The door swung open behind her. She spun, expecting to find the concerned eyes of Mr. Frampton—or worse, the miffed annoyance of her soon-to-be husband. Never mind that part of her panic had set in when he’d kept her waiting, when he should have been there first all along.
The interruption was neither of the men, but rather, her lady’s maid, Mary Frances.
Tabitha sagged with relief and slumped down onto a short, padded wooden stool.
Her maid approached cautiously. “They’re all waiting for you.”
“I know.”
“Your exit made quite a scene.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to go back in there?”
Was there any other option? And yet… Tabitha dropped her face into her hands. “I don’t know.”
After a long pause, Mary Frances spoke again. “Do you want me to freshen your hair?”
Tabitha glanced up. “Did my mad dash ruin my coiffure?”
“Your ringlets might have become a bit… asymmetrical.”
Tabitha craned her neck until she could catch sight of herself in the looking-glass and let out a choking sound. A bit asymmetrical? She looked as though the walls really had closed in on her, and she’d been forced to pull these ringlets out from the rubble.
“I look a proper mess,” she admitted. “Might as well get married that way.”
Mary Frances bit her lip, then gestured toward a leather bag in the corner. “All our things are still in here, if you change your mind. There’s no fire for the curling tongs, but I brought a variety of pins and hair combs.”
Of course she did. Mary Frances always thought of everything. She was like Mr. Frampton in female form.
If only she could think of a way to extricate Tabitha honorably from this cursed matrimony.
A heavy fist pounded on the door. “Lady Tabitha?”
Ah. There was Mr. Frampton, as anticipated. Of course Tabitha’s future husband would send a lackey rather than check on his bride-to-be himself.
The knocking grew louder. “Lady Tabitha? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” she shouted, then whispered to Mary Frances, “Please lock the door.”
Mary Frances hurried to do as she’d been asked.
“You didn’t look fine,” Mr. Frampton called through the door. “Can I fetch you a cup of tea? Or a shot of brandy?”
Tabitha leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes to block out his words. Mr. Frampton had turned out to be so nice, damn him. His unflagging empathy made the contrast between him and his employer all the more stark. Oh, why couldn’t her father have betrothed her to the sort of man who cared about her well-being and offered to bring her brandy in church?
Not for the first time, she wished she were marrying Mr. Frampton rather than Viscount Oldfield.
A laughable fantasy. Mr. Frampton was her fiancé’s foot soldier and loyal to a fault. He genuinely cared about Tabitha’s well-being, she believed that to her core. But she also knew that the moment she emerged from this retiring room, no matter how tender Mr. Frampton’s feelings toward her, he would drag her straight back to the altar so that she could become his employer’s property.
“Perhaps brandy in the tea?” Mr. Frampton tried again.
“I’m fine!” she called out, trying to infuse her voice with pep and joviality. “Go back to the chapel. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he answered. “We can walk there together.”
Tabitha’s eyes met Mary Frances’s.
