abbott family. Brendan blinked, registering their presence with only half his mind, for at that moment, Lord Moreland followed, escorting a woman he did not recognize.
Brendan’s breath caught.
For the span of one stunned heartbeat, he could do nothing but stare.
My word. If only I were marrying her.
The young woman was arresting. Her rich brown hair had been swept into an elegant coiffure, several curls escaping to frame her face in soft, artless spirals.
She wore a deep crimson gown veiled with gossamer tulle threaded with gold, which shimmered faintly with each step.
The color brought a luminous warmth to her complexion.
The modest cut of her bodice did little to obscure the refined grace of her figure—poised, confident, composed.
A strange yearning swept over him, unbidden and unwanted.
He shut his eyes. This is your wedding day, and you are admiring another woman? He might as well be a schoolboy again, ruled by fancy and impression rather than principle. Had he no discipline?
Opening his eyes, he saw that Lord Moreland and the young woman had progressed to the front pews. She released his lordship’s arm and stepped forward, pausing near Brendan with an elegant nod.
He returned the smile automatically, though his expression was still puzzled. Where was Miss Abbott?
Turning his head to glance at the chapel doors again, he could see no sign of her arrival.
When he looked back, the woman gave him a curious smile, her brows rising ever so slightly.
“Shall we begin? The vicar surely needs to prepare for service.”
“Miss Abbott?”
Her smile widened, tinged by gentle amusement. “Were you expecting someone else?”
Brendan hesitated, his eyes surveying her quickly.
She was undeniably petite, the approximate size of the young woman he had visited at the Abbott home.
She had a heart-shaped face, wide brown eyes framed by thick lashes, a pointed chin, and delicate ears that peeked from beneath her coiffure.
If he imagined her in ringlets and ruffles, he supposed these might indeed be the same elfin features with which he had spoken only days before.
Drat! Do I not even know what my bride looks like?
A slow wave of mortification crept up his neck.
Perhaps he had never truly seen her, not as an assemblage of lace and decorum, but as a living, breathing person.
A woman with her own strength, choices, and presence.
His only defense was that the whirlwind of the past week—negotiating the marriage contracts, conferring with Briggs about the murder, and rushing through plans for the license and ceremony—had left him with little clarity or time to reflect.
Still, it was a poor excuse.
Feeling foolish, he refrained from shaking his head and instead moved to his place beside the vicar, whose expression had grown markedly impatient.
As he adjusted his stance, a soft fragrance teased his senses, something warm and sweet, like honey, and he found himself glancing sidelong at his bride, wondering whether the scent belonged to her.
The strangeness of the week showed no signs of abating.
Each time he believed he had grasped who Miss Abbott was, a new facet emerged unexpectedly, quietly inviting his admiration.
He felt a scoundrel for failing to recognize her, for being momentarily distracted by someone he believed to be another. How had he been so blind?
It was high time to open his eyes … and his mind. The events of the past fortnight had been jarring, but perhaps they were precisely what he needed to chart a better course.
Fancy that! She is gorgeous under all that childish adornment.
The wedding breakfast had been a success.
Despite the aged state of the room, the guests were largely acquainted and their easy conversation filled the space.
Hothouse flowers added bursts of color, their blooms providing bright spots against the gleam of crystal and the soft glint of silver.
Lily’s groom had expressed his doubts about hosting the breakfast at Ridley House, but Sophia had insisted that the Abbotts must feel welcome in Lily’s new home, to set their minds at ease from the very start.
Privately, Lily preferred the location. Ridley House, situated on a side street close to the square, offered the discreet breakfast she favored, unlike the Abbotts’ grander home, which stood directly across from Lady Slight’s townhouse and would draw the widow’s curiosity.
She thanked each guest as they departed, enduring her mother’s suffocating embrace and the trail of damp handkerchiefs left in her wake. Papa, ever a man of few words, had gently taken Mama by the arm and escorted her to the door with quiet solemnity.
Brendan’s odd-fish friend, Lord Trafford, approached next, cutting a striking figure.
His hair was a strange combination—wheat-hued atop and distinctive brown beneath—and Lily could not help wondering whether it was a misguided affectation or merely a mishap of nature.
If the former, she suspected the heir to Lord Stirling had far too much leisure on his hands.
The gentleman bowed deeply, his frothy cuffs fluttering at his wrists, every inch the image of a man who had stepped from the pages of La Belle Assemblée.
“Congratulations, Lady Filminster. Ridley is a good chap. Take care of him, you hear?”
Lily smiled tentatively, uncertain how one ought to respond to such a peculiar declaration. Lord Trafford strolled away without awaiting an answer, heading toward the duke and her groom, who stood conversing quietly in the dim hall.
That left the duchess and Lily alone in the breakfast room.
Like the other rooms she had seen in the townhouse, this one bore the weight of time—its ebony wood paneling darkened by age, its carpet worn thin in places, and its wallpaper gently fading.
The furniture, heavy and brooding, loomed as if it remembered a dozen generations. The house yearned for renovation.
My townhouse!
The duchess rose from a heavy hardwood chair and made her way to where Lily was standing.
“Your Grace.” Lily dipped into a curtsy, her voice soft. “Thank you for attending.”
The duchess shook her head, smiling down at Lily, whose head barely reached her chin. “We are sisters now, Lily. You may address me as Annabel.”
Lily’s jaw dropped. She quickly shut it.
“You will catch flies if you allow your mouth to hang open like that.” Mama’s voice echoed in her mind from long ago, while Lily’s thoughts scrambled at the idea that a duchess—a duchess!—viewed her as a sister. “Thank you, Your—Annabel.”
“It is I who must thank you. I appreciate what you have done for my brother. It was a remarkable sacrifice, and I am pleased to welcome you to the family. Sophia regards you very highly, and it is a wonderful day for the Ridley family to welcome such an exceptional young woman into our midst.”
“Um—I—thank … you.” Lily was rarely speechless, but she had always been somewhat in awe of the duchess. It would take time to accustom herself to being on such familiar terms.
Annabel smiled, then leaned in to press a sisterly kiss upon Lily’s cheek. “Welcome to the family, Lily Ridley.”
Lily Ridley!
Lily Beatrice Anne Ridley!
Lady Filminster!
She was a married woman. And she had found herself a young, handsome gentleman, one with steady eyes and a quiet strength, whom Sophia and Richard both well liked.
Now all that remained was to kindle something tender between them, and she would have achieved the future she had planned for herself.
Even after the recent debacle, she had managed to chart her course.
Lily watched the duchess glide toward her husband, the butler opening the front door with an air of inherited hauteur. The couple soon took their leave, and Lord Filmi—bosh!—Brendan returned from the hall, striding into the breakfast room to find her lingering in the doorway.
“Miss Ab—” Brendan winced slightly. “Lily, you are … radiant today.”