“I don’t know,” Tabitha stammered. “I had also been warned about the Medford family as a child. Unlike yours, my father told me it was my sacred duty to unite the two clans. I thought I ought to meet your side, to see if it seemed worth…”
“Marrying Oldfield?” Mr. Medford said dryly.
“Worth attempting to heal the rift,” Tabitha hedged.
“Consider it healed.” Mr. Medford grabbed her hand and shook it. “See that? You mended fences with a simple conversation. When possible, I always advise befriending people with words, rather than by marrying their horrid uncle.”
“I have to say, I agree,” said Mrs. Medford. “Don’t sacrifice your own future to solve someone else’s problem. Parents who don’t care about their children’s happiness aren’t worth the heartache they cause. I would know.”
Tabitha believed her. But Mrs. Medford’s relationship with her parents—or lack thereof—had little to do with Tabitha’s. If one of the reasons behind the union was no longer as valid as it had been back when the betrothal had originally been minted, well… It didn’t change anything important.
Her father wanted her to be respectable. He wanted her to marry his best friend, who was also a lord, and therefore the sort of catch matchmaking mamas dreamed of. She would have the protection of her husband’s wealth and rank.
Most importantly, this marriage was her beloved father’s dying wish.
“I hate to tell you this,” said Mr. Medford, “but here comes Uncle now.”
Tabitha jerked her startled gaze over her shoulder in time to see her betrothed exit the gaming room with a perturbed expression on his florid face. He glanced about the ballroom without peering down bodices for once, using his quizzing glass until his enlarged eye fell upon Tabitha.
The viscount strode in their direction with vigor.
“There you are,” he hissed when he reached Tabitha’s side.
“She certainly wasn’t in the gaming room,” Mr. Medford agreed.
Lord Oldfield ignored his nephew, opting instead to grasp Tabitha’s wrist. “Waiting for banns is a stupid idea. We should make our union official while you’re still young and attractive.”
Mr. Medford looked mystified. “How much older and uglier can anyone be in three weeks’ time?”
“It doesn’t matter,” the viscount snapped. “There’s no sense wasting time courting a chit I’m already betrothed to. My man of business has procured a special license. I shan’t wait any longer.”
“But there’s less than two weeks left,” Tabitha protested. “And Father promised it was all right to wait.”
“I don’t care what your father said. That was before.” The viscount’s grip tightened around Tabitha’s wrist. “Remember, you’re marrying me. First thing tomorrow morning. You promised to obey.”
Tabitha’s blood flooded with panic. “But—”
“I’ll inform the marquess of the change in plans. He’ll be relieved. And he’ll be alive to see his promise fulfilled.” Lord Oldfield’s eyes glittered. “I can’t wait for our private celebration tomorrow night.”
Chapter 9
The next morning, Hudson stood at the altar in the front of the church as though he were a nervous groom awaiting his bride. But Lady Tabitha was not to be his wife, and this was not Hudson’s wedding. His stomach roiled in protest.
The bride belonged to Lord Oldfield—who was conspicuously absent. Hudson had bundled him into the carriage and brought him here, only for the viscount to wander off to… who even knew? Hudson would have followed, had he not been instructed to keep a watchful eye on the future viscountess instead.
Obviously, Hudson wasn’t allowed anywhere near the ladies’ retiring room. Not that Lady Tabitha was currently sequestered in there, awaiting her cue as was customary. For better or worse—depending how superstitious you were—the bride was already here in the chapel, less than an arm’s width away from her ailing father, the Marquess of Brigsby.
Lord Brigsby was in a special chaise longue with iron wheels and a padded seat for comfort. Despite the bespoke craftsmanship, he didn’t look the slightest bit comfortable. His face was pallid and gray, and his shoulders and spine hunched alarmingly, when not wracked by violent coughs.
According to the attending physician, Dr. Collins, the Marquess of Brigsby was still holding steady. Another month at least before there was reason to fear an imminent demise. Nonetheless, it was perhaps not the worst idea for Viscount Oldfield to insist on moving up the ceremony, just in case.
Not that Oldfield was particularly concerned about the marquess’s diminishing health. There was a time-sensitive investment opportunity on the horizon. One the viscount could only take advantage of if Lady Tabitha’s dowry was deposited into his account before the week’s end.
Even if the Marquess of Brigsby had been in the pink of health, Lord Oldfield would still have gathered everyone in this chapel before the investment opportunity vanished. Hudson wanted to shake the man until he realized the true worth of the bride right before his eyes.
Lady Tabitha looked… distraught. And beautiful. A proper gothic heroine. Forced to wed a man she did not love because it was the dying wish of the father she did love.
For the rushed ceremony, Hudson had only himself to blame. Curse his thoroughness and efficiency! Oldfield wouldn’t even know about the investment opportunity if Hudson hadn’t been so good at his job.
