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)
She noticed August sitting at the harpsichord in his fine coat and starched cravat as soon as they went inside, felt his strengthening presence and the presence of all the friends and family who wished her well. The marquess’s side of the chapel was rather sparse, perhaps due to the weather, but the air was fragrant with the smell of greenery, and white candles lit the altar where the parson stood.
“Wait here with Rosalind,” said her mama, peering into the church. She took her father aside and spoke in a tight whisper Elizabeth wasn’t meant to overhear. “Where is Fortenbury? Why don’t I see him?”
“They’ve sent a footman,” said her papa. “I’m told he went afield last night to find a pub and drink whiskey with some friends.”
“Poor behavior, knowing the wedding was at ten o’clock this morning.”
Elizabeth tried to picture her straitlaced fiancé out drinking with friends. Gentlemen did such things before they married, did they not? Elizabeth turned to Rosalind. “I feel hot. Is it hot in here?”
“Let’s take off your cloak.” Rosalind undid the looped button and handed the cloak to a footman. Over Rosalind’s shoulder, Elizabeth saw her brother leave out a side door. Where was Wescott going? Why did he grimace so? Weddings were supposed to be happy occasions.
Where was her groom?
“I’m sure he’s only overslept,” said her mama, returning to her side. “He’s got to wash and shave and put on all his finery if he’s to stand beside a beautiful girl like you.”
She was trying to sound light, but Elizabeth knew her mama’s voice, and she didn’t sound light. She sounded furious.
Some of the wedding guests turned to look back at them, wondering at the delay. Lord August waited at the gold-embossed harpsichord to play the chosen processional piece. The candles burned, flickering in the stillness. Cairwyn’s pastor stood unmoving, bald and stalwart and Welsh as her grandpapa. He had kind eyes. She was glad of that.
How much time had passed? Five minutes? Ten? There was nowhere in the rear of the church to sit down and wait.
Her brother returned after what felt like an eternity, and spoke with her papa near the side door. She couldn’t hear their conversation, only see the animation in her brother’s words and the red that crept up about her papa’s ears.
Her grandpapa appeared and joined the conversation. Her mama grabbed the nearest, largest footman and issued curt orders.
“You must prevent Lord Lisburne from going after the marquess. If he finds him, he’ll shoot him where he stands.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the footman murmured, gesturing to another to help him.
Her grandpapa started to yell. It might not have been a yell, it only sounded so loud in the echoing chapel. “The bloody bastard. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the man.”
Many heads turned now, all the heads in the church. Elizabeth stared at them, half in shock, her vision going blurry until they seemed one accusing mass. She realized now that the marquess’s side was thin because most of his friends were gone, and he was gone, not to a pub, but away.
He was not coming to their wedding.
He would not treasure her after all.
She opened her mouth and closed it, going hot and cold and sick. This was worse than a fourth broken engagement. This was her total ruin, her social demise. She was put back in her cloak, gentle hands patting and guiding her. Mama took her to the door of the church, then out. Elizabeth was glad now for the umbrellas shielding her. Her magnificent, bespoke velvet wedding dress rustled in the cold. The frigid rain mocked her. She looked to the east, as if she might see her betrothed leaving, abandoning her, but the road was empty. He was surely long gone.
She didn’t recall much of anything after that, until she roused from her stupor before the mirror, as the gentle maids took down her hair. They were so careful, so light undoing each braid so as not to tug and hurt. They placed the pearl-studded ribbon back into its lined box. They were so tender and sympathetic she could have cried for it, if she was able to cry at all.
*
August stood from the harpsichord as Lord Lisburne shouted across the breadth of the church, cursing Fortenbury, his ancestors, and “every blamed coward with Hampshire blood.” He glimpsed Elizabeth’s pale, stricken face just a moment before they bundled her away.
The image still lingered in his mind. Her delicate, porcelain-fine features, her dark crown of hair, her stunningly elegant gown. Her shock. Her misery.
He closed the instrument’s cover and exited the church with Townsend and Marlow. The three of them joined the group trying to prevent Lord Lisburne from going after Fortenbury, even as August fought the urge to do so himself. Fortenbury must have left in the night, the bloody criminal. His close friends and family were gone with him, while the rest of the Fortenbury contingent slunk away to pack their bags.