Chapter Eleven
Back at Blackmoor Hall, standing at the threshold of the grand library, Sylvie dared a quick peek at her future husband.
Westland, catching the glance, gave her no more than a cool nod of recognition.
Yet, even that small gesture was all the encouragement Sylvie needed for her question to burst forth.
“Are you so very angry with me, my lord?”
He regarded her for a long moment before replying with stark simplicity. “No.” Then, without further explanation. He guided her into the fray.
In truth, anger was the last thing he felt.
Surprised, yes. Oddly amused, certainly.
Had McGarry not intervened at such a timely fashion, he might even have told her so.
But, during their carriage ride, he had thought on it and decided if she believed him to be a virgin of all things — not her precise words but undoubtedly her meaning — then so be it.
He was hardly going to correct her. Moreover, as he had no intention of performing any husbandly duties for the foreseeable future, the point was moot.
Yet the mere thought of husbandly duties, as he looked upon her face, made him snap his gaze swiftly away.
Inside, many congratulations were heaped upon them.
Every guest vying for an opportunity to wish them well.
To take a closer look. To speculate over how Miss Sylvie Mason had managed to capture one of the so-called Unobtainables.
Blackmoor, Westland, Southerby, Humber—the four names that carried a certain myth about town.
And now, two were claimed within a fortnight.
Oh, she knew what they were all thinking behind their insincere smiles, but she didn’t care.
Well, not really. Well, maybe she did actually.
A lot. But as Lord Westland was performing his duties as her betrothed impeccably, with his glacial civility and cutting stare ensuring no wagging tongues found purchase.
Her mother, meanwhile, was excessively animated and in high flutter.
Exclaiming at every turn what an excellent match they made.
How she and Lord Mason could not be more delighted.
The Duke of Blackmoor, newly wed to Vivien, offered his hearty congratulations, declaring himself overjoyed on Westland’s behalf.
Hugh Thomas, a distant relation to Sylvie, pumped his hand and promptly launched into a long discussion that could only be about horses.
Even Lord Southerby, who made a social appearance about as frequently as St. Nicholas, and was as elusive as the faerie folk, was in attendance.
With little more than a nod and a palm pressed to Westland’s chest, his enigmatic gesture was as intriguing as the man himself, but the simple action seemed to reverberate around the grand library as high praise indeed.
And then there was Humber. Lord Sebastian Humber, the darling of society.
He was as welcome and captivating as an adorable kitten and just as mischievous.
Always the height of chivalry, charming the mamas, leading the shy and blushing onto the dance floor and entertaining the gentlemen with his good humour.
Touted as one of the most handsome men in the kingdom, and today, even with his arm in a sling, his greying pallor and his slightly perspiring brow, he was setting nearly every female heart aflutter.
He bowed low over Sylvie’s hand, grimacing through the pain, projecting his voice just enough for the nearest dozen to hear.
“My dear Miss Mason, I believe I owe you a debt. I fear our poor Westland would have been set quite adrift had you not agreed to marry him with such admirable haste. I know you thought the timing inappropriate, what with our good duke wedding his delightful Miss Fox this very day, but weddings seem to have that effect. And yours has been such a romantic courtship. What else could any of us, who knew, have expected, or wished for? It seems love is in the air, Miss Mason, and one must always embrace such wonderment. I am so very happy for you both.”
The murmured approval, the knowing looks, the subtle nods.
It was theatre, pure and simple. And Sylvie, cast without rehearsal, felt like an untested understudy flung into an unfamiliar role at the last minute.
Every other player in this farce seemed to know their lines.
The four Unobtainables, playing their parts to perfection.
Vivien radiant in her new role as Duchess, her mother fluttering like a stage manager, Hugh grinning, Humber purring his lines.
And Sylvie? All she could do was try and catch up and not bungle her lines as her fictitious courtship and highly anticipated betrothal unfolded on stage for all to see.
And as with any good play, the audience was enthralled, hanging on every word the actors uttered from their lips.
Just as she was bracing for the most dreaded of encounters — Lady Cabbage-Leaf bearing down upon her — salvation arrived in the form of a small scruffy pup.
Cravat, Vivien’s rescue pup, came pelting across the room, tail wagging furiously, ears flapping, and made straight for the tall French doors.
Ignoring the duke’s stern command, he plunged at the drapes, yapping excitedly, and a squeal of laughter rang from within the folds.
Rolling his eyes skyward with a sigh of exasperation, Blackmoor strode towards the commotion. Vivien, highly amused, grabbed Sylvie’s hand and giggled, “Come, I think the little imps may be in need of rescue.”
As the duke whipped back the curtain, Cravat pounced in triumph, frisking and snuffling in pure delight around two small figures — Arthur, his nephew, and Matilda, Vivien’s ward — clutching each other’s hands and blinking guiltily in the light.
“Master Arthur. Miss Tilly,” the duke intoned with mock severity, “would you care to explain why I discover you lurking behind these perfectly good drapes? Are you inspecting them for moth holes?”
“No,” Arthur gasped, “we playing hidey-seek, Un Luci, and Cwavat founded us!”
“Mm. So I see. But, were you not told to stay out of the library today?”
“Yes, but, but… we fo-gotted, didn’t we, Tilly?
We didn’t weally want to see…” His words trailed off as his eyes darted around the room in wonder, and his gaze landed on the laden refreshment table.
“Oh! Un Luci, are those pastwies? We, we love pastwies, don’t we, Tilly? And pies! Cwavat loves pies!”
“Arthur,” The duke’s warning growl was enough to make the little boy clamp his lips shut, though the effort of restraining his excitement sent Sylvie ducking her head to hide her smile.
“Well,” purred Vivien, slipping her hand into her husband’s arm as she smiled warmly at the children, “since they are here, and if they promise to be good and sit quietly in the corner over there, shall we fetch them a plate overflowing with all the best treats?”
Arthur’s face lit up. “Oh yes, yes please, Andy-Vivien, we will be vewy, vewy good and we won’t fwidgit at all, will we, Tilly? Just here, Andy-Vivien, just here?” he sang out, already tugging the little girl across the room.
“You are a pushover,” murmured the duke into Vivien’s ear. “And very un-duchess-like to flaunt such conduct. Children and puppies at a wedding feast?”
“Piffle to stuffy old conventions,” laughed Vivien. “You no more wished to banish our precious little imps than I. The festivities are nearly at an end, so be a darling and go and fill them a plate as I wish to talk to Sylvie.”
“As you command, my Duchess,” he replied, giving her a playful wink as he turned.