Chapter Eight
Faltering halfway down the staircase, Sylvie drew a deep breath and clasped her hands together in an attempt to stop them from trembling.
He was there. Lord Westland. The man who had been haunting her dreams for years — big, broad and, quite frankly, looking rather menacing. Pacing. Waiting. For her. Sylvie Mason!
How many times had she daydreamed of this very moment — floating gracefully down a grand staircase, her beloved waiting below with a welcoming smile and open arms; she, running the last few steps into his embrace; he, sweeping her up and twirling her until her skirts billowed like silk sails while they laughed together.
Yet now? Looking down upon the giant of a man who was to become her husband, she near flinched at the sight of his angular jaw set firm and his dark brows drawn close together.
He was not pacing nervously like a young gentleman eager to court his beau — he was prowling back and forth like a caged lion.
The muscles in his broad shoulders bunched beneath his coat.
His large hands balled into tight fists.
Butterflies sprang to life, fluttering frantically around her tummy. Her heart thumping too fast in her chest.
He stopped abruptly and turned. His eyes, dark and penetrating, caught hers, and she dared neither move nor breathe as he held her gaze for several long, heart-pounding moments.
Then, slowly, he bowed.
“Miss Mason.”
His voice was deep but unexpectedly gentle as he extended his arm towards her, and she found herself hesitating, blinking in surprise at the warmth of his tone.
He studied her for a moment before his brows drew together again. “Erm… Lady Mason informed me…”
She gave a small shake of her head as she realised her mistake.
She was behaving like a nervous little rabbit rather than the poised, accomplished young lady she had so intended to play.
Panicking at the thought of blundering their first proper meeting, she resumed her descent, quickening her pace as words tumbled faster than her feet.
“Of course, forgive me, my lord. I happily accept, it happened so quickly, the grass, and I just… everyone asking questions about dear Vivien and how she… well, trying to imply… and really, have they nothing better to do than gossip? After all, that is what has got us in this awful mess, is it not? Those gossipy old buzzards, and… oh!” she squeaked, clapping her gloved hand over her mouth.
Westland stood stock-still, staring up at her.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered shyly, instantly casting her eyes downwards. “I did not mean to say…”
“Gossipy old buzzards?”
Her eyes darted up and caught his gaze, and though his austere countenance hadn’t altered, she detected a slight inflexion of amusement in his voice. “No, my lord,” she answered softly with a hopeful smile. “Awful mess.”
“Hm.”
“I… I understand that had circumstances been different, we would not be… I would not be… well, you know… and so I thank you for your kindness, especially since we did not even… well, you know that too… but… but I promise to be the best wife I can possibly be, and I will try my very hardest, every day, to please you, my lord.”
The warmth she had glimpsed in his eyes instantly vanished as he stiffly reoffered his arm. “Hm,” he grunted again, nodding sharply towards the entrance. “Come, we have a wedding to attend.”
His reaction, not only perplexing, startled her butterflies back to life.
Swallowing deeply, she lightly placed her hand on his arm.
Determined not to let her nerves overcome her, she fixed her gaze straight ahead, imagined her hand resting on another’s, and in her most measured tone, so as not to allow her voice to tremble, said, “Of course, my lord. One would not wish to be late.”
Her reply caused Angus to look down at her.
The top of her head scarcely reached his shoulders, yet she stood proud, back straight, chin high, and for that, he admired her.
Yet, as she slowly looked up and attempted a smile, its effect merely illustrated how nervous she was, and it dawned on him just how intimidating this must all be for her as well.
A momentary stab of guilt — wholly unwanted — stilled him momentarily, and before he could think better of it, he leaned a little closer and murmured, “Come. Shall we give those gossipy old buzzards something to feast on?”
A surprised, musical little laugh fluttered from her lips, her eyes instantaneously sparkling with delight. “I… I think I should like that very much, my lord.”
“Well. Stay close, and I shall keep you safe.”
Hesitating, her eyes widened. “Safe? You, you would…? After all that I have brought upon you?”
Slightly puzzled, he studied her for a moment. “You will bear the name of my family. Of my wife. Tis my duty to keep you safe, whatever the circumstances of how it came about.”
Horrified to see tears welling in her big blue eyes and at a total loss as to the appropriate words he should offer to nullify such an awkward display of histrionics, he inelegantly dug out his handkerchief and thrust it in her direction, gruffly adding, “Umm, here.”
“I… I am so sorry,” she said, dabbing the corner of her eye. “I am not normally a watering pot. It’s just I thought you… well… and now you’re being so gentle and, and so kind…”
“Gentle and kind!” he coughed in surprise. “Mayhap I should revert to disagreeable and surly if this is the outcome?”
His candour and obvious awkwardness made Sylvie instantly forget her own silly nerves for a moment, and she chuckled. “No, my lord. Please do not, I think I rather like gentle and kind.”