“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “I have to go. Come and see me out.”
“But you only just got here.” She pulled a sullen face. “You cannae even stay for a chat?”
A chat was the last thing she wanted from him. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Pouting, she dragged her fingertips over her left breast. “Afraid I’ll persuade you to stay the night?”
He’d allow her that. “Aye,” he said, “I’m afraid you would, Flora MacNally.”
She followed him into the hallway. “I’ll miss you, Max.”
He couldn’t bring himself to return the sentiment, to give her hope where none existed. “Look on this as an opportunity and grab it with both hands,” he said, shrugging on his coat. “Promise me you’ll try.”
“I hope this Sassenach is worth it.”
“Promise me.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Aye, I promise.”
“Good lass.” He opened the front door and paused for a moment on the threshold but did not look back. “Don’t forget to lock it.”
With that, he stepped out into the damp Glaswegian night and closed the door behind him, with only a single thought at the forefront of his mind.
Had he wed Sybella, would he still have let Flora go?
The answer eluded him.
Chapter Nine
Louisa received tenletters from Maxwell all told, one for each week they were apart. Though not exactly romantic epistles, they were friendly and pleasant, as if she’d been sitting beside him, sharing light conversation. She had replied to each one, all, as per his request, addressed to his office in Sheffield.
The exchanges had allowed her to learn a little more about the man she was to marry, though much of the subject matter was fairly trivial. He always told her where he was; Glasgow, Sheffield, South Shields, and one time in Liverpool. Certainly, he seemed to travel a lot.
Each letter had been signed off with ‘affectionately yours’, a valediction that always provoked a little shiver of delight. That she had Maxwell Harlow’s affection was enough for now. Love, she dared to believe, was simply waiting in the wings and would eventually make an appearance.
Ten weeks. Ten letters.
Today was the seventh day of June. Her wedding day. And it had begun with some advice from her mother. “Do not let nerves spoil your experience,” she’d said, as Louisa began her ablutions that morning. “There is nothing to be nervous about, so set your fears aside and enjoy yourself. This is your wedding day. A day to be remembered in detail. Savor each moment, my darling. I enjoyed every minute of mine.”
It had worked for the most part. At least, Louisa had managed to quell the horde of butterflies in her stomach, settling them down to a minor flutter. Consequently, the passing minutes were less of a blur, and she tried to take notice of everything, committing it all to memory.
First, she could not have been happier with her reflection in her bedroom mirror. Her gown of cream satin and lace, which had been made by Francesca Corvinelli, was stuff of fairy tales. The matching lace veil, held in place by a garland of myrtle, was romantic perfection. And her posy of delicately perfumed pink roses and sweet myrtle was exactly as she’d requested.
When the time came, she’d been driven to church in an open carriage beneath a cloudless June sky, hedgerows and gardens bursting with the first flush of summer. Evie and Clara, her bridesmaids, identically clad in pale pink silk and with similar garlands of myrtle crowning their heads, arranged her veil and train at the church door.
Walking down the aisle on her father’s arm had been the proudest moment of Louisa’s life. Bouquets of flowers, tied with flowing ribbons of white silk, adorned the ends of each pew, their fragrance sweetening the usually musty air. Sunlight, streaming through the stained-glass windows, had scattered iridescent jewels of light in their path.
Seeing the tears in her mother’s eyes brought tears to her own. Seeing Maxwell waiting for her at the altar stoked those infernal butterflies into a frenzy again. He stood beside a man she assumed, by his likeness, to be Finlay, who also appeared to be his only guest.
Then her beloved father had lifted her veil, kissed her cheek, and given her to Maxwell, a poignant moment indeed. Yet, despite the beauty and ambience, Louisa couldn’t help but be aware of the circumstances that had led to this day. If not forher foolishness, the man awaiting her at the altar should, in fact, have already been married to someone else.
Did he have regrets?
But then, “You look beautiful, Louisa,” he’d whispered, as she’d taken her place beside him. A warm blush had arisen in her cheeks, his words enough to settle her fears. She breathed in his familiar scent of bergamot and mint and spoke her vows with confidence. After the ring had been placed on her finger, and the vicar had made the final announcement, Maxwell had leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. The resulting tingle warmed Louisa’s cheeks and set her heart racing.
She, Louisa Rose Northcott, was now the wife of Maxwell Benedict Harlow.
She could scarcely believe it. She’d expected to feel different, as if wearing a wedding ring would change her somehow. That, in becoming Mrs. Maxwell Harlow, what remained of Louisa the girl would be eradicated, leaving only the Louisa the woman behind. It hadn’t. To her mild surprise, she felt no difference at all. Her status had changed, off course, but not her. Oddly, she took comfort from it.
