Someone Perfect (Westcott Book 10)

by Mary Balogh

  “I miss you more each day. Have I also mentioned that I love you?”

  “I love you.”

  “Bill Slater moved out of his cottage yesterday and a small army is in there today, preparing the house for Wes and Hilda and Ricky. The countess’s room next to mine has been prepared, but where is the countess?”

  “What did I think about, what did I dream about, before I met you?”

  “One week left. Will it be as long as the last weeks have been?”

  “I am wasting away, a mere shadow of my former self. Come soon.”

  “I love you and long for you.”

  “What do you mean— only a week? Have you no heart?”

  “Of course you have no heart. I have it here with me for safekeeping.” There was a drawing on that particular page of a heart colored with red ink cupped in two large wedge-fingered hands.

  “I am counting hours now rather than days.”

  Estelle kept all the letters, bound together with a silk ribbon. She read them all each night when she went to bed and smiled and even laughed over them. She shed a few tears too. For no, it was not just a week when indeed seven days remained before her return to Everleigh for her wedding. It was an endless eternity.

  Justin’s aunts had faced a number of problems, such as how to fill the church and the house with flowers for the wedding when it was October and most flowers had either gone to ground for the year or were looking distinctly sad. But the most serious problem, unless someone did something about it, concerned the fact that the bride and groom might be sleeping beneath the same roof, albeit a very large roof, on the night before their wedding. How were they to be kept from seeing each other on their wedding day before they met at the altar inside the church? The slightest blunder and they would be doomed to all sorts of bad luck for all their married life. It was not to be contemplated.

  They had found a solution in their friend Jemima, Lady Hodgkins, who had gone into transports of delight when she had been asked if she could possibly offer the bride a bedchamber in her house for the wedding eve. Not only could she accommodate the bride, she had declared, but the bride’s mother—What? Stepmother? Stepmother, then— and father simply must stay with her too. What else were she and Hugh to do with their twelve spare bedchambers? And Lady Estelle’s dear, handsome twin too if he wished. Indeed, they must all come during the afternoon of the wedding eve, in time for tea. And they must dine and spend the evening as well as the night. And they would be fed breakfast too, of course, though brides never had hearty appetites on their wedding day. A soft-boiled egg might be just the thing to tempt Lady Estelle. Lady Hodgkins simply could not be happier about anything.

  Another problem had been solved.

  So had all the others as they arose. Justin had spent almost six weeks feeling utterly helpless as his aunts took over his home and his servants—including his secretary— and his life. There was something undeniably heartwarming about it too, however. They were his family. They cared. They had given up weeks of their own lives for his sake and Estelle’s. They sang her praises almost every day, largely, Justin suspected, because she had turned over her end of the wedding planning to her stepmother, whom the aunts deemed to be a sensible woman. They had both met her a time or two in the past when she was still the Countess of Riverdale and universally respected—though Riverdale was a scoundrel of the first order, Justin, as witness the fact that his lengthy marriage to the poor lady before his death was bigamous from the first moment. The marchioness sent the information the aunts needed and answered promptly any questions they had without any fuss or bluster.

  Justin spent some of his time alone with his dog, tramping about the park and the farm. He spent time in Wes and Hilda’s cottage after they had moved in and at the smithy after Wes had started work there, watching his friend learning his new trade, or rather reviving skills he had acquired as a boy and never forgotten. He took Ricky to the sheep pens a few times and left him to the care of the head shepherd, who assured Justin that the young man had a future there, since he obviously loved the animals and had endless patience with their frequent stupidity.

  “And if you ever have a lost sheep,” Justin had said, grinning, though he was not quite sure the shepherd understood the biblical reference, “Ricky is your man.”

  But finally the waiting was almost over and the guests began to arrive. Family only. But it was a very large family. Or group of families, to be more accurate. It was amazing to know that he or Estelle— soon to be he and Estelle— had a close connection to all of these people. Their anchor to this life. The network of family connections that would sustain them and enrich their lives and be passed on to their children. Who, please God, would begin to put in an appearance within the next year or so.

  Maria was first to come, with Aunt Betty and Uncle Rowan and the cousins. It was lovely to see his sister glowing with youth and happiness, Justin thought as he met her down on the terrace and she dashed into his arms.

  “Aunt Betty has come to help with the wedding preparations,” she said. “I have too, though I doubt there is anything left to do except take credit for it all as your sister. Aunt Augusta and Aunt Felicity are formidable, are they not? When will Estelle be here?”

  Not soon enough for him.

  But over the coming few days he was too busy to be able to indulge in too much pining. A surprising— surprising to him, anyway— number of the Westcott family came to Everleigh, as well as Estelle’s blood relatives on both her father’s and her mother’s sides. Justin was particularly interested in meeting the woman he thought of as the formidable aunt— Jane Morrow, who had raised Estelle and Watley. She came with her husband and daughter.

  “I owe you a deep debt of gratitude, ma’am,” Justin told her when he met her, taking her offered hand in both his own. “I understand you raised Estelle to be the woman I love. Thank you, and welcome to Everleigh.”

  She looked at him with pursed lips and suspicion in her eyes, nodded briskly, and answered him. “She is someone I love too, Lord Brandon,” she said. “I will expect you to make her happy.”

  Avery Archer, Duke of Netherby, elegant and apparently indolent as always, shook his hand after presenting his stepmother and his eldest daughter and his son. “My guess is, Brandon,” he said, “that you are not going to be particularly popular with a certain element of the male population of London next spring when it is discovered that you have made off with Estelle Lamarr behind their backs. Congratulations. Anna sends her best wishes.”

  “She is well?” Justin asked.

  “She is cross,” Netherby said. “She believes herself to be large and ungainly and useless. And other such nonsense while she fills my heart with terror for her safety.”

  And finally, two days before the wedding, Estelle arrived in a carriage with her brother; her cousin Oliver Morrow, Dorchester’s steward; and Oliver’s wife. The marquess and marchioness came in a carriage behind them.

  “It feels like years,” Justin said, turning to Estelle after he had greeted everyone else and they had disappeared under the portico and into the house. “It feels like eons. I am not going to let that happen ever again. I am never going to let you go anywhere without me for such a long time.”

  “The autocrat already, Justin?” she asked him. But her eyes were dancing with merriment, and her lips were curved into a smile, and though the terrace was swarming with servants unloading all the baggage, he caught her up in his arms.

  “Well, you are going to promise the day after tomorrow to obey me, are you not?” he said.

  “I will think about it,” she told him. “Oh, Justin, you are so very large. I have missed you.”

  He drew back from her, leaving his arms still about her. He spoke very softly. “Are you with child?” he asked her. It was a possibility that had plagued him since that night at the summerhouse.

  “No,” she said. “You are going to have to try again, I am afraid.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. He laughed.


  “Oh, I will,” he assured her. “Again and again and again.”

  Twenty-five

  And suddenly it was his wedding day.

  “Brown,” Aunt Felicity had told him, though he had not asked for any help or advice with what he would wear to his wedding. “Brown if you possibly can, Justin. It is all I am going to say.”

  It was enough.

  He was wearing a brown coat with fawn pantaloons and black Hessian boots and white linen. There was lace at his cuffs, and his neckcloth was tied into an elaborate creation that delighted his valet, though the man had ruined eight starched neckcloths before he got the folds just right with the ninth. If he looked directly down at his feet, Justin thought, he was sure he would be able to see his reflection in the high gloss of his boots. He did not look directly down. In the folds of his neckcloth he was wearing a diamond pin he had not worn for thirteen years. His father had given it to him for his twenty-first birthday.

  And now he was seated at the front of the village church, which, according to the aunts, was going to be just large enough to seat all the guests. He was sitting in the front pew with Wes beside him and Ricky beside Wes. Wes had not been delighted when Justin had asked him to be his best man. “What?” he had exclaimed. “With all those nobs looking on as I drop the ring, Juss? Forget it! Absolutely no way on this earth— or on the moon either. Do you want me to knock your teeth down your throat?”

  Ricky had been Wes’s best man a few weeks ago, but Justin had sat beside him in order to let him know when it was time to step forward with the ring.

  “Ricky can sit by you to tell you when to hand me the ring,” Justin had said. “He has experience. And if you drop it, Wes, and it rolls out of sight, he will be there to find it for you. I have considered asking a cousin. I have a number of them. But I want you. You are not going to disappoint me on my wedding day, are you?”

  “Blast you to hell and back, Juss,” Wes had said before apologizing because he had uttered a blasphemy in Hilda’s hearing. “Don’t put it that way.”

  “I just did,” Justin had said, grinning at him.

  “It really doesn’t matter that he is an earl and rich as a king, Wes,” Hilda had said. “It matters that he’s your friend.”

  “Aren’t wives supposed to be quiet and mind their own business?” Wes had asked.

  “Who put that daft idea in your head?” his fond wife had asked. “Besides, you are my business.”

  So here Wes was, wearing his wedding suit, which really made him look quite handsome, though he looked anything but comfortable in it and had sworn on his wedding day that he would never wear it again. He was scowling. Beyond him was Ricky in his best man’s suit, beaming happily and finding it difficult not to keep looking over his shoulder at the gathering guests.

  No one was talking out loud, for they were in church. But there was a hum of subdued conversation anyway, noticeable only when it stopped and silence fell and then the organ began to play as the vicar arrived at the front of the church and signaled to Justin and the rest of the congregation that it was time to stand.

  His bride was arriving.

  His wedding was about to begin.

  At last.

  Justin stood and turned to see Watley escort the Marchioness of Dorchester to the front pew across from his own. And then his eyes focused upon the other end of the nave, where Estelle was coming toward him on her father’s arm.

  Lady Hodgkins, forever cheerful, was a talker. She had scarcely stopped since the afternoon before, when Estelle had arrived at her house with her father and stepmother and Bertrand. The lady’s husband and children, though they appeared to be an amiable lot, could scarcely get a word in edgewise. Nor could anyone else. They all recognized the lady’s good nature, however, and the lavish display of her hospitality. They relaxed into their roles of guests and listeners.

  But finally she relinquished her house to the four of them as she left for the church with her husband on the morning of the wedding, loud in her satisfaction at being the only invited guest who was not a member of either family. Except for the Morts, of course, but they scarcely counted in her estimation.

  “Oh, Estelle,” the marchioness said as she watched Olga put the finishing touches to her hair. “You look gorgeous.”

  Estelle, all modesty aside, could only agree with her. Her gown, clinging close to her body from a high waist, was cream lace over the same color silk, deceptively simple in design, expert in execution. It had a scooped neck, though it was not too low, with long, close-fitting sleeves of lace without the silk underlay. There was a matching spencer with a stiff stand-up collar to be worn over the dress if the autumn weather should happen to be chilly. Estelle would indeed wear it, for it was a chilly day, though bright and sunny. She would remove it later for the wedding breakfast.

  She and the dressmaker and her stepmother had decided against a bonnet. Instead, her hair was dressed high on her head and intertwined with multicolored autumn leaves, which had been waxed to preserve them. One long curled ringlet was pinned diagonally across the back of her head and hung down over her shoulder. That too was woven with leaves. Her kid gloves and her shoes were tan colored.

  She looked, Estelle thought, like an autumn bride. She felt like a bride whose stomach was filled with fluttering butterflies.

  This was her wedding day.

  Bertrand was in her dressing room then, and Olga left. Their stepmother went into the bedchamber.

  “Stell.” He took both her hands in his and held them very tightly as he took a half step back to look her over from head to feet. “What is there to say? You look lovely.”

  “Will you be lonely without me, Bert?” she asked, and their eyes connected. “Will you live at Redcliffe?” Strangely, they had not talked about it during the past weeks.

  “I’ll go there often,” he said. “I’ll come to Everleigh often. And of course I will miss you, Stell. I will live at Elm Court. It is home. It will always be home for as long as Papa lives— and I hope that will be until he is at least ninety. I will not be lonely. I have my books and my life. And when I get lonely, as maybe I will in a few years’ time, then I will take a bride of my own. Life moves on, and we must move with it. He is perfect, Stell?”

  “Of course he is not,” she said, “any more than I am. But he is perfect for me, Bert. And I think I am perfect for him.”

  He smiled at her, squeezed her hands more tightly, and kissed her forehead, leaning carefully forward so that he would not disturb her hair or her clothing. Estelle swallowed what felt like a lump in her throat and smiled back. She could hear her father talking with her stepmother in the bedchamber. Bertrand stood back so that she could precede him into the room.

  “Well, just look at you,” her father said. “Good God, is this really my daughter? Dash it all, Estelle, come here.”

  Estelle laughed as she set her hands on either side of his waist. “Mind my hair,” she warned him. “It took Olga a whole hour.”

  It was time for them to leave then for the short drive to the church. Carriages were drawn up all about it, and a small crowd of villagers was gathering about the gate. And Justin had been so right about the time of year, Estelle thought. The valley was indeed breathtakingly lovely with all the autumn foliage. The village was too. It was surely the very best time of the year to marry, with Christmas approaching and the coziness of the winter months and the promise of spring not too far off.

  After a final hug inside the church doors, Bertrand and their stepmother went together to take their places in the front pew. The vicar waited at the front of the church, and the organ began to play.

  “Come,” her father said, smiling at her and offering his arm. “Your mother would be so very proud of you today, Estelle. She loved you both very dearly.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Thank you, Papa. How blessed I am. For Mother loves me dearly too.”

  She set her arm within his, solid and dependable, and walked toward her bridegroom, who had risen w
ith the rest of the congregation and stepped a little into the nave so that he could watch her come.

  And ah, she loved him. Her throat was still a bit tight from Bertrand’s hug and her father’s words about her mother. But her future, the rest of her life, was awaiting her in the large form of Justin Wiley, Earl of Brandon, and it was going to be good. It was going to include everyone from her past, everyone from her family and his. But it was all going to center about him.

  He did not take his eyes from her while she walked to meet him or while her papa gave her into his keeping. Or even when the vicar began to speak.

  “Dearly beloved,” he said.

  And they were married.

  Husband and wife.

  Earl and Countess of Brandon.

  The nuptial service was at an end, the register had been signed, and they were making their way from the church, smiling from side to side at all their relatives. For all of them were now indeed their relatives. Not his and hers any longer, but theirs.

  And some of those relatives, mostly the younger ones, were outside in the churchyard awaiting them, armed to the teeth, of course, with yellow and wine and russet flower petals they had got from somewhere. They were lined up, waiting to pelt them as they made a dash for their carriage.

  “I love this part of a wedding,” Estelle said, grasping Justin’s hand and laughing. “Though I have never before been at the receiving end.”

  “Enjoy it, then,” he said, laughing with her.

  “It is a shame to run,” she said. “But they will be disappointed if we do not.”

  “Here we go, then,” he said, and they dashed along the path while autumn rained down upon their heads. Not autumn rain, but autumn colors, already vibrant about her person and on the trees all about them. The children were shrieking with laughter as they hurled their loads. Everyone else grinned and laughed. Villagers applauded and smiled.

  And he belonged again, Justin thought. He had been fully accepted back at last. Perhaps because he had wanted to be back.