“But do not let that fact deter you from attending Harry’s birthday ball, Mrs. Tavernor,” the dowager countess said, glaring very directly at her. “I can assure you that none of his family will make any reference at all to his ill-advised proposal and your very proper refusal.”
“But she has already accepted her invitation, Mother,” the viscountess said. “She told Alexander so. We look forward to seeing you on Friday evening, Mrs. Tavernor.”
They left soon afterward. She had the stamp of approval from the family, then, did she? Lydia thought as she watched until the carriage had moved away from her gate. And the head of the family—bothheads, the Earl of Riverdale and the dowager countess—had made a point of coming to tell her, if not in so many words. She smiled, though the smile faded when she thought of the trick that was to be played on them on Friday morning. They were trying to ensure that she would attend the ball—with their blessing—but had no idea that by then she and Harry would be married. Somehow it was a bit of an uncomfortable thought.
And finally—finally!—Harry returned late on Wednesday afternoon, looking weary and travel worn and cheerful. Lydia had been watching for him since before he possibly could be expected. She flung open the door and dashed out to the gate as he drew rein beyond it. She did not even stop to wrap a shawl about her shoulders, though it was a chilly day.
He swung down from the saddle, leaned across the fence, and kissed her. “Mission completed,” he said. “Two new shirts. Oh, and—” He reached inside his coat and drew out the leather box with her mother’s ring. “Returned safe and sound, as promised, though I had to fight off three sets of highwaymen to guard it.”
“Thank you.” She laughed as she took it from him and held it for a moment to her lips.
“Lydia.” His own smile faded. “You have had two days to do nothing but think. Any second thoughts?”
She laughed. “I have had nothing but visitors,” she said. “I have had scarcely a moment to think at all. But no, Harry. No second thoughts. You?”
“Yes, actually. I ought to have taken you with me and married you in London.” He grinned ruefully at her. “Dash it all, I will not be able to see you tomorrow much either. There is to be a family picnic, weather permitting, in honor of my cousin Boris’s betrothal to Miss Leeson. I will come tomorrow evening, though, to make final plans for Friday. I had better get back to the house and get bathed and changed for dinner.”
“Yes,” she said. “Do not make yourself late.”
He kissed her again, mounted his horse, and rode off up the drive, turning to wave before he rode out of sight.
Perhaps tomorrow she would have a quiet day, Lydia thought. To think at last. To prepare herself.
She was not to have it, however, for it was on Thursday that her father and two elder brothers arrived on her doorstep.
Harry was feeling unaccountably melancholy. He was out on the lawn south of the house, surrounded by his family and other house guests, celebrating Boris and Audrey’s betrothal. A happy occasion. Chairs had been set out for the older people, while blankets had been spread for everyone else. The sun was shining again. The wind that had gusted this morning had died down. They had just feasted upon sumptuous picnic fare. Alexander in his role as head of the Westcott family had toasted the couple with champagne. It was a dizzying thought that Boris, who seemingly just yesterday had been giving Aunt Mildred and Uncle Thomas fits of alarm and outrage with one mischievous boyish prank after another, along with brothers Peter and Ivan, was now twenty-five years old and a mature, responsible young man and obviously deeply in love with his bride-to-be.
They would all be together again tomorrow—along with numerous outside guests—to celebrate his birthday. It would be the culmination of this house party, which had been arranged for him by his family out of the depths of their love for him.
None of them would be at his wedding.
Except for Gil, that was, who had agreed to come as a witness and as Harry’s best man, though he had been a bit long-faced when Harry had made it clear that he did not want Abby to come too and would be obliged if Gil did not even tell her.
“I say, Harry,” he had said. “It is not so easy to keep secrets from one’s spouse, you know. And not terribly honorable either.”
Gil and Abby’s wedding at the village church four years ago with only the vicar and his wife and Harry present had seemed perfect. His and Lydia’s wedding tomorrow morning would be equally so, Harry told himself.
Except that the circumstances would be different.
His family—the whole of it—would be here, busily preparing for the party in the evening, perhaps wondering where he had gone, unaware that he was at the church nearby marrying Lydia.
He should be over the moon with excitement today. He was getting married tomorrow.
But he could not shake off the feeling that it was somehow notright.He looked at his mother, whose arm was drawn through Marcel’s as they talked with Aunt Matilda and Dirkson. And at Camille, who was sitting on one of the blankets repairing Alice’s braid while Joel beside her had one twin standing and bouncing on fat little legs between his thighs while the other twin was against his shoulder, having her back patted. And at Abby, who was almost forehead to forehead with Jessica on another blanket, the two of them giggling like girls. And at Anna, who was holding Beatrice, her youngest, and smiling while she conversed with Adrian Sawyer and Sally Underwood and Gordon Monteith.
The inner circle of his family.
Who did not know that tomorrow was his wedding day.
Dash it all, it did not feel right.
“Harry.” Alexander, still holding his champagne glass, set a hand on his shoulder. “Is this all a bit much for you, as it was four years ago, as I recall? Are you wishing us all a thousand miles away, as you were then?”
“No,” Harry said. “Quite the contrary, in fact. I am so extraordinarily well blessed, Alex, that I will make an idiot of myself if I try to put it into words.”
Alexander squeezed his shoulder. “None of us felt well blessed ten years ago,” he said. “Or six years ago after Waterloo. Or four years ago, when Avery and Gil and I brought you home from Paris.”
“Do you feel well blessed now?” Harry asked.
