Page 21 of Lady Beast's Bridegroom
It wasn’t enough. How dare that witch call her a gargoyle? And for Arial to implicitly accept the insult! “She is also lovely in appearance,” he added, “as every man here tonight can attest. I would be proud to take her anywhere on my arm.”
He turned his attention to Miss Weatherall. “Before you say anything more, Miss Weatherall, you might wish to consider that she uses a mask to cover a few physical scars not for her own sake, but to protect the sensibilities of the small-minded.”
*
Not since herfather had died had anyone stood up for Arial the way Peter did. And even her father had never claimed she was lovely. Pure flattery, of course. She looked well enough in this gown, with the pretty mask the girls had decorated, but she was not lovely.
Even without the lesser scars that traced a subtle pattern in a purplish red across her forehead and down her neck, she would not be considered pretty. She was too tall and her curves too generous. Her chin was square and her mouth over large.
And that did not begin to count the ugly, discolored, and broken knots beneath the mask and on one shoulder and arm under her gown. She had, or so they told her, been found with that arm over her chin and mouth, which had kept the worst burns to her cheek, eye, and forehead.
She appreciated the support Peter offered, whether his words were true or not.
Captain Forsythe was proving to be another champion. “Time for us to leave,” he said, abruptly. “Come, ladies.” It was the voice of an officer, accustomed to command, and the grim look he gave the Weatherall ladies had them scurrying out into the hall without another word.
Captain Forsythe bowed to Arial. “I am sorry I brought them, Lady Ransome. If I’d known…”
“Don’t concern yourself, Captain. They are only saying what others will.”
He didn’t deny it. “But in your own house, at your wedding…” He grasped Peter’s hand. “Congratulations, Peter. You have always been a lucky so-and-so.” From beyond the room, Miss Weatherall’s voice could be heard, complaining about being left in the hall. “I’d better get those two out of here.”
After he took the Weatherall ladies away, the party broke up. Mr. Richards and the vicar took their leave, after expressing their pleasure at being of service, and wishing the bride and groom every blessing.
“Time for bed,” Miss Pettigrew said to Viv and Rose.
“I shall come up and read you a story, shall I?” Clara suggested. The girls agreed, and they all took their leave.
“Once the girls are settled, I shall take Miss Pettigrew to my little sitting room for the evening,” Clara whispered to Arial. “You need not expect to see any of us again tonight.”
Arial could feel the heat rising in her face. She knew in theory what would happen tonight, but theory was a long way from experience.
“I meant what I said, you know,” Peter told her. “You are lovely. The dress. The mask. I was very proud to stand beside you tonight and take my vows.”
“Thank you. Painting the mask was your sisters’ idea. They did an excellent job, did they not?”
“They did. It is really pretty, and I’m glad you had something special for your wedding.” He poured her a glass of wine, and one for himself.
She accepted the glass and felt a shiver all the way up her arm when her fingers touched his. “I never thought of decorating my mask. As soon as I saw their one in the mirror, I wondered why. The plain white draws attention. I’ve been told it makes people think of bone.” She shuddered.
Peter sipped at his wine. “I don’t know about that, but it isn’t a pretty object in its own right. And why should you not wear pretty things?”
This was very true, and it put her in mind of something. “Thank you for your mother’s jewels, Peter.”
“Yours, now.” His smile was tender. “They are Lady Ransome’s jewels, and you are Lady Ransome.”
She put a hand to her throat, over the necklace, overwhelmed by the thought.
Peter had some thanks of his own. “Thank you for my sisters’ gowns, Arial, and for asking them to attend you. They were over the moon to be so favored.”
“Not a favor. They are my sisters, now, too.” She turned her glass in her hands, her eyes on that as one of Peter’s statements echoed in her mind. “Peter, did you mean it when you said you would be proud to have me on your arm, looking the way I do?” She had never imagined going out in Society without a veil, but she had longed to do so. Perhaps she could be brave enough, if Peter were with her.
He had been about to take another sip, but he put the glass down, his eyes wide in what looked like disbelief. “Are you joking? When you came down the stairs tonight, do you know the words that leapt to my mind? As you stood there in a gown that showed your magnificent curves, tall and graceful? Queen, I thought, and then, Goddess. You are glorious, my lady. When I said I was proud of you, I meant it.”
His words warmed her and gave her courage. Did he mean them? She would soon find out.
“Then do you think we should remain in town for a short time? Perhaps… I have been thinking perhaps we should go out in Society. If you wouldn’t hate it too much.”
“Go out? You mean to soirées and dinners and balls and the like?” Peter frowned. He was surprised, and no wonder. She was surprised herself. She had been hiding away in the country for most of her life. But suddenly, she wanted more.
