Page 23 of When her Duke Returns
Francis had been almost beyond reconciliation when first Harry received the Duke’s letter. He had grown evenmoreenraged to learn that Harry had accepted the invitation without question, for the Duke had proposed a familialsojournof sorts—a grand countryside reunion of Carlisles, Simons and Rowes.
To her surprise, the Stantons had been invited as well, both Sir Tristan Stanton and his wife Tatiana and Cecelia, most naturally. Most of the women in attendance had decided to picnic out of doors as the weather was fair while the men and Cecelia had gone riding. Only Antony proved an exception as he had taken up the peculiar habit of shadowing Mary wheresoever she went.
As Mary settled into her seat once the tea had come and gone, a book on her lap and an ungodly desire to be left alone, she felt a hand press gently against hers. It was, much to her dismay, her betrothed, vying for her attention much like the buzzing of a fly.
“Mary, darling, did you hear me?”
“What?” she asked then as if awakening from a bright dream, and she tore her eyes from the sun-kissed lawns ahead. “I am quite sorry. The travel has worn me out, I fear. What was it you said?”
“I asked whether you remembered the last time the two of us were here.”
Mary didn’t even take the time to search her memories. They were of no value to her. “I can’t say I do.”
“I believe I was twelve which would have made you seven or the like. Surely you remember! It was the summer before I left to board. We would spend entire days running about the garden after one another, playing hiding games.”Mary shook her head.
“That is quite strange. I remember it splendidly, especially the morning you stripped yourself of your dress and began running around the fountain like a common cupid, refusing to leave when your parents were headed out.”
At that, Mary could not help but smile too. “I did? I suppose that does sound rather like me.”
“Your mother was beside herself,” he said through a breathy chuckle. “My parents vowed to never let us see your lot again after that display. Thankfully, your brother and I were too well-acquainted to stay well away.”
“I imagine they must still be quite cross with me to have declined Redgrave’s invitation,” Mary joked though she was rather glad of the fact, in truth. The situation was bad enough without herin-laws-to-beprying.
“No, darling. Of course not.” Antony’s expression soured, and he dipped his voice. “Father is too old for travel, and they are none too keen on the Rowes besides.”
“I suppose that runs in the family,” she retorted. It was difficult for Mary to hide her disdain for Antony at the best of times, but she was particularly saddened by his decision to come down with them. He had accepted the invitation out of no love for the Duke; that much she knew for certain.
Antony failed to reply, and Mary felt rather victorious. Thankfully, the frigid quiet between them subsided as her mother chimed in. She had been sitting on a blanket with Sophia and the younger Duchess, locked in easy conversation, all three of them marvels of English beauty in their pastel-colored, ruffled gowns. The castle cat, Pudding, had curled up beside them.
“My dearest daughter, Rosamund is asking whether you’ve picked out your dress yet. Will you explain to her why you’re stalling, or shall I?”
Mary sighed. This was not a topic she wished to broach, especially not as Antony was within earshot. “I haven’t found anything suitable,” she mumbled and returned to her book.
“Well, it’s hard to find something suitable if you don’tlook. Mary shall get married in her nightgown if she doesn’t hasten her step.”
“Perhaps I can put a word in with my seamstress to see if she can get you sorted. She is quite delightful!” the Duchess said as she plucked a gooseberry from the basket of food beside them. “And what of you Antony?”
“I doubt there is much a dressmaker could do for me,” he replied in jest, and the women seemed most entertained.
“You wouldn’t happen to know of any decent florists, would you? We’re stumped on that account as well,” her mother asked, shielding her eyes from the uncharacteristically bright English sun.
Rosamund’s lips formed a hard line. “None come to mind. I shall have a word with some friends in London and see if they come up with any.”
“Not in London, my dear.”
At that, Mary’s interest piqued. “Why not in London?”
“Well, there’s no point ordering flowers in London only to have them delivered to the Simons in Edinburgh. They would wilt,” her mother explained, and the women set out about laughing again.
Mary scowled. “Why are we having flowers delivered to Edinburgh?”
“Well, you shall want flowers at your wedding, surely,” Sophia spoke then. “It will such a dull affair without them.”
“We are to marry inEdinburgh?”
Antony placed a hand on her shoulder and rose to his feet, shaking the white iron table at which they were sitting with his sudden movement. “Darling, if we might have a word in private.”
“No,” Mary said flatly, then turned back to her mother. “I thought we were to wed at Summerhead.”
