Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Dahlia looked around her bedroom for the last time. The next time she would be here, she would no longer be Lady Dahlia Hill.
Dahlia Thornscroft, Duchess of Icedale.
It still did not seem real. She walked towards her bed, the bed which had cradled her in her sleep, where she had dreamed of her future.
Then she went to her desk and ran her hand over its smooth, polished surface.
This was where Penelope Lovelace had been born. This was where she had found herself.
And now I must leave you.
Whether she was speaking to her chamber or to herself, Dahlia hardly knew, but what she did know was that everything was about to change. And with that, the woman that she was must change, too.
“Dahlia, my love, it is time.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother looked around her room and sobbed at the missing items and furniture.
“Oh, my love, I had not imagined that it would be difficult for me as well.” She moved to her daughter’s vanity table. “So bare.”
“You said those exact words on my first year out in society. Do you remember?”
“Yes, and I remember how excited you were to go the apothecary and the perfumers to remedy the problem.”
“You and Papa would always bring me back something from your trips. I especially liked it when you had a gift from Paris.”
Teresa smiled for a moment then she looked suddenly at Dahlia as if just realizing something very important.
“Perhaps it would have been better if you had the chance to choose the gift for yourself.”
“Oh, Mama.”
“We haven’t always been there with you, your father and I, have we, Dahlia?”
“You mustn’t say that, Mama!”
“Oh, my dear.”
“You and Papa have always been there when I needed you. Truly, I have been loved. I have felt loved by both of you!”
“My Dahlia, my little flower.”
They embraced as only mothers and daughters could. After a while, they both straightened.
“Are you ready?” Teresa asked.
No.
“Yes,” Dahlia said with a smile for her mother.
At the bottom of the staircase, her father met her. For all his insistence on her marrying the Duke, now that the time had come, the Marquess wore an expression that was not quite happy. Indeed, to Dahlia, who knew her parents’ every expression, he seemed sad.
“My darling girl.”
“Stop it, Andrew, you are going to make us cry. And crying is never good for Dahlia’s complexion,”
“Allow a father to indulge in the last few moments of his daughter being his.”
“Oh, Papa, I shall always be yours.”
“Stop it, the pair of you!” Teresa sniffed and wiped at her eyes.
The Marquess held out his hand to his wife and gathered the two ladies in his arms.
A few minutes later saw the family waiting by the front door as their carriage arrived. Snow had been falling steadily since before daybreak and had covered London in a thick white blanket.
“Should we wait for the snow to stop? Are the streets safe?” Teresa asked worriedly as the front door was opened.
“It not showing any signs of letting up, My Lady,” Mr. Tipping said.
“If we wait any longer, we risk being late,” the Marquess added. “As it is, we must travel slowly.”
“Biddy has readied the footwarmers and the blankets in the carriage, My Lady.” Mr. Tipping motioned towards the carriage.
Dahlia forced a smile. “Let us just get this over with please.”
“The snow is falling harder! At this rate, the carriage shall not be able to traverse the streets, and we shall be stranded! What are we to do? Heaven above, is my daughter destined to remain unmarried?”
Lady Teresa, who had been wringing her hands since their carriage was forced to slow down due to the heavy snowfall, craned her neck to look further down the street. Her countenance, reflected on the glass, showed her anxiety.
“Teresa, you will injure your neck, my dear,” her husband said, looking up from the paper he had been reading during the carriage ride to gently chide his wife.
“Oh, how can you stay so calm, Andrew?”
Dahlia, her hands clasped together, spoke in an agitated manner, although slightly less so than her mother, “We are extremely late. Whatever shall we do? The Duke will think that I have jilted him!” She leaned to look out the window as well. “Oh bother, perhaps it is for the best.”
Is this a sign? Perhaps it is fate telling me that I am making a mistake in agreeing to marry the Duke!
“Will both of you please calm down,” the Marquess said folding his newspaper. “I will see if John can walk ahead to the church to let the Duke know of our predicament.”
“Oh no, Papa, he cannot! The conditions are—”
But before Dahlia could finish, they felt the carriage come to a full stop. Already tense, Dahlia whirled to the window to see what had caused the carriage to stop.
“There are men on horses approaching. What is happening?” Dahlia could feel her frayed nerves. “This cannot possibly be another hijacking!”
“Hijackers! Dear God!” Teresa exclaimed, reaching out to her husband.
The Marquess looked at his wife and daughter in exasperation. He was about to berate them for their dramatics when Dahlia gasped.
“What? What is it? Heaven help us!” the Marchioness cried.
Was she imagining it? The lead figure on horseback was unmistakably familiar in his silhouette and the stubborn set of his shoulders.
“Is that Peter?”
Both her parents looked out the carriage window. Although the thick snow slowed them, they made good progress, and before she had time to recover herself, the carriage door opened. Benson stood outside with a relieved look on his face.
“M’Lord, rescue has come! ’Tis the Duke and some men with him.” He moved aside to reveal Peter, Matteo and a few servants on horses.
“My Lord, I assumed that the snowfall would prove a challenge for your carriage.” He bowed to the ladies. “We have come to escort you to the church. We have brought horses.”
Dahlia was unable to move. She almost could not believe her eyes. Peter stood just outside the carriage door, snow falling heavily around him. From behind him, she could see Matteo, who grinned at her.
When Dahlia remained still, her mother nudged her.
“Dahlia!” she whispered fiercely.
Shaking herself, Dahlia spoke, “Y-your Grace, you are here.”
“It would appear so, Lady Dahlia.” He smiled at her and held out his hand for her. “Come, My Lady, the carriage will be of no use to you in this weather.”
His smile confused Dahlia. He was not angry, not even annoyed.
Managing a weak answer, Dahlia nodded.
“Yes, of course.”
He lifted her from the carriage and carried her in his arms as he walked towards his steed.
“Truly, My Lady, we must stop meeting like this before major life events.”
“I seem to have no control over these meetings, Your Grace.”
“I beg to differ; you are always the catalyst, My Lady,” Peter said with a grin as he stopped beside his horse.
Before Dahlia could reply, Matteo approached them and bowed to her.
“A fine day for a wedding, My Lady!”
“Oh, is fine what you would call it?”
“Snow on a wedding day is a good omen, My Lady! Ask any of your dear old aunts!”
“Oh, so Peter has told you about them then.” She grinned.
“Yes, and I look forward to meeting them at the wedding breakfast.” He bowed to her once again then turned towards the Marchioness.
Dahlia’s feet never even touched the ground as Peter carried her from the carriage to his horse.
She felt as if she were in a dream. The snow turned everything white around her, adding to the dreamlike quality of her feelings.
Behind her, she vaguely knew that her parents were being helped up onto the horses that would carry them to the church.
She woke up to the reality of her situation when she started to feel cold even in her winter clothes. But before it could properly take hold, Dahlia felt herself enveloped in warmth. A warmth which curiously smelled of soap, of the outdoors—of Peter.
I am wearing his greatcoat. He has wrapped me in his greatcoat. And why do I know his scent?
Unconsciously, she breathed in deeper.
Dahlia felt him climb atop his horse and settle behind her; despite herself, she gasped. She straightened her spine, holding herself as erect as she possibly could.
Why am I surprised that he will ride with me? Of course, he could not have known whether I am a horsewoman or not, so of course, he had not expected me to ride alone.
Peter reached around her to handle the reins, and Dahlia stiffened even more.
When the horse moved, she realized that her efforts were in vain for the movements of the horse only swayed her towards Peter.
She fought against this and would have slipped if not for the arms that wound around her.
Behind her, she could hear him chuckling.
“Dahlia, if you do not relax, I shall soon be fishing you out of the snow. And goodness knows that I do not wish to marry a frozen statue.”
She let out a breath and tried to relax her spine.
Slowly, she felt her side touch Peter’s chest. They remained silent for some time.
Dahlia could feel the rise and fall of his chest; without conscious thought, their breathing matched each other’s rhythm.
How was it that she could feel his warmth despite the layers of clothing?
If she closed her eyes, Dahlia could almost imagine that she had found—no!
She would not imagine that. That would only complicate her already complicated situation.
“Have you fallen asleep, My Lady?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Are you cold, Dahlia?”
“I am not, Peter.” Suddenly remembering that he had given up his greatcoat for her, she turned her head swiftly to face him. “But you must be!”
From her position, Dahlia could see the line of his jaw, and the smoothness of his newly shaven face. She felt a strange fluttering in her stomach.
“We are nearing the church.”
“You are cold.”
“Such luck! I am to have a caring wife—”
“I merely wish not to become a widow so soon after my wedding.”
“—with claws.”
His laughter tickled her ear. A novel feeling settled on Dahlia.
What is this? What feeling is this?
She turned once again to look at the man who sheltered her from the cold and the snow, only to find that his eyes were already on her.
Those green eyes.
Peter held her gaze. He knew that he was treading in deep waters—or, like his horse, ploughing his way through a street covered in thick snow, but something in him could not seem to resist. Dahlia was a conundrum.
He had thought that he knew what he was doing when he decided to offer for her hand in marriage, but she seemed to be proving him wrong at every turn.
Turning away from him, Dahlia sat up.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” She moved about as she removed his greatcoat from her shoulders with no little difficulty.
“Dahlia, what are you doing? You will unseat yourself.”
“Here,” she said after a moment and held the garment to him, “put it around you.”
“You need it more than I do,” he said in a stern voice. “You are such a tiny thing that you will catch cold.”
“Since I am just a tiny thing, then your coat will still be able to cover me even when you are wearing it.”
“Of all the ridiculous—”
“Oh, just do it, Peter!”
Still grumbling, Peter adjusted in his seat as he put on the greatcoat, holding the reins with one hand then the other.
He would never admit it, especially not to Dahlia, but he was getting rather cold.
Well, except for where she had leaned on him—there he was definitely warm.
And now, as she leaned back against him again, there was no denying that she was right.
He did need the warmth. Her warmth made more tangible because it came with compassion. He was touched.
Her warmth.
He gave himself a mental shake. But the smell of her, so close to him, had him thinking of little else.
He arranged the front of the greatcoat so that it covered her as well.
She was right; it could cover them both nicely.
Never in his life did he imagine himself in this situation, but he found that he was loathed for it to end.
They shared their warmth in comfortable silence.
He felt Dahlia relax against him fully as he laid her head on his chest, the fur trimming of her cloak tickling his chin.
After a while, he heard her speak.
“You know, Peter, before I met you, I had never indulged in early morning walks, and I definitely never enjoyed a horse ride in the middle of a heavy snowfall.”
“For the former, you are very welcome. As for the latter, I will remind you that had it not been for me, you would still have been stranded in the middle of the road in a snowstorm.”
“So, I should say thank you again?”
“Indeed.”
They looked at each other and burst into laughter.
The streets of London were unsurprisingly empty. The heavy curtain of snow and the quiet streets brought the illusion of them being the only two people in the world. They neared the church. Peter looked at it, an old structure that had witnessed many a life-changing event, then he looked at Daliah.
As Dahlia walked down the aisle towards Peter, she knew what it was that she was feeling.
It was hope. In her mind, she saw his face as he, himself, watched her.
Something had shifted between them on the way to the church.
The heaviness that she had felt as she left her home earlier that day was gone.
In its place was this novel feeling that she now knew to be hope.
She could do it; she would try and turn this into a true marriage. From the pews, family and friends smiled at her. She recalled the night she introduced Peter to her family and how that had ended.
Your turn is coming. Hold fast, your love story is unfolding.
The Duke needs your patience. He is, as of yet, unwilling to show you his feelings, but they are strong! And they are all for you.
In the scraps of time that Dahlia had spent with Peter, she had seen glimpses of these lines. Acknowledging them now, she knew that there was a chance for her to find happiness. She could try; she would try.
She remembered what her grandmother had whispered to her on that same night as well.
Is it worth the effort? If so, then you must work for it.
She had merely nodded then, but now, she understood her grandmother’s words better.
As she recited her vows and listened in turn to Peter say his, Dahlia no longer felt sadness, nor did she feel worry and fear.
Yes, I believe that it could be worth it.
Hope. And hope she did.