Chapter Nine
Try as he might to recall a single topic Humber had offered, resembling anything remotely sensible, was useless.
Reciting simpering pleasantries and vacuous platitudes was utterly beyond him, and neither could nor would he bring himself to venture into a conversation on the inane subject of fashion and ribbons.
Thus, the carriage ride from Blackmoor Hall to the church passed in an atmosphere that one could only describe as… awkward.
Miss Mason made a gallant attempt. “It is such a lovely day,” she ventured brightly.
“Mmm,” he replied, having nothing further to add about the state of the weather.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her glancing his way, clearly readying to try again, but as he gave no outward sign of encouragement, she sank back quietly, twisting her hands together in her lap, and turned her gaze to the window.
The last to arrive, every head turned as they entered the Church.
He felt Miss Mason stiffen at his side, her grip tightening on his arm as he led them down the aisle, which seemed an inordinate length for such a small stone building.
Guiding her past her beaming mother in the front pew, he led her to her place at the front of the church, offered the briefest of bows, then turned sharply and moved away.
It only no more than six steps to take his place beside Southerby and Humber, yet it was long enough for Sylvie’s words to echo, hauntingly, through his mind.
‘I promise to be the best wife… try my very hardest, every day, to please you…’
It hit him like a wall of ice water, and he shuddered before he could stop himself.
“Alright, old chap? You look more jittery than our Groom,” whispered Humber teasingly, though a hint of concern shadowed his brow.
“Fine,” Angus murmured, his eyes darting to the front just as the bride entered, looking resplendent on Hugh Thomas’s arm.
She whispered something, and Hugh smiled, squeezed her hand and gave her a wink as he nodded toward the front of the Chapel.
Hearing Southerby murmur to Lucien, Angus glanced around to see his old friend slowly nod his understanding, then turn, instantly finding his bride as though drawn by a lodestone.
His smile, so rarely gifted in company, was wide and joyful for all to see.
Angus saw no doubt. No trepidation. Just two people, entirely certain, happily coming together as one, to proudly declare their love before the world.
Doggedly fixing his gaze on an obscure object at the other side of the church, he tried to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady.
Yet every word delivered, with much aplomb by the Vicar, caused a sharp stabbing pain behind his eyes.
It would be he, agreeing to such vows soon.
Wilt thou love her, comfort her? How could he possibly make such a promise?
It was absurd. Keep her? Yes, obviously, that he could manage.
His stomach lurched violently in protest to the next chilling words — so long as ye both shall live.
Swallowing hard, he tried to rid the bile from his throat, the fear creeping up his spine.
Unconsciously, his eyes darted to the girl who would be standing opposite him in a few short weeks — the girl whose life he would be responsible for — for so long as she lived.
His skin prickled, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
He snapped his focus to the flagstones at his feet and forced himself to breathe. Slowly. Steadily. In. Out.
As the service drew to its conclusion, Lucien’s voice, warm and laughing, broke through.
“Finally! Now may I kiss my bride?” and to the shock and delight of his bride — and guests — he pulled his new Duchess into a rather passionate embrace, leaving little doubt as to the couple’s, um, feelings, for one another.
Although delighted his friend had finally found happiness, watching Lucien eagerly enter into a life of matrimony only exacerbated his own predicament.
A step behind Southerby and Humber, Westland moved towards his own fate.
Each step closer, becoming heavier than the last as his mind tumbled and his stomach churned.
‘Come on, man,’ he snapped inwardly to himself, ‘You can do this for pity’s sake, it’s only for a few weeks, what possible harm can come in a few weeks? ’
Finally, he forced himself to look towards his Sylvie. She peeped at him from beneath her lashes and blushed. ‘Ah, gods,’ he silently cursed again, but managed a quick, albeit stilted smile, which she instantly returned so prettily it nearly had him running from the church.
“Shall we?” he muttered, looping her arm through his as they joined the procession of cynics and well-wishers alike following the Duke and Duchess of Blackmoor from the church.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. No official announcement had yet been made, only rumours circulating amongst the house guests, of which he had neither confirmed nor denied. Perhaps Lord Mason could still be persuaded to refuse the terms. A long shot, but…
“Ah,” he grunted as his stride faltered, and he inclined his head curtly. “Lady Cabbot-Leigh.”
An exquisite creature with near-perfect proportions, gleaming red hair and eyes the colour of warm honey — though unfortunately clad in violently clashing shades of rose and yellow — impeded their way.
As someone to whom he was decidedly not fond, he made to manoeuvre himself and Miss Mason around the intrusion to his visual senses, but she smoothly mirrored the motion, blocking their path.
“Lord Westland, Miss Mason,” she said sweetly, “may I be one of the first to congratulate you on your… umm… love match. It appears to be all the rage this Season. So very fashionable it would seem, amongst our most revered bachelors. And, how clever of you both to keep such an exciting courtship under wraps. Why, no one even knew you to be acquainted, let alone betrothed? I wonder, when was it you were first introduced?”
With deliberate care, Angus patted the small hand resting in the crook of his arm, as he gave Sylvie his most underused, yet, so he had been told on occasion, charming smile. Returning his attention to Lady Cabbot-Leigh, all warmth vanished as he leaned a little closer.
“We preferred to keep our courtship private,” he said, voice quiet but edged. “Neither of us has the stomach for tittle-tattles. Idle gossip, as you are no doubt aware, can have a damning effect if whispered in the wrong ears. But I need not remind you of that, Penelope. Need I?”
Lady Cabbot-Leigh’s lips tightened, yet she kept her head held high and her gaze steady. “No, indeed.”
Straightening, his tone was now as cold as his smile. “We thank you for your felicitations, Lady Cabbot-Leigh. Mayhap my lovely Marchioness and I will be able to return them in earnest one day.”
Without awaiting a reply, he led Sylvie past her and out of the churchyard.
* * *
So. It was done. He was officially engaged. Ironically enough, it had taken that loathsome creature’s goading to wring an admission from him — but astonishingly, he found himself calmer than he had been since the whole sorry incident began.