“I hope Harry had a proper talk with you, Bennington,” Marcel said, sounding more austere than Abigail had ever heard him before. “I hope he did not consent purely out of friendship. I hope—”
“I did not need his consent,” Abigail said sharply, “or anyone else’s. I am twenty-four years of age.”
“We did have a talk,” Gil said. “I was able to satisfy Major Westcott that I am capable of keeping his sister in the manner of life to which she is accustomed. I was also able to satisfy him that I will hold her in respect and affection for the rest of my life.”
“Then we have something to celebrate and you may distribute the glasses, Bertrand,” Marcel said. “Are you satisfied, Viola?”
“If my son gave his approval,” Abigail’s mother said without turning, “and if Abby is happy with her choice, then I must be satisfied.”
The weight upon her shoulder, Abigail realized as Bertrand handed her a glass bubbling with champagne, was Gil’s hand.
Seventeen
They had their first quarrel after returning to their hotel in an uneasy silence.
“It was extremely kind of Elizabeth and Colin to have the sudden idea of hosting a wedding celebration for us, was it not?” Abigail said, her face flushed, her voice determinedly cheerful, or so it seemed to Gil as he closed the door of their suite behind them. “They have not spent much time in their own home here since their marriage, partly because of their children being born and their preference for the country, and partly because they have been having it completely refurbished. Colin’s mother lived there for years, and her tastes are as different from theirs as it is possible to be. It was, apparently, a monstrosity. Did you like them? And Cousin Althea? Elizabeth is everyone’s favorite within the family. She is always calm and cheerful. Her eyes are always smiling.”
“They seem like pleasant people,” he said.
“The event is to be afamilycelebration,” she continued,“though it was thoughtful of Colin, was it not, to ask if there was anyone you would like them to invite too. It will not be a large event, and it will not be at all intimidating. You know everyone. Camille and Joel will not be there, of course, more is the pity, or Grandmama Kingsley, or my uncle and aunt from Dorsetshire. He is Mama’s brother, a clergyman. And Harry will not be there.”
“Neither will I, Abby,” he said.
She whirled about to look at him, dismay on her face for a moment. He had not moved away from the door. Then she laughed.
“What?” she said. “A wedding celebration without the bridegroom? It is unheard of. It cannot be done.”
“I will not go,” he said. “I did not say I would. Perhaps you did not notice.”
He had rarely been more uncomfortable in his life than he had been during that visit to Dorchester’s house—in a grand, even opulent drawing room inside which his mother’s hovel would have fit four or five times. After the great reveal and the shock and the hearty congratulations of the first fifteen minutes or so, all had become brittle gaiety as champagne had been passed around and impromptu toasts had been made with the grand pretense that everyone was perfectly happy to discover that Abby, one of their own, had married a guttersnipe. And yes, he would continue to use that word in his own mind. It was the reality.
He ought not to have married her.
It was too late for that thought now, though.
One thing about the aristocracy and the upper classes in general was that they were almost invariably polite. They had good manners instilled in them from birth. He had been both the beneficiary and the victim of that fact as a military officer. He had been both again this afternoon. Forthere was no doubt in his mind that they had all been horrified by the news and had remained horrified to the end. Yet they had all covered over their true sentiments, perhaps for Abby’s sake since she was already married to him and could not be persuaded to change her mind, perhaps because he was Harry’s friend and they all adored Harry. Or perhaps simply because they all hadmanners.
It had been a particular struggle for the Marchioness of Dorchester. Understandably so. She was Abby’s mother. She had been gracious but almost silent. Gil would wager her mouth had not even touched her champagne.
And then, before he and Abby could escape to return here, Elizabeth, Lady Hodges, had had her bright idea, immediately seconded by her husband and backed up by her mother. Since the whole Westcott family except for Harry had missed the wedding, they must now celebrate it belatedly with a party at the Hodgeses’ town house. Soon. The day after tomorrow. How exciting it was going to be!
Public executions could be exciting too. Gil did not doubt that every last one of the Westcotts would prefer to give him one of those except that good manners—and perhaps the law—stood in their way.
He could hardly blame them. He ought, of course, to have taken more time to think through the whole business of marrying Abigail Westcott. For he had known full well deep down that it was the worst idea in the world. But it was too late to go back and do things differently. Approximately thirty hours too late.
But he was, by God, not going to a Westcott family wedding party to have the whole farce of this afternoon’s visit reenacted with a larger cast. The very thought of it...
“We cannot just not go,” Abby said.
“Watch me,” he said curtly. “You may go. I shall not tryto persuade you out of going. I am certainly not going to command you not to attend. You are free to do as you wish.”
He was being petty.
“But I could not possibly go without you,” she said. “It would be absurd.”
“Then do not go,” he said. “Write and explain to Lady Hodges that we are too busy to attend any party. It would not be a complete lie. Or tell her the truth if you will. That I refuse to go.”
“Gil,” she said, “it would beverybad mannered.”
