Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Well, it had been a moment of weakness, and a moment of doubt about her feelings for Fortenbury, but she must move past that. Tomorrow she would not cry, but lift her head and smile, and find ways to reconnect with her future husband. She’d work to dispel his misgivings about her, and look forward to their wedding, so close at hand.
All brides worried, didn’t they? She closed her eyes and hoped some tranquil sleep might soothe her aching soul.
Chapter Seven
A Wedding Day
Elizabeth woke early the morning of her wedding and threw back the covers. She went to the window, hopeful of a clear, shining winter day, only to be met with disappointment. The sky was dark with rain clouds, the ground gray and slushy with half-melted snow. She resisted the urge to interpret the inclement weather as a negative omen.
She ducked behind the privacy screen to complete her morning toilette and make sure all lingering evidence of August’s switching had faded. She said a silent prayer of thanks that he knew what he was doing, for the last of the faint stripes had faded overnight. Her mama and sisters arrived soon after, along with her best friend Rosalind, then a bevy of maids bearing sweet buns and fruit, and all the fine trappings of a bride.
The more people arrived to dress her, the more Elizabeth felt jittery with excitement. Rosalind held her hand and urged her to eat something of the luxurious breakfast, but her stomach flip-flopped too violently with an anxious sort of joy.
Over the past few days, since Fortenbury’s row with her father, their courtship had seemed to turn a corner. She’d come to believe, as August said, that Fortenbury would eventually treasure her as a wife, as her fiancé made real efforts to get to know her. He’d revealed more of himself too, telling her about his family and his interests. He’d explained how he’d been raised in a rigid sort of home, with oppressive nannies, which made him more punctilious than he sometimes intended to be. He’d told her about his dogs, his library, and the flowering gardens at their future country home.
Any man who loved dogs, books, and gardens could not be all bad. She wished he’d revealed this side of himself before now, so she wouldn’t have worried so much. Now she would finally be married and, perhaps by next year, a mother. She watched in the mirror as the Welsh maids wove her hair into a striking crown of braids with delicate, pearl-studded ivory ribbons threaded through.
When that was done, her tearful mama gifted her a new, silken undershift specially made for the day. Her sisters took away her maiden’s nightgown and pulled the shift over her head, exclaiming how beautiful it was. It was beautiful, unbearably fine, all the way from Paris, and the pearls adorning her up-swept hair were real. She felt every inch the duke’s daughter, spoiled and shining.
Then the gown… Elizabeth had barely seen it, as they’d been embroidering it up to the last minute. It was pale pink with handworked flowers and tiny beads that sparkled by the bright winter’s light. The gown had surely cost a king’s ransom, and fit her like a second skin, down to the silk-covered buttons at her wrists.
“Are you ready?” asked Rosalind, taking her hands.
Elizabeth glanced toward the mirror, at the slender, velvet-clad princess standing there. “I suppose I must be ready. Do I look all right?”
“You look magnificent,” her friend said, “but that’s not what I mean. Are you ready to be a bride? What about tonight? Has your mother…instructed you?”
“Yes. A bit.” She glanced at her mama, busily consulting with the servants and fussing over Elizabeth’s winter-wedding bouquet. “I have a general idea what to expect, although it seems a bit outlandish.”
Rosalind grinned. “If your husband knows what he’s about, it will not seem outlandish at all. We’ll hope for the best.” A fleeting shadow of concern crossed her features, quickly dispelled. Ah, the mysterious wedding night. It did seem to send her lady friends into a flutter. Surely a man as respectable as the Marquess of Fortenbury would do everything right.
“If you’re ready, dear, we must make our way to the chapel,” said her mama. “Though I fear the rain will complicate matters. Oh, darling, what a vision you are.”
Her parents had had a special cloak made to complement her dress, an ivory, fur-lined showpiece of embroidery with more pearls. Elizabeth felt a momentary wash of tears in her eyes, at the way her mama and papa had outfitted her so royally for this ceremony. She might have endured three failed engagements, but they were determined this fourth opportunity should be her special day, with no question of her value and worth.
She felt royal indeed, as a bevy of footmen were tasked with holding umbrellas over her head for the procession. Maids scurried along beside her, elevating the hems of her dress and cloak so they would not be sullied in the slushy mud. Elizabeth lifted her chin as they hurried to the chapel through the worsening rain. She knew herself to be worthy of love. Lord August had drilled the lesson into her backside, and she’d come to believe it over the past couple days, since Lord Fortenbury had begun to treat her with greater attention and respect.