Page 78 of A Secret Consequence for the Viscount
‘Thank you for being here, Eleanor.’ Cecilia took her hand and held it. ‘I only wanted a very small wedding, but I was adamant that it should include women who might be to me like Jacob, Fred and Nicholas have been to Oliver and I have always admired the way you have lived your life exactly in the way you might want it.’
Such words were so unexpectedly sweet, Eleanor simply nodded. Cecilia Lockhart had had her detractors, but she had not ever let them sway them from her cause. Her life had not always been easy, either, for the gossip was rife when any beautiful and mysterious newcomer graced the hallowed halls of theton.
‘I am very honoured to be asked today, Cecilia. Oliver has been a fixture in the life of the Huntingdons for a long time now.’
The compliment, however, did make her braver and she was glad for the light pink gown she had donned which suited both her figure and her colouring and was one of her favourite dresses. Her hair had been fashioned with only the minimum of fuss and, in an embroidered half-cape to keep out the cold, she knew she looked her best which was important to her today.
A woman with a thousand other pathways to choose. Boudica, the warrior of the Iceni tribe, Ethelfleda, Queen of Mercia, or Gwenllian Gruffydd of Wales. Strength filled Eleanor where doubt had otherwise lingered and she lifted her chin. The power of womanhood could shine as brightly in adversity as it ever did in triumph.
As Frederick called for them all to gather closer and a minister she had not noticed before took his place, she made her way to the large windows at one end of the room. A bower of paper roses had been placed there with streams of cream ribbon and green holly. Appropriate and beautiful for a New Year wedding in a venue that had been important to both Cecilia and Oliver.
Of a sudden her own worries were pushed aside and she felt the delight of a couple who were well suited and about to be joined in holy matrimony.
Nicholas was the best man. This fact surprised her as he came to stand next to Oliver, a ring box in hand. Frederick and Jacob were right next to him, a group of four men who had been close friends since childhood. Each had a sprig of winter jasmine in their lapel and there was a large vase of the same perfumed flower on a table behind the bower. Jacob still looked out of sorts, but less so than he had done on first entering the club. Perhaps he had had a word with Nicholas? She hoped so.
‘We are gathered here today for the marriage of...’
The words of the minister sounded out over silence and it was then that Nicholas Bartlett truly looked at her, his velvet brown eyes locking into her own with a sort of pained desperation.
Shock tore down Eleanor’s spine, for everything she could see on his face was the exact opposite of the words that had been in the note.
She could not take her eyes from his and for a good ten seconds they looked into each other’s souls and then away. Her heart was beating so fast and hard she felt slightly sick.
Disorientated. Dizzy. Gritting her teeth together, she concentrated on the wedding.
Cecilia looked radiant and Oliver looked... She could not quite describe how he looked. He was a very handsome man who had set thetonon fire with his charm and grace, but he had never seemed quite relaxed. Today he did, his smile wide and his eyes bright with love. Their hands were joined tightly together, the white of his knuckles easily seen from where she stood.
They were perfect.
And, God, she wanted that for herself, the melding of one person to the other so that the whole was better than the two halves.
Swallowing twice, she tried to catch on to a failing fortitude. She had known such perfection as she had lain in the heat of Nicholas’s bed and loved him.
Her cheeks burned as the minister glanced her way and then the rings were exchanged, Cecilia’s a small white-gold circle with diamonds and Oliver’s a wider plain gold band.
Nicholas looked thankful that this part of the service was over. Would he make a speech?
She heard Rose sigh beside her and looked at her sister-in-law who was dabbing her brimming eyes.
‘Weddings always make me cry,’ she explained. ‘It’s the hope in them, I think, and the promise.’
Her own lack of true participation made her feel guilty. She had been so preoccupied with seeing what Nicholas looked like up there that she had hardly spared a thought for either the bride or the groom. When she was called up to the front to sign the marriage papers as a witness she was shocked for she would have to stand right next to Nicholas Bartlett and look him in the eye whilst acting as if she was neither devastated nor heartbroken.
The pretence of it was almost too much to bear.
Rose’s elbow came against her, urging movement, and smiling, even though it was the last thing she wished to do, she stepped forward.
Nicholas Henry Stewart Bartlett. He was left handed. She had not known that, but he used his damaged arm to sign his name, with the bandage just visible under the dark cuff of his jacket.
And when he had finished he turned and gave her the pen, his fingers touching hers at the transfer.
‘You need to place your name beneath mine.’ Today the accent of the Americas could be heard squarely in his words. A further separation. Another distance.
With care she bent to add her name to the document, although all she could concentrate on was the feel of him at her side.
He had never said ‘I love you’ when she had been in his bed at the Bromley town house. In the throes of desire and lust he had promised her a lot less than she had promised him and yet he had not been dishonest. He had asked for her consent and she had given it. But he had never spoken of his love.
Now as he stood next to her speaking with Jacob and Frederick and with six inches between them, all she wanted to do was to move closer and touch him.
