Page 56 of When her Duke Returns
“No,” she said through a laugh. “Look at your mother and your grandmother. That life is not for me… Do they perchanceknow?”
Alexander laughed then. He was bewildered by the goodness of her nature. He had never known anyone like her, and it pained him more than he could say that he could not bring himself to love her. “No, they do not.”
“And here I thoughtIwould be in a hobble,” she jested. “What will you say?”
“The truth,” he replied and shrugged.
“That you love Mary.”
“That I love Mary more than life itself.”
Cecelia dipped her head low, and Alexander took a step forth. “You have given me the greatest gift, Miss Stanton. Never doubt it.”
ChapterTwenty-Three
As Lady Mary looked over the green gardens of Dundurk Abbey on the morning of her wedding, she allowed herself to sink into a familiar song—one of a sailor and his forgotten love. She hummed as she watched over the servants, running to-and-fro along the lawn with crates of drink and sweets in hand. She hummed as she caught sight of her mother under a white, fabric tent, speaking with the parents of her cursed betrothed with their tight-lipped smiles and genteel manners. She hummed as she traced the path her brothers took along the sand-colored gravel paths that twinned the abbey’s hedges, embroiled in talk far beyond her reach.
And she continued to hum when they came in to dress and coif her, for it was the only thing she could do to stop herself from crying.
A flurry of girls rushed around, headed by Honora as they primmed Mary beyond recognition. Her face was dusted over by a veil of white, and a rouge was placed upon her cheeks and lips to bring out hernaturalbeauty, soon to be smothered by the artifice of her gown, of her rubies, and of her hair in its long, thick braid. They dipped their fingers into a balm with her favorite scent to gently trail it over her neck and behind her ears.
“You look perfect,” one girl said.
“Not perfect,sublime,” another argued.
“The most beautiful bride to have ever been.”
“The most beautiful bride therewillever be!”
And so on and so forth until at last she was gifted a moment quiet on the upper floor of that Scottish abbey. Honora had laid out the locket Antony had gifted her, but Mary could not bring herself to adorn it. She settled into an insufferably long staring match with the necklace until she felt strong enough to brush it aside, letting it fall limply to the floor—a small victory should there be no others.
She rose from her seat at the oak-paneled vanity and ambled back to the small balcony of her room. Guests had begun to gather outside as they awaited their walk to the small church by the Abbey. She spotted a few familiar faces—Lords and Ladies she had long known as friends of her mother’s and their many children—but she could not help but feel like the landscape was askew—as though the players and the setting and the light from the sun itself were not as they should be. It occurred to her that they might have been better off putting the banns up months ago and being done with it all—no pomp nor pre-eminence nor any dukes.
The Duke. Heavens, how she missed the Duke! She could not help but wonder where he would go now that he was free—back to Whitcliff, back to war… The possibilities were beyond counting, She resented him for his sex and longed for his touch in equal parts. It would do her no good to recall him now, she resolved, nor the sweetness of his embrace. Life, from this day forth, would be one without promise.
To her surprise, she spotted Sir Tristan and Lady Stanton amongst the collection of guests in the garden. They were speaking with Mary’s mother though the nature of their conversation seemed benign. She had not expected to seeanyof the Stantons at her wedding, the Rowes having sworn themselves off her completely.Good riddance,she thought,to Elara and her scheming.
With a sigh, she stepped back from the balcony to look at the clockface above the fire. It was only ten o’clock with an hour yet to go until their procession would commence. A knock sounded from the door, and Mary turned to face it.
“Come in,” she said, and the sound of her own voice startled her.
The door opened slowly, creaking as it went until at last a most surprising face peaked between the crack. “May I come in?” Cecelia stuttered, her blonde curls barely visible through the space left between the door and its panel.
Mary dizzied over at once. “Of course… Ofcourse!” She urged her friend inside, unconvinced this was not a dream.
Cecelia stood in a beautiful cherry gown, and her skin was golden against the morning light of the day. Somehow, she looked no worse for her dismissal by the Duke; somehow, she was nervously beaming. “You look magnificent, Mary. Really, you’re more beautiful than I can put into words!” the girl gasped.
The turn of their friendship was yet to be revealed, and Mary could not help but feel some awkwardness between them. “Thank you,” she began and then in more earnest continued, “I’m surprised to see you.”
“I’m surprised I found the balls to come—if you’ll pardon my language. I simply couldn’t stand the thought of you being cross with me nor of you marrying without my being present.”
“I could never be cross with you, Cece. Not forever,” Mary murmured, her lips tacky with rouge. “I may have harbored some ill toward you before but not anymore—I swear it. Had I been in your shoes, doubtless I would have acted in much the same way.”
Cecelia sighed in relief as she brought Mary’s hand to her face. “I’m so sorry for everything that has come to pass between us.”
“As am I... More than you know.”
Cecelia seemed to sober. “Butyoudon’t know the extent of my misgivings. I have been rotten to you, and I cannot let you wed until you know the full of it.”
