“Dowry?” he repeated, glancing up at her in bafflement. “No dowry.”
“No? Are you certain?” she said, looking legitimately taken aback. “It is the way of things, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t a clue,” he answered, sighing and dropping the spoon. “How many times do you think I’ve been married?”
“I hadn’t considered it,” she answered, blinking. “Have you been?”
He was startled enough to release a short bark of a laugh. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “At least, I don’t think so.”
She pressed those lips together, the hint of something like a blush on her cheeks. “I suppose we will learn together, then?” she said. “To be frank with you, my education prepared me to be a cog in a functioning household, not a wife. I promise to be patient with you if you promise the same to me.”
“Patient,” he repeated, tempted to tease her with skepticism, if only she didn’t look so damned earnest about it. “I can be patient.”
“That is well, then,” she said, giving a little sigh and planting her hands on the rim of the table as though announcing that dessert had concluded. “You shall be patient and I shall endeavor not to be predictable. What more could anyone wish?”
He shook his head, pushing his own plate away in agreement. “I can’t think of anything else,” he told her.
And it was the truth.
CHAPTER 5
Zeller had insisted on the good hat today, though Ambrose thought it was a bit of overkill. It was possible, of course, that this was Zeller’s revenge for Ambrose getting engaged so suddenly: making him go out in public in a hat that was too fancy for the daytime.
He couldn’t be sure.
But he wore it anyway. It was very tedious to argue overly long with a German accent. It seemed that Prussian sensibilities were very firm when it came to matters of headwear, mustaches, and chocolate. At least insofar as Ambrose had observed, since Zeller had come into his employ some two years prior.
He enjoyed the chocolate part, at the very least.
“You don’t have to come with me like a bloody chaperone, Zeller!” he’d exclaimed, batting away the attempt the older man had made to take his elbow and promenade him directly to Holy Comfort Parish like a blushing bride. “I’m the man!”
“Of course you are,” said Zeller dispassionately, “Herr Ambrose.”
Still, he suspected the man might have followed at a distance anyhow, if only to ensure the damned hat remained where it was meant to be.
He arrived early and found a nice bench near a flowering tree on which to await his bride and her gigantic brother rather than entering the church on his own steam. He thought it would be awkward, attempting to explain his impending marriage to a member of the congregation, if she were not there to confirm it was true.
Unfortunately, when she did arrive, she was not on the arm of Thaddeus Beck.
Instead, the lovely Vix approached from the eastern street alongside a different companion entirely.
She looked perfect, of course, dressed in lilac again with a velvet pelisse over the simple lines of her gown. That glossy brown hair was coiled over her shoulder in a neat triplet of ringlets that bounced as she walked.
It was the company that was the issue. On Vix’s arm was a tall, deceptively lanky man with shoulder-length golden curls and a face with altogether too many freckles. He was smiling down at Ambrose’s bride-to-be like he had any right to enjoy her company, whispering something to her that actually made her smile in return.
He frowned and stood as they drew near, both of them trailing off their conversation to turn and face him.
Yes, there was no mistaking it. He knew those freckles.
“Good morning, Mr. Aster,” Vix said. “This is Mr. Reed.”
“Oh, no.” He sighed, looking at the man. “Not you.”
Mr. Reed, Beck’s smug and meddling enforcer, grinned at him like an old friend. “Look at you, Ambrose. What a handsome hat.”
His frown deepened. “Why areyouhere? Where’s Mr. Beck?”
Vix blinked, looking from one man to the other and back again. “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t realize you were acquainted. I thought Roland only worked at the Vixen.”
