Of course not. No doubt Claire was simply feeling a bride’s nerves. It was natural to fret about such an upheaval in one’s life; anybody would worry about finding their place in a new family.
But she would soon, to be certain, discover her worries had been needless. Jonathan was her perfect match and, moreover, his mother would be moving to the dower house after the wedding. The duchess had made the announcement herself during dinner, with only one or two exclamations at how easy and empty her days were soon to become, what with Twineham Cottage being so much smaller and simpler to manage than the great house.
Thus, Claire set aside her misgivings and went ahead with the wedding.
And then with the second wedding.
And then, after many impassioned pleas, heartfelt apologies, and tender promises—all aided by the considerable force of Jonathan’s charms (and Claire’s extreme susceptibility to them)—with a third.
The third time, however, she laid down two conditions.
One: That Jonathan go to London and obtain a special license, so the wedding could take place as soon as possible, on any day and at any hour they chose.
And two: That upon returning from London, he would not put one toe outside Greystone Castle until they were married.
The conditions accepted, the wedding was set for four days hence: Christmas Day. Claire held her breath until Jonathan’s return on Christmas Eve. And then she let it out. She felt at ease. Jonathan was here—right here beside her—and tomorrow at sunset she would become his wife.
Everything was perfect between them.
After the tense days apart, she hadn’t wanted to let him out of her sight. She’d sneaked into his bedchamber that night, and after a (rather token) protest of impropriety, he’d shown her—with his lips and his hands and his body—how very much he’d missed her.
They’d nearly consummated their love a day early—had started to, in fact. But it had hurt her, and even though she’d badly wanted him to continue, he’d refused. He couldn’t stomach causing her pain.
Oh, the irony.
The next day was a blur.
She remembered walking to church, but not a word of the Christmas service…
Sitting down to Christmas dinner, too excited to eat a bite...
Excusing herself between courses to rearrange the flowers, again…
A man in Rathborne livery barging into the dining parlor…
The duchess swooning into her plum pudding…
Chaos and smelling salts, sobs and pleas…
Jonathan’s indecision…
Claire falling apart…
That terrible argument…
And then he was gone.
She had not seen or heard of him since that day. Until Noah put his foot in it.
“Thorny?” Claire snarled. “It wasn’t thorny, dear brother, it was devastating! Humiliating! Utterly?—”
“That,” Noah spoke over her, “is all in the past. Rathborne gave me his word that he has no intention of renewing his pursuit of you. He comes only as a family friend.”
“I don’t care!” Claire couldn’t immediately decide which might be worse: Jonathan pursuing her, or Jonathan treating her only as a family friend. “He gave you his word? He gave me his word—three times!—and three times he broke it! I will not have him in this house!”
By now Claire was nearly nose-to-nose with her brother—close enough to see a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. But just as soon as the chink appeared, it was gone.
“I regret,” he said in a quiet, firm tone, “that I didn’t consult you before the invitation was sent. But it cannot now be revoked. Rathborne will be coming here to Greystone. I cannot force you to be civil, but I can advise you that incivility will benefit no one, least of all yourself.”
