The Wedding Affair

by Leigh Michaels

  “Mrs. Meecham, this is not my home any longer. The new vicar will take up his post at any moment, and I could hardly be in residence when he appears. I feel fortunate Lady Reyne offered me shelter.”

  “Your father served this parish for thirty years, God rest his soul, and ever since your mother died, you’ve been right there alongside him. It’s a crime for you to lose your home and your security because that good man died too young.”

  Kate didn’t argue, because they’d covered this ground so many times that the discussion had lost all of its intensity.

  One of the housemaids popped her head into the kitchen. “There’s a carriage drawing up in front, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Meecham whipped off her apron and smoothed her dress. “That’ll be the new vicar. You’ll stay and meet him of course, Miss Blakely?”

  “Oh, no,” Kate said hastily. “Not today. He’ll be tired after his long journey.”

  The maid was shaking her head. “It’s not that kind of a carriage. It’s marked with the duke’s crest, and a footman’s coming up the walk.”

  Kate’s heart gave a little flutter. After so long, she’d almost given up, but perhaps her letter to the duchess hadn’t been ignored after all.

  “Then go open the door and see what he wants, foolish girl,” Mrs. Meecham ordered. As the maid left, the housekeeper’s eye fell on Kate once more. “As for the new vicar, you’ll have to meet him sometime.”

  “Whenever he arrives to take up his post, he can find me at Lady Reyne’s cottage.” Kate knew she sounded stubborn, so she added more softly, “I would not wish him to believe I was trying to push myself into his household or instruct him as to how to go on.”

  “Who better to guide him than you, with all your experience in this parish? Since he’s your own cousin, I expect he’ll want your opinion about how best to begin with his new flock.”

  Kate didn’t argue the point, for she was far more interested in why the Somervale footman was at the door. Perhaps the duchess had been away and had only now received Kate’s letter…

  The housekeeper added a new loaf of crusty bread to the basket, already weighed down with preserves and bottled fruit, just as the maid returned to the kitchen. She held a folded parchment in her hand. “It’s for you, miss. From the duchess.”

  Kate broke the seal on the parchment, while trying to keep her hand from trembling. If the duchess had agreed to help her find employment…

  Her Grace, the Duchess of Somervale, requests that Miss Katherine Blakely honor the company with her presence at the marriage of Her Grace’s daughter, Lady Daphne Elliot…

  Kate stared at the parchment. It was not the letter she had hoped for. Not an offer of help or advice. It wasn’t even personal. The lump in her throat threatened to choke her.

  Mrs. Meecham was shamelessly looking over Kate’s shoulder. “So Lady Daphne’s getting married in less than a month’s time. Halstead must be all aflutter.”

  The big house would be en fete, Kate thought. Full of people from the upper classes of society.

  Kate had written to the duchess because she was the only person able to help. But with an entire houseful of the rich, famous, and idle… Surely one of them could provide the help Kate needed to leave Steadham. And the invitation to Lady Daphne’s wedding made it possible for her to meet them.

  With a sudden—and rare—burst of warm feeling toward Lady Daphne, Kate forgot all about her calls and the loaded basket, and she walked back to Lady Reyne’s cottage, thinking hard.

  ***

  Once again, Penelope Townsend had lain awake late into the night, listening for noises from the bedroom next to her own. But even with the windows thrown wide to catch the few cool night breezes that London afforded, the house on Berkeley Square was too well built for sound to travel. So she had tossed between her fine linen sheets, wondering when or if her husband had come home, until sometime in the wee hours when she had finally dropped off to sleep.

  In the morning, out of sorts at having slept badly and not long enough, she was roused by the clatter of her lady’s maid bringing in her chocolate. As Etta opened the curtains, Penelope sat up wearily and ran her hands through her hair. As usual, it had popped out of her overnight braid and was straggling around her face, her curls as thick and springy as wires and completely unmanageable. Etta draped a satin bed jacket around Penelope’s shoulders and set the tray on her knees. The maid’s eyes fell on Penelope’s hair, and she sighed.

  Penelope didn’t blame her. Etta’s skills were wasted on a mistress with few natural recommendations; if not for the enormous wage Penelope’s father paid her, Etta would never have taken what she seemed to think was a thankless job.

  Lying next to the fat little china chocolate pot was a folded sheet of paper, and Penelope’s heart jolted. Could this be a note from her husband?

  The page crackled as she unfolded it, and she noticed that the seal had been broken already. It was only a letter that must have arrived for her with the morning’s post. A letter that someone else had already opened…

  Before she could work up the energy to be offended that someone had read her mail, she realized it was an invitation inscribed in perfect calligraphy on rich, yellowish parchment.

  Her Grace, the Duchess of Somervale, requests that The Earl and Countess of Townsend honor the company with their presence at the marriage of…

  Penelope turned the sheet over to check the address. It was indeed directed to both of them—and no servant would have dared to break the seal of a letter that was addressed to the earl. Which meant her husband must have opened it himself.

  “Is his lordship at home?” She was proud that her voice didn’t quiver.

  “Yes, my lady. The footman was fetching his hat and stick when I came upstairs.”

  That meant the earl was on his way out of the house for the day. Again.

  Penelope bit her lip. “Bring me a dressing gown. I’m going downstairs right now.”

  Etta looked startled. And well she might, Penelope thought—for every other time her mistress had asked whether the earl was at home, it had been so she could avoid him, not seek him out. “But… my lady, you’re not…”

  “Will you get my dressing gown, or shall I?”

  Etta’s gaze fell, and she retrieved the satin and lace robe that matched Penelope’s nightgown—part of her trousseau. Not that it mattered any more, Penelope thought as she tossed her hair back over her shoulders. Before Etta could fuss any more about her going out into the public areas of the house in her nightclothes, Penelope was descending the stairs. The broad marble treads felt deliciously cool against her bare toes.

  The Earl of Townsend was in the hall accepting his hat, gloves, and walking stick from the hands of the senior footman. The earl didn’t seem to hear the whisper of Penelope’s satin hem against the stairs, for he didn’t look up.

  Penelope cleared her throat. “May I have a moment, my lord?”

  The footman’s hand slipped and he dropped the walking stick, which clattered against the marble floor.

  The earl turned slowly turned toward the staircase. “Ma’am?” His voice was coolly polite—the same tone in which he addressed a servant who had made a very messy error.

  Her toes twisted nervously against the marble as she regarded him. He was every inch the gentleman this morning. His coats always fitted perfectly; his gloves were always spotless, and his face always handsome and unlined, no matter what hour of the night he had returned home.

  Too late, she realized what she must look like this morning—hair tumbled, gown creased and awry. No wonder Etta hadn’t wanted her to come downstairs. Penelope was not surprised when the earl’s gaze grew even chillier than usual.

  “I saw the invitation,” she managed finally. “Is it your intention to attend the wedding?”

  “Of course I will attend. Lady Daphne Elliot is a member of my family. I believe she’s some sort of cousin, but no doubt your father could enlighten me on the precise relationship, since
he has studied my pedigree with far more concern than I have.”

  His voice was beautiful, she thought. Even the sarcastic edge that sometimes turned it into a weapon failed to make his deep tones seem any less musical.

  He adjusted his hat. “Good day, ma’am.”

  Though he’d answered the question she had asked, Penelope was left feeling just as uncertain. “Wait.” She flinched at the way he set his jaw; she hadn’t meant to issue a command. “Is it your wish that I attend the wedding as well?”

  “You will attend,” he said coolly, “because the duchess has ordered it.” He bowed, and without hurry, went out. The sound of the footman closing the door behind him was oddly final.

  And that, Penelope thought grimly as she climbed the stairs once more, had been all the answer she needed. She was going to the wedding only because the Duchess of Somervale had left the earl no option but to bring her.

  ***

  The Duke of Somervale had arrived at Halstead barely two hours earlier, but already he was daydreaming of being somewhere else. Anywhere else. Even London.

  The fact that he would consider leaving the country seat he loved to go haring off to London—hot, dusty, and smelly as the city would be in the last half of August—brought him up short.

  Simon focused his gaze once more on his butler, who was standing straight and square directly in the center of the library, and tried to take in what Greeley had just told him.

  The eventual outcome was plain, Simon thought. Daphne’s wedding is going to kill me.

  The butler raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Your Grace?”

  “Did I say that out loud, Greeley?”

  “I didn’t quite catch…”

  “Good.” Simon leaned back in his chair. “You must be mistaken. My mother cannot possibly have invited enough people to Daphne’s wedding that every bedroom in the whole of Halstead is committed.”

  Greeley cleared his throat and looked unhappy, but he didn’t back down.

  “My mother doesn’t know enough people to fill every bedroom at…” Simon’s protest wasn’t literally true, for the dowager duchess of Somervale knew everyone. Worse yet, everyone knew her. Still, she didn’t generally go round inviting every person whose name she recognized to parties, much less to a once-in-a-lifetime event like her daughter’s wedding.

  Suspicion darkened Simon’s voice. “Greeley, you’re not trying to tell me she’s tossed me out of my bedroom, are you?”

  “No, sir. The duchess would never assign a guest to your suite, for she has a far deeper appreciation of the consequence required by the position of His Grace of Somervale than…” The butler coughed. “That is…”

  “Than I do, you started to say.” Simon pushed himself up from his chair and crossed the library to the terrace door that stood open to the perfect summer sunshine. From out on the lawn, somewhere around the corner of the house and out of sight, came the sound of girlish giggles. A positive chorus of girlish giggles.

  Simon felt the color drain from his face. “They’re already invading? But the wedding is still almost a week away!”

  “The bridesmaids have all arrived, sir. Her Grace left plenty of time for final fittings of all the gowns, since there are precisely a dozen young ladies.”

  “Twelve? It takes twelve bridesmaids to get Daphne down the aisle?”

  “Also, a few members of the family have already made their appearance. Colonel Sir Tristan Huffington explained that since he did not wish to chance missing the festivities, he set out early in case travel conditions became difficult.”

  “Nonsense. The summer’s been fine, and the roads are in excellent condition. He set out early so he could enjoy Halstead’s amenities for an extra week.”

  “And Lady Daphne’s godmother is in residence as well, to offer her support to the bride.”

  “Now there’s a misnomer,” Simon muttered. “Godmother, I mean. If that woman has ever been on nodding acquaintance with the Almighty, I’ll swallow my best hat. All right, Greeley, you’ve made your point. How many will be sitting down to dinner tonight?”

  “Twenty-two, sir.”

  “And if that’s only the vanguard…” Simon sighed. “Thanks for the warning, old chap.”

  But Greeley stood as still as if his toes had melted into the plush rug in front of the desk. “Just one more thing, sir. Mrs. Greeley observed to me as she was making the bedroom assignments that an unusually high proportion of the guests Her Grace has invited to stay here at Halstead are young, unmarried ladies.”

  “What’s strange about that? Most of my sister’s friends must be young, unmarried ladies.” But there had been a note in Greeley’s voice that sounded almost as though he was sounding an alarm.

  The butler bowed. “As you say, sir. The mixture of guests is quite coincidental—and that’s what I informed Mrs. Greeley.”

  Coincidental. The word seemed to hang in the quiet air of the library until another, closer ripple of feminine laughter pushed it aside.

  A shadow fell across the polished floor from the terrace outside, and Lady Daphne gave a shriek and burst into the library. “Simon—you’re home at last! Now the celebration can really begin. Come and make your curtsies to my brother, everyone. Simon, these are my bridesmaids.”

  As his sister threw her arms around him, Simon looked past her to a dozen young women in pastel muslin gowns, all of whom seemed to be curtseying at once. Tall, short, plump, thin. Light hair, dark hair, red hair, golden hair…

  As they milled around on the terrace, smiling and bobbing up and down, the group looked remarkably like decorative goldfish in a pond. Fish, Simon thought wryly, who had scented food. Fish who were churning the water to a froth as they battled to reach the center of the action, where they’d have the best chance of capturing the promised treat.

  Him.

  A dozen bridesmaids. Every last one of them, he’d wager, was absolutely eligible—from a good family and with an acceptable dowry. And this wasn’t even the full guest list.

  Greeley’s warning had been right on target. No wonder Simon had been feeling itchy; he’d been set up like a target on a pistol range.

  He didn’t blame Daphne, of course. The young women in question might be her friends, but he knew where to place the blame for this scheme. He looked over his sister’s upswept black hair to catch the butler’s eye. “Greeley, where will I find my mother? And send a message to the stables. I’ll need a groom to deliver some letters for me this afternoon.”

  Since he could hardly walk out on his sister’s wedding, he had no choice but to spend the next week playing the role of Prince Charming to a horde of potential Cinderellas. But he’d be damned if he’d do it alone. A wise man knew when to call for reinforcements.

  Daphne’s wedding, he thought grimly, is going to kill me.

  Two

  The silence in the small garden beside the cottage was disturbed only by the occasional cluck and scratch of one of the neighbor’s chickens, the sharp cries of children as they chased an escaped pig through a nearby courtyard, and the scrape of Olivia’s hoe as she loosened dirt around a hill of runner beans. She almost didn’t hear the squeak of leather as a rider shifted in his saddle in the road just outside her garden wall.

  Kate looked up from the patch nearby where she was thinning a row of carrots. “There’s Sir Jasper riding past again.”

  Every muscle in Olivia’s body tightened.

  Sir Jasper’s nasal voice rang out. “My lady, and Miss Blakely. I see you are both well occupied today in raising vegetables. What an interesting hobby you have.”

  “We manage to amuse ourselves.” Olivia kept her voice light.

  He bowed, tipping his hat with an ironic flourish, and rode on.

  Kate pushed herself back from the carrots. “I don’t understand that man. I’m really starting to think he cherishes a tendre for you, since he can’t seem to go half a day without passing by the cottage. Yet when he sees you outside, he never makes a push to do anything more
than pause for a moment’s conversation.”

  I should have told her right away, Olivia thought. But on the day that Sir Jasper had made his proposition, Kate had been absorbed by the invitation to Lady Daphne’s wedding and had not noticed that Olivia was quieter than usual. At any rate, Sir Jasper’s offer had been so insulting that Olivia herself had scarcely believed what she was hearing. She’d been afraid that Kate—not having heard the conversation firsthand—might think Olivia had imagined the whole thing or misunderstood Sir Jasper’s intentions.

  But whether it had been wise to keep her own counsel or not, Olivia had stayed silent then. To tell Kate now, more than three weeks after the incident, would be even more difficult.

  Three weeks in which she had made little headway toward solving her problem.

  She had managed to eke out the rent payment that was truly due, though only by squeezing the household budget till it squealed in pain. But if Sir Jasper insisted on doubling the rent as he’d threatened, Olivia would come up short once again. She had quietly looked around the village for another house, but there was none to be found in Steadham. She had no resources to go somewhere else, and even if she could afford the fare to travel, there was no one whom she could ask to take her in.

  In any case, she couldn’t simply pick up her daughter and leave. She felt responsible for Nurse as well, and Maggie the housemaid, and now even Kate.

  “I’m not sure we’ll ever make you a gardener, Olivia,” Kate said gently.

  Olivia looked down at the hill of runner beans, chopped off at ground level and already wilting under the warm sun. “I let my mind wander, and my hoe must have slipped.”

  A childish soprano chimed in, “I will dig, Miss Kate!”

  Olivia looked across to where Charlotte was standing on a bench in the grape arbor that nestled against the garden wall, plucking the lowest-hanging fruit from the vines. The little girl looked a bit like a grape herself with her hands and her round cheeks smeared with sticky bluish-purple juice. After eating her fill, she had gathered up the hem of her pinafore in one small hand, forming a makeshift basket to hold the extra fruit. Juice from the grapes she’d smashed dripped through the fabric, down her skirt, and onto her tiny shoes.