Chapter Twenty-six
Resolved to keep Sylvie at arm’s length, Westland had managed to avoid his bride-to-be until she walked towards him on her father’s arm.
Though his mouth went dry and his head swam, he managed a fleeting smile and choked out his vows.
Sylvie, radiant and beaming, literally sang hers and barely left his side for the rest of the torturous day.
Humber — flabbergasted upon hearing the wedding was to take place so quickly and all his grand plans had been thwarted — had nonetheless leapt into action, barking out orders and keeping Westland too busy to brood.
Though Westland suspected his friend’s shoulder was troubling him more than he let on, the two of them had dashed about town to ensure all preparations were made, Humber’s energy as tireless as ever.
On the day itself — the day of his doom — Humber jollied along the proceedings with his usual charm, chatting affably with the gentlemen, dazzling the ladies and diverting anyone who sought to engage Westland in a lengthy conversation about his ‘beautiful bride’ and their ‘bright future together’.
The Blackmoors had arrived with only minutes to spare, and, genuinely thrilled, showered the newly-weds with hearty congratulations, none of which improved Westland’s mood.
Only Southerby seemed to sense that his friend’s dour mood was borne of trepidation rather than mere wedding jitters, or perhaps he was simply the only one willing to voice such a thing.
In his quiet, usual manner, Valentine murmured, “Your future, my friend, is your own to command. What is past is gone, and I hope you do not allow it to influence your future with your lovely new wife.”
“Two months forth and my future will resume to its natural state, once my…” muttered Westland, clearing his throat, “… wife, departs for Wales, as was the agreement.”
“Mm. But was not this agreement made when you knew nothing of your bride?”
“Aye… and I still know nothing of her, and that is how it shall remain.”
“Oh? Really?” murmured Southerby mildly. “Yet she makes you laugh more than is common, and unless my eyes deceive me, you are wearing exactly the same shade of green as her sash today.”
“For appearance’s sake only. She thought it would be fitting.”
“I see. And when you threatened to snap that young whelp Bowland’s neck, were he to so much look at your wife again, was that merely for appearance’s sake too?”
Westland’s head snapped around. “How do you know about that?”
“Really?” chuckled Southerby softly. “You know there is very little I do not hear of, just as you know there is very little you can hide from me, so may I give you my advice?”
“No. You may not,” bit out Westland.
“Ha, fair enough,” he laughed again. “Then I will say only this. For whatever reasons, you may not have chosen Sylvie Mason for a wife, but your wife she is — and she seems to understand you better than most — and happily put your considerations above her own… Oh, look, syllabub,” he murmured, drifting away mid-sentence, leaving Westland scowling into his glass.
It seemed everyone was enjoying themselves except him, the groom.
It was a small, intimate gathering of thirty-two family members and friends, though he had no blood relations, only friends to represent his side.
The letter he had received from his Aunt Augusta in reply to his initial betrothal news had left him in no doubt as to her feelings.
As they mirrored most of his own concerns, he had not been surprised by her utter refusal to have any part in ‘such foolishness,’ and begged him to reconsider for his sake as well as the ‘poor wretch’ he was to marry.
At least little Masie was delighted. She took great pleasure in introducing him to numerous aunts and uncles as her ‘new big brother’, and was quick to make firm friends with Artie and Tilly, brought by the Blackmoors.
Masie even insisted on letting Cravat, the Blackmoor’s scruffy pup, join in the fun.
Not that Westland minded, he rather liked the sound of their childish laughter as the puppy chased them around the tables and in between people’s legs.
“Husband,” Sylvie said warmly as she approached his side, her eyes alight with happiness.
“So much nicer, don’t you think? A small gathering of those we know and like, as opposed to some grand affair where we would have been stared at like circus curiosities.
” At no reaction, she looked up, a glimmer of concern in her eyes.
“You are comfortable, are you not? Did I invite too many family members? I suppose they are rather a lot to take in at once.”
As he looked down into her eyes, the realisation struck him like a lightning bolt. He’d misjudged her. He’d thought her motives and insistence for a small wedding came from impatience to be wed, but it had been for him. She had simply wanted to spare him the discomfort.
Humber had tried to tell him all young ladies dreamed of big, pompous affairs, especially young ladies brimming with romantic notions, and dreaming of fairy tale endings, but too preoccupied with his own worries and concerns, he’d dismissed it as Humber twaddle.
Now, startled by her kindness and his own stupidity, he reached for her hand and tucked it through his arm.
“It is just the right number,” he said at last. “Come, let us find you something to eat before it is all gone.”
Leaving his new wife sitting with a little group, giggling and talking and nibbling at her food, Westland wandered outside and stood for some time in the garden alone.
He inhaled deeply, letting the cool, crisp air fill his lungs as he tried to temper down the pounding in his head. Doom, doom, bloody doom.
“Come on, man,” he muttered to himself. “It is only for two months. Eight weeks. Hell’s teeth!” he sighed heavily. “Sixty, bloody days.”
It had seemed a reasonable enough request at the time, Lord Mason’s only stipulation before agreeing to the marriage.
‘I must insist, for appearance’s sake, that you and my daughter live under the same roof and be seen together in society for at least two months after the marriage.
If you send her away to the country before such time, I fear the speculation surrounding your hasty union will reignite with such fervour that we will all be shrouded in scandal. ’
“Hmph,” he brooded, pacing down the garden along the gravel path.
It had indeed seemed reasonable when he had received Lord Mason’s terms, and in his haste to have the whole wretched business over and done with as quickly as possible, he’d agreed without hesitation.
But at such time, he had spent only a single day in Sylvie’s company.
He had given little thought to it, imagining it would be simple enough to distance himself, to put in the occasional appearance at some infernal dinner party, or musical.
He had not, however, considered the reality of her living in his house.
Eating at his table. Sleeping in a room adjoining his.
Smiling up at him every day. Engaging him in conversations, amusing him when he least expected it. Surprising him at every turn.
He should never have agreed to such a condition.
And he most certainly should never have kissed her in the garden.
He must banish it from his memory entirely.
He could bury himself in work, keep his mind occupied with Estate affairs.
He could move forward with his plans to build the new cottages in Wales, revise the planting schedules, and there was the drainage issue in Cheshire, the bottom field needed to be dealt with — and with his mind turning over all the projects he could distract himself with, he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps.
“Alright, old chap?” murmured Humber as he ambled up.
Turning with a start, he stared at his friend for a moment before he rasped. “Fine. I’m just… oh god, Sebastian… what have I done?”
Seeing the desolation in his friend’s eyes, Humber slung his arm around his shoulders and gave him a firm, manly squeeze. “The right thing, my old friend. Absolutely the right thing. And really, how much luckier could a chap get?”
“Luckier?”
“Indeed. Imagine if it had been the detestable Lady Cabbage-Leaf who had taken a swan dive into your lap?”
“Cabbage-Leaf?” echoed Westland with a shadow of a smile.
“I know, delightful, isn’t it? Vivien, our naughty new Duchess, named her such, and I’m afraid it’s stuck.
But never mind that. Think of the horror of finding Penelope’s pompous, bony bottom on your knee.
Or what about that hideous creature Arabella Whitehorn…
ugh!” he said with a shudder. “The woman has a disdainful opinion on everything and everyone, and her ego is as overinflated as her dowry. No wonder poor old Whitehorn has to keep upping the pot… he can’t offload her on anyone. ”
“So, you think I’ve had a lucky escape?”
“By gads, yes! The list of potential horrors is endless, and I should know, since I am the only one of us brave enough to waggle my toes in the society pool. The balls, the musicals, the endless dinners.”
“And such a torment for you, ange déchu, being adored by the masses.”
At his friend’s teasing, Humber laughed, “Well, one grins and bears it, for the greater good.”
“Indeed.”
Then, more soberly, Humber looked Westland in the eyes. “She adores you, you know.”
“I know,” he replied sadly.
“And from what I can see, even though you are trying your damnedest not to, you are growing rather fond of her too.”
“No. I cannot allow such a thing. She has to go. For her sake as well as my own. She is far too.…”
“Too… adorable?”
Westland opened his mouth to protest, then merely sighed.
“Mayhap my fear of history repeating itself is unreasonable, but it is a fear I cannot shake. Keeping Sylvie close, in harm’s way, is a risk I am not willing to take.
If something were to happen to her…” He drew a breath and shook his head again.
“Unfortunately, I cannot change who I am, nor can I change the past.”
Seeing the anguish on his face, Humber said gently, “No, my friend, unfortunately, none of us can. Nor can we foresee the future. So, while it saddens me to see you turning your back on what could potentially be a happy marriage, I understand why you feel you must, my friend. I may not agree with your reasoning, but I understand.”
“Mm.”
“On a cheerier note,” added Humber, brightening, “I thought you might like to know I fleeced a small fortune from Bowland last night.”
“Did you now?” said Angus, his mood lifting slightly.
“I did. He even had to relinquish some of those god-awful baubles he wears. Really, the man has no sense of style or fashion.”
“A serious offence.”
“Indeed, it is,” laughed Humber as they sauntered back towards the house. “The man wafts about in more lace and satin than the Dowager Wainwright. And the scent… it’s enough to choke a man from fifty paces, gives one a headache close up. He must bathe in the stuff. Heavy, cloying, sickly mix.”
“Maybe he wears it to put you off your game.”
“Yet still I fleeced him, and shall enjoy doing so again tomorrow night, should I choose to grace the tables.”
“And you still think he’s cheating.”
“Oh, undeniably trying too. But one should never try to cheat a cheater.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I most certainly am, and the house always wins, my dear friend, hence why Henry called me in.”
“How is Henry?”
“Apart from running the most profitable gaming hell in London, and drowning in ill-gotten wealth?”
Westland laughed, “So, he’s good, then.”
“Oh, he’s good. But he’s still not as good as I am.”
“At counting cards?” Westland gave a dry, rough laugh. “Indeed, you have a crafty talent. That’s why I stopped playing with you at school. You nearly robbed me of my pudding for an entire year.”
“I would have still shared it with you.”
Westland stopped and turned. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you would. That is what makes you, you.”
“No,” replied Humber, with a quiet, rueful chuckle, “That’s what makes us, us. You shared your pudding with me when I lost mine for a week after I planted a corker on that bully Wagstaff. Always and forever my friend.”
* * *
Feeling a little less bleak as he returned to the house, Westland hoped the guests were finally readying to leave as the evening was already closing in. Yet the laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the warmth of fine wines, quality ports, and rare malts kept them lingering well past dark.
At last, as the last of the visitors meandered, or stumbled, into the night, Sylvie, standing by his side, looked up at him, “Well then, I… I shall say good night, for now, as I am away to prepare… for… for bed.”
“Right, yes, good night, Miss Mas… um, Sylvie.”
She smiled a little shyly as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.
A small pang of unease tugged at his chest as he watched her ascend the stairs, then he let out a long, deep breath.
Finally, it was over. He had said the words, signed the register, welcomed people he hardly knew and endured endless felicitations without snapping.
He’d even made a toast to his new bride. Finally… he could breathe.
Just two more months. Eight more weeks. Sixty more days to endure. God, he needed a drink. A real drink.
Stalking into his study, he poured himself a measure of whisky, then another, letting the warmth settle in his chest and dull the echoes of the evening.
Yet even as the fire crackled, part of his mind refused to quiet, circling back to Sylvie’s laughter, her radiant smile, the tiny moments that had gnawed at him all day.
For all his efforts to keep her at arm’s length, the truth was unavoidable — she was already entangled in his life.
Eventually, he climbed the stairs and took a long bath.
The warm water soothed his tense shoulders, and the crystal tumbler at his side, replenished several times from the decanter Eddie had set out, worked its magic, quieting both body and mind.
Muscles relaxed, limbs heavy, yet even then, memories of her lingered at the edges of his consciousness.
When his head finally sank into the pillow, he was out like a light within seconds, the day’s chaos and torment finally giving way to sleep.