Page 39 of Long Live the Baron
Brendan shifted, raising a hand to knead his temple and shield his eyes from the light pouring through the stained-glass window above the altar. For some reason, the thought that Miss Abbott might not appear was disappointing, which he needed to make sense of. He supposed that Miss Abbott had struck him as a genuine person. She certainly possessed integrity in spades. When he had imagined his future marriage, it had always been to someone sincere and enlivened. Someone with grace like his late mother, and someone with courage like his sister, not to mention someone who engaged in strategy such as Richard’s wife or the wife of Richard’s brother, Perry.
It seems Miss Abbott fits the bill.
The young lady was everything he admired in a person. The lack of physical attraction was his only objection, but surely that was a minor issue in something as important as a lifetime partnership. He was an experienced man in the matter of bedding. There would be some sort of solution to that problem.
Confound it!
That thought turned to the expectations of later that evening. He would need to consummate his marriage with a girl who reminded him of playing with his sister in their youth, with her frothy lace and childish form.
Brendan pressed his thumb down on the pressure in the indented temple area, but it did not ease the mounting tension in his skull.
The vicar shuffled again in agitation, reminding him that their ceremony was running late, just as a commotion at the front doors had Brendan whipping his head round. The countess entered along with Lady Moreland, quickly striding down the aisle to sit in the pews alongside Abbott. Swinging his head back, Brendan watched Lord Moreland enter with an unknown woman on his arm and, for a second, stood still.
My God! If only I were marrying her!
The young woman was breathtaking. Her glossy brown hair was piled high, with tendrils escaping to frame her face. She had creamy skin offset by a deep red gown, which was overlaid by tulle with gold shots that brought out the warm tones of her complexion. Her bodice modestly covered her breasts while framing her milky décolletage, pushing a man’s thoughts to notions of slowly unwrapping her silky clothing to reveal the rounded mounds beneath, while her skirts flowed softly from a slim waist over curving hips.
Brendan shut his eyes, admonishing himself. It was his wedding day, and he was noticing a woman other than his bride? It was deplorable. Was he a ravening beast who could not control his ardor?
Opening his eyes once more, he found Lord Moreland had moved down the aisle with the young woman. Brendan frowned, tilting his head to look back at the doors, but Miss Abbott was nowhere to be seen.
Lord Moreland arrived at the front pews, and the woman let go of his arm, coming to stand near Brendan and smiling gently in greeting. Brendan smiled back in perplexity, glancing back to find his missing bride.
The woman raised a quizzical brow when he turned back. “Shall we begin? The vicar surely needs to prepare for service.”
“Miss Abbott?”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
Brendan hesitated, his eyes surveying her quickly. She was undeniably petite. The approximate size of the woman he had visited at the Abbott home. She had a heart-shaped face with huge brown eyes, a pointed chin, and delicate ears. If he imagined her with ringlets and ruffles, he supposed these might be the same elfin features that he had been in conversation with a few days earlier.
Damn it! Do I not know what my bride looks like?
Brendan swallowed a wave of mortification. Perhaps he had never had sufficient interest to really look at her, not as a vague shape and conglomeration of debutante hair and gowns, but actually see her. His only defense was that negotiating the marriage contracts, and getting them signed, along with meeting with Briggs regarding the murder, had taken up all of his time and wits while hasty plans had been made for the license and ceremony.
Feeling foolish, he refrained from shaking his head to clear his thoughts and took his place by the vicar, who was peering at him with an impatient expression. The fragrance of honey teased his senses, and he glanced at his bride, wondering if the scent was hers.
Brendan’s strange week had grown even stranger. Each time he thought he knew who Miss Abbott was, a surprising new facet was revealed for him to admire. He felt the worst scoundrel, cringing at his failure to recognize her, and to have momentarily been distracted by someone he believed to not be his bride. It was high time to change his ways, and the events of the past two weeks had certainly set him on a better course.
Fancy that! She is gorgeous under all that childish adornment.
* * *
The wedding breakfasthad been a success, despite the aged state of the room, many members of their party already being familiar with each other. The room had been filled with hothouse flowers, providing bright spots of color alongside shining crystal and glinting silver. Lily’s groom had expressed his doubts about hosting the breakfast, but Sophia had insisted that the Abbotts needed to feel welcome in Lily’s new home to set their minds at ease. Personally, Lily preferred Ridley House for the event because it was set off on a side street close to the square, rather than the Abbotts’ home which was directly across from Lady Slight’s townhouse.
Lily thanked each person as they took their leave, struggling against a suffocating embrace from her weeping mother before Papa had taken her by the arm to depart.
Brendan’s odd-fish friend, Lord Trafford, walked up. He had a bizarre thatch of blond hair, while the lower portions of his hair were more of a contrasting brown, and Lily wondered if it was an affectation that his valet had somehow bleached. If so, the heir to Lord Stirling might have too much time on his hands.
The gentleman bowed deeply, his frothy cuffs flittering around his wrists, with the air of a man who had stepped off a fashion plate. “Congratulations, Lady Filminster. Ridley is a good chap. Take care of him, you hear?”
Lily smiled tentatively, unsure how to respond to such a remark. Lord Trafford strolled away to join the duke and her husband, who were standing in the dim hall, leaving the duchess alone with Lily in the breakfast room. Like the other rooms Lily had been in, the breakfast room had ebony wood paneling cladding the walls, worn carpeting, and fading wallpaper. The furniture was large and brooding, and the townhouse needed to be renovated.
My townhouse!
The duchess rose from a heavy hardwood chair and made her way to where Lily was standing.
“Your Grace.” Lily sank into a curtsy. “Thank you for attending.”
