“My God, she is a vision,” Hester proclaimed, fanning herself with the program before it had even been distributed. “Do you see this, Fiona? That is how a woman wears green.”
Fiona linked arms with Nancy at once. “You look luminous. I’m not sure if it’s the color or the proximity to madness, but it suits you.”
Nancy allowed herself to be tugged into the huddle. “I was aiming for somber, but I suppose I’ll accept ‘luminous’ in a pinch.”
Lavinia offered a bashful smile and a tiny bouquet. “It’s only violets. The garden here is a disaster.”
“They are perfect,” Nancy said, and meant it. She let herself be enveloped by the trio, bracing for whatever final counsel they meant to offer.
But Hester only adjusted Nancy’s hair, declared, “Flawless,” and swept her hand down the train. “If Scarfield is not immediately struck dead with awe, I shall petition the Archbishop for an annulment on grounds of artistic blindness.”
Nancy grinned, nerves briefly forgotten.
Fiona said, “Are you ready?”
“No,” Nancy replied. “But I am here, so let’s pretend.”
They preceded her into the drawing room, and Nancy turned to her father, who had a question in his eyes. Nodding, she reassured him. “I am truly ready, Papa.”
The large drawing room held the wedding party, comprising the Duke, two other gentlemen, the vicar, and Nancy’s friends and family. Nancy stopped when she saw Clara and Henry holding baskets of petals and grinning.
The twins had been dressed as a miniature lord and lady. Clara, regal in a blue frock, scattered handfuls of rose petals with all the dignity of a monarch overseeing a battlefield. Henry shuffled behind with what looked like terror and awe in equal measure.
Clara saw Nancy, froze, then bared her teeth in a wild grin and dumped her entire basket of petals at once.
“Nancy!” she shrieked, bolting down the aisle to tackle Nancy’s knees.
Henry followed, less swiftly, but attached himself to her skirts like a burr.
Fiona clucked her tongue. “So much for ceremony.”
Nancy, ignoring the shocked vicar and the horrified housekeeper, crouched to gather the children in. “You are both entirely perfect,” she whispered, smoothing Clara’s hair and gently pinching Henry’s nose.
“Are you marrying the Duke?” Clara asked, wrinkling her nose.
“I am,” Nancy murmured.
Henry whispered, “Will you live here now?”
Nancy smiled at him. “That depends. Are you planning any further insurrections?”
He considered. “Only on Thursdays.”
Nancy rose and nudged them back toward the housekeeper, who looked as if she’d been asked to swallow a hedgehog.
Her father’s eyes were wide when she turned to him. “I see you are familiar with the children,” he remarked.
“Only in the broadest possible sense,” Nancy replied, arranging her skirts and resuming composure. “I believe they are to be the highlight of the event.”
He leaned in, low enough that only she could hear. “Is this what you truly want?”
Nancy stared ahead, at the vicar, then at Oscar, who stood with all the animation of a statue, and finally at the two children who now sat in the front row, swinging their feet in tandem.
She squared her shoulders. “Never more certain in my life.”
Her father’s mouth twitched. “That is saying something.”
They took their places. The music began, and Nancy felt herself moving forward—floaty, untethered, as if her body were an elaborate puppet.
