Chapter Five
The wedding day dawned gray and hazy. While Clara’s stomach roiled like a ship in a gale, Amelia oversaw all the preparations, for which she was immensely grateful since she doubted she could do much beyond twist her ice-cold fingers and silently berate herself for causing this predicament.
Dimly, she recognized Amelia’s efforts to add special touches to the day.
Though many couples eloping to Scotland were runaways with little more than the clothing they wore, Amelia had insisted they all look their best. They hadn’t been able to give Clara the wedding of her dreams, but it could at least be something special.
Springs of heather were woven into Clara’s intricate coiffeur of plaits and curls.
She wore her new traveling gown made from the prettiest shade of dusty lilac, with rows of tiny bows adorning the sleeves and decorating the scalloped hem and neckline.
To this, Amelia added a sash of ivory lace borrowed from one of her own garments and tied it beneath her bosom.
Matching gloves and a veiled cap, along with an ensemble of Amelia’s own amethyst-and-diamond jewelry, completed her attire.
“These are for you to keep,” Amelia had said as she finished affixing the bracelet to Clara’s wrist. “And I’ll not hear a word of protest because they are mine to give.”
Clara could not help but smile. “They are so beautiful, I’m not sure I would have given them back had you asked.
” They shared a giggle and a smile at that hint of Clara’s usual spirit.
That moment lightened Clara, however briefly; it loosened the bands around her chest, however slightly.
Unfortunately, the relief was short-lived.
It wasn’t long until the maids were finished with the ladies’ preparations, and Amelia and Clara were left alone to await Dorian’s arrival to spirit them away to the smithy for the ceremony.
The process of obtaining a special license was unnecessary in Scotland, where they only needed a blacksmith and an anvil to be wed.
Alone in the quiet, the two women fell into an awkward silence—something to which they were unaccustomed.
Finally, Amelia cleared her throat and gestured for her to sit beside her on the vanity stool.
Was it Clara’s imagination, or was Amelia having difficulty meeting her gaze?
“I feel it is my duty as your closest female relative to…impart some wisdom on your wedding day,” Amelia began with uncharacteristic pauses in her speech. “There will be some expectations, and I would not want you to be unprepared.”
Oh, Lord, no!
Immediately, Clara’s mind began to race alongside her heart.
Mortification flushed her cheeks. It was one thing to speculate with her friends or squirrel away a few naughty tidbits from the few ladies she knew who’d already married, but it was another to have such a discussion with the woman who was married to her brother.
She opened her mouth to insist Amelia stop, but she was overrun by her sister-in-law’s resolve.
“I insist!” Amelia heaved a sigh that was equal parts resignation and determination. “I would hate for you to be unprepared. It can be intimidating—but do not let that frighten you.”
Unable to bear it, Clara interjected, “I—I have some idea.” Clara’s entire face, and even the tips of her ears burned. “I am not the first of my friends to marry…and I have been living with you and Dori since you returned from your honeymoon trip.”
It was Amelia’s turn to blush. “Oh…oh, my…”
Subtle, Amelia and Dori were not.
Amelia cleared her throat. “In that case…just the mechanics.”
Clara groaned but sat through Amelia’s agonized explanation tolerably well and ended considerably more disturbed than she had been before.
It made it all the worse when, unbidden, her mind began to put Brinley’s face…
his body…in her imaginings. Most of the images were hazy creations compiled from Amelia’s descriptions and those of her friends, but they were enough to unleash a fluttering in her stomach and a tingling in every one of her nerves.
Despite the ever-present scowl he aimed at her and the well-placed barbs he threw so well, he was an undeniably handsome man.
In fact, the sharpness of his cheekbones and angular cut of his jaw, the strikingly mercurial nature of his eyes, and his strong build might all be considered unbearably attractive in most circles.
Objectively, he was beautiful. And, by law and beneath the view of God and man, he would be hers by midday.
The realization made swallowing nearly impossible.
It was almost a relief when Dori finally knocked upon her chamber door.
“Enter!” Clara called a bit too loudly.
Her brother stepped into the room and offered her the first small smile she’d seen from him since he’d made a toast to her at her birthday ball.
He looked even more handsome now in his black coat with its gold buttons, scarlet waistcoat, and buff breeches.
A ruby stickpin glinted at the center of his intricate cravat knot, and his dark hair curled rakishly over his ears.
His rich-chocolate eyes were so much warmer and more welcoming than the last time she saw him.
It took every ounce of decorum she possessed not to stand and throw herself into her brother’s arms like she had when she’d been a girl.
Always good at sensing tone, Amelia patted Clara’s hand and stood. “I will leave you two to speak before we must depart.” Clara did not miss how she paused to squeeze Dori’s arm lightly before slipping from the room, an entire conversation in the look they shared.
Will I ever have that? Clara wondered, surprising even herself with the thought. She’d always known the prospect of ever attaining a relationship like the one Amelia and Dori shared was slim, but now… Would binding herself to Brinley forever close the door on that minute possibility?
Dori cleared his throat and stood, awkward and quiet, across the room, not at all like the brother she was used to. Unable to bear it, Clara stood and closed the gap between them, taking his hands in hers.
“I am so sorry, Dori. Please forgive me for putting all of us in this situation—”
He shushed her gently when her voice cracked.
“No tears,” he warned her. “Not today.” She allowed him to pull her into an embrace, and she could feel in the tenseness of his body that he, too, was close to breaking.
Were she to allow her control to dissolve, then she knew he would do so as well, whether he wished it or not.
Dori was an imposing, powerful man with the very softest of hearts hidden beneath his polished granite exterior.
“What was done is done, and it is past time to move forward,” he said into her hair, careful not to crush any of Amelia and Beth’s hard work.
“I would not hand your care over to anyone whom I did not trust, regardless of the circumstances. You know that, do you not? And you are always welcome home for a visit or if you need us. Always.”
*
Pearce eyed his surroundings with a detached interest. For what it was, the smithy was well-kept and tidier than he might have expected, but it was still a soot-stained stone building, every crevice soaked with the odor of peat and woodsmoke, the metallic tang of metal coating the back of his throat.
The fires had thankfully been banked in preparation for their little gathering, but Pearce still felt as if his coat were too tight and his skin just a touch too hot.
The last place he’d ever believed he’d be, was standing before time-beaten anvil with a filthy blacksmith standing by to perform the ceremony.
Well, perhaps filthy wasn’t a fair adjective.
The man had done his best to clean up for the occasion, but his clothing and leather smock still bore the unmistakable marks of his trade.
He wore his blond hair cropped close to his head, and his ice-blue eyes were slightly terrified, if Pearce was reading them correctly.
He wanted to ask the blacksmith why he was the one who looked as if he were about to face his doom when he was merely performing the ceremony, but he bit his tongue.
Unable to bear the way the man’s nerves seemed to reach out and infect him, Pearce turned his attention back to the rest of the assemblage.
Swanleigh, Blackwood, and their respective wives had chosen to accompany them on their way back to England.
The children were left with caretakers in the carriages, no doubt anxious to be on their way.
Pearce couldn’t blame them. He’d much rather have preferred no audience for this event, but he couldn’t very well tell them all to go to hell—they were his closest friends, after all.
Besides, he’d had a bitter enough conversation along those lines with his father, and he didn’t care to have another so soon.
His remaining parent had always been an aloof man who showed little interest in his only living son and heir.
Even after Pearce’s mother had died when he’d not yet reached ten years of age, his father had kept his distance, accepted the loss of his wife as part of being a Brinley, and continued about his business.
He concerned himself with little else above caring for his estate.
So long as Pearce didn’t wind up murdered in a gutter, that seemed enough for him; until, of course, Pearce had met with him to tell him of his impending union with the younger sister of the Marquess of Kempton.