Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
How wearisome are these fashionable December weddings—Lord Mortimer to Lady Henrietta, Mr. Trumble to Miss Bateson, and Sir James to Miss Fairfield. Why do brides drag their friends out into the frigid weather when a nice summer wedding is so much more comfortable?
Ian strode to the window of the vestibule in St. Augustine’s Chapel for the tenth time in as many minutes.
But the only sight regaling him in the street half a floor below was the same spectacle of London that had gamboled past all morning—advertising wagons touting Vauxhall Gardens and Dr. Bentley’s Benign Balm, mistletoe and holly sellers, and the occasional fashionable carriage bobbing among carts and gigs.
But no sign of his recalcitrant bride. His carriage had disgorged its passengers half an hour ago without producing her. A dull thudding had begun in his head like that of an incompetent drummer. He wanted to be sick, but he wouldn’t allow it. Not on his wedding day.
Not in front of Mrs. Box and especially not in front of Jordan, who leaned stiffly against the plastered wall a few feet away.
The two of them felt sorry for him, damn them.
Though Mrs. Box peeked often into the church proper to see if her charges still sat quietly beside their idol Gideon, she spent the rest of her time blatantly observing Ian as he paced and cursed.
Jordan pretended not to notice anything or anybody, but he too sneaked glances at Ian every few minutes.
Ian planted his fists on the window sill and leaned out, knuckles scraping against stone as he surveyed the street as far as he could see. Nothing. No hacks with beautiful passengers, no discreetly curtained carriages. Where the hell was she?
He whirled toward Mrs. Box. “Are you sure Felicity said to meet her here?”
“Yes. If she weren’t back in time. Which she weren’t.”
“And she said nothing of where she was going?”
“Not a word, milord, but she promised she’d be here on time.”
He removed his pocket watch, snapped it open, noted the time, and snapped it closed.
“She’s already broken that promise by twenty-two minutes,” he growled, pivoting back to the window.
“If she doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll have to go look for her.
You know Felicity. She may have gotten into another argument with a hack driver, or the coach might be stuck or ... ”
He trailed off with a groan. He sounded like one of those bloody besotted grooms who slaver over their brides.
“She’ll be here, milord,” Mrs. Box ventured. “She probably met with a bit more traffic than expected. A mighty lot of carriages are on the road today, its bein’ Christmas Eve an’ all. But she ain’t the kind of girl to—”
“Leave a man at the altar?” Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that. It made it seem possible. But it wasn’t. Felicity would never act impulsively when her brothers’ futures were at stake.
Then again, she always surprised him. What if this was a particularly nasty surprise? God knows it would be what he deserved for his overbearing behavior. He rubbed his temples with unsteady hands. The drummer in his head had been joined by a cymbal player and a very enthusiastic trumpeter.
Jordan came to his side. “I suspect that if you asked, the vicar could produce a flask of spirits. Shall I fetch him? You look as if you could use liquid reinforcement.”
He shouldn’t have invited his friends. In truth, he hadn’t expected them to hurry to London on such short notice for his wedding, especially since Sara and Gideon had just left here. But they’d come, and now they would bear witness to his humiliation.
“No, it’s just a headache,” he lied, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. “It’s plagued me for two days.” Ever since he’d made the idiotic mistake of trying to force a certain stubborn female into marriage.
“You shan’t improve it by stickin’ your head out in that nasty cold air,” Mrs. Box put in. “Why don’t you come away from the window before you catch an ague?”
Ian shot her a dire glance. “Mrs. Box, if this wedding actually takes place and you enter my employ, you and I must have a lengthy discussion concerning your bad habit of lecturing your master.”
“I’m only tryin’ to be useful,” she said with a sniff.
“‘Useful’ and ‘annoying’ are two distinctly different things. At the moment, you’re more the latter than the former.”
“Ian,” Jordan interrupted, leaning out the window, “isn’t that her?”
Already half-resigned she wasn’t coming, Ian pivoted to brace his hands on the sill and look out once more.
A gig pulled up below with two women in it.
The passenger was Felicity, to be sure. He let out a long breath.
Then he sucked in another as he recognized the driver, whose serviceable wool gown he’d paid for himself.
Bloody hell, he was in trouble now. Why in God’s name had Felicity brought her to the wedding?
“Who’s the woman with Miss Taylor?” Jordan asked.
Ian grimaced. “My ‘friend’ from Waltham Street.”
Jordan’s silence amply demonstrated that he could guess the significance of that.
So could Ian. Felicity could have only one reason for bringing Miss Greenaway here.
His jealous fiancée probably intended to throw his “mistress” up in his face.
Though it astonished him that Miss Greenaway had agreed to the scheme.
She must not have realized what Felicity intended.
The icy air swirling into the chilly vestibule matched the ice caking his heart as he watched Felicity leap from the gig. She paused to speak to Miss Greenaway. Then to his astonishment, she turned and walked to the steps as Miss Greenaway drove off in the gig.
What the—
He headed for the door at once. His soon-to-be wife would explain this to him or by God, he’d take her over his knee.
Mrs. Box hurried after him. “Wait, milord!” she said as she caught his arm. “‘Tis bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding!”
“There won’t be a wedding if I don’t talk to her now.” Shaking off the woman’s hand, he opened the door to the vestibule as Felicity reached the top step. “You’re late.”
Her head shot up and she halted so abruptly she nearly lost her balance. Reaching out, he caught her by the arm to steady her.
“Ian! Yes, I am ... I didn’t mean to be, but ... Good Lord, have you been standing there long?”
“Half an hour. And yes, I saw you drive up with Miss Greenaway.”
In the ethereal paleness of her face, her eyes shone dark and mysterious as the sea. “It’s not what you think—”
“You don’t want to know what I think, I assure you.
” He hauled her inside the vestibule, then turned to find Jordan and Mrs. Box regarding him uneasily, like edgy members of a Greek tragedy chorus.
He leveled a black look on both. “Jordan, go tell the vicar the wedding will begin shortly, and fetch James, since he’s giving Felicity away.
Mrs. Box, join Sara and Emily in the choir room.
Tell them Felicity will be there in a moment to dress. ”
When the housekeeper hesitated, shooting Felicity an anxious glance, Felicity said, “It’s all right. Go on. I need to speak to Ian alone.”
Her calm tone only further agitated his temper. As soon as the others disappeared, he faced her with a scowl. “Well? What explanation can you possibly have for this?”
“I’m truly sorry I’m late, but we were talking and the time slipped away—”
“You know very well I’m not referring to your lateness,” he interrupted. “Why in God’s name did you go see Miss Greenaway? And what do you mean, you were talking? What about?”
“You, of course. What else?”
The orchestra from hell now howled in his head. “What did she say about me?”
“Nothing important.” With an air of distraction, she turned away to survey the vestibule. “This is a very nice church, Ian. Is it the one you attend?”
“Damn it, Felicity!” He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around to face him. “What the bloody hell did she tell you?”
Her gaze met his, cool, composed. “What if she told me the truth?”
He didn’t have to ask what truth. My God, no. Surely not. Surely if Miss Greenaway had told her the truth, Felicity wouldn’t be standing here. She’d be running away from him as far as her meager funds would carry her. Wouldn’t she?
Only when she reached up to pry his fingers from her shoulders did he realize he’d been digging them into her flesh like pincers.
She didn’t release them, however, but clasped them in hers. “She told me nothing, Ian, that you hadn’t already told me. She said you swore her to secrecy. And that you would have to tell me yourself.”
The furious pounding in his head eased, but only a little. “So she didn’t satisfy your foolish curiosity about things that don’t matter?”
“No.”
“Yet you came here anyway.”
Her brief smile reassured him. “Yes. One thing she did tell me was that your secret isn’t likely to hurt me.”
“I told you that myself.” It was far more likely to hurt him by turning her against him, which was why he wouldn’t speak of it until he had her wedded, bedded, and pregnant. And why he ignored her expectant look now. “What else did she tell you?”
She sighed. “She also said you’d be a good husband and treat me well.”
A faint hope sprouted inside him. “And you believed her?”
“Let’s just say I believe you have the potential to be a good husband.
” Her tone grew frosty. “But not if you continue to treat me the way you did the other night. Your secrecy is bad enough, but to threaten to hasten my financial ruin in such a despicable manner—” She lifted her chin a notch. “I do not like being bullied, Ian.”
The extent of that dislike was apparent in every rigid line of her slender body. He ground his teeth together. He’d already planned to apologize, but now that the moment was come the words seemed stuck in his throat. “I did what I thought was right.”
“You thought it was right to force me?”
He dragged his hands from hers. “It was the only way to make you realize the wisdom of marrying me.”
“Oh, you think so, do you?” She crossed her arms over her faded wool bodice.