Lavinia met Moira’s eyes in the glass. “I suspect the world is thinking a great deal today.”
“Let it.” Moira gave her a squeeze. “She’d be proud of you. And so am I.”
Lavinia cleared her throat. “If you cry, I shall be forced to join you.”
“Bah, these are happy tears.” Moira let go, but not before pressing a kiss to her temple, careful not to disrupt the crown. “Now, are you ready to face the mob?”
“If by mob you mean Nancy, Hester, and Fiona—” Lavinia glanced at the door, which already rattled with the approach of a trio. “—then no. Not even a little.”
Too late. The door banged open, and in they swept, Nancy in a flurry of ribbon, Hester with an armload of something blue, and Fiona tripping over the hem of her own dress.
“There you are!” Nancy swept in and kissed both Lavinia’s cheeks, then hovered a step back, as if she might begin an impromptu inspection. “You are radiant. Are you nervous? You must be. I am nervous for you.”
“I am not nervous,” Lavinia lied.
“You are the color of flour,” Hester observed, dumping the blue bundle onto the bed. “And your hands are shaking.”
“I am not—” Lavinia began, but Fiona cut her off.
“That is perfectly normal,” said Fiona, her voice steady for once. “Before I married, I was so nervous I forgot how to spell my own name. Isaac found me rewriting the place cards with every possible permutation.”
Lavinia could not help but laugh. “Fiona, your name is four letters long.”
“Exactly,” said Fiona.
Nancy clapped her hands. “This is a moment for joy, not panic. Shall we sing? I am sure the walls of Evermere have never heard so much happiness in one room.”
Hester eyed the full-length mirror. “Do not sing. You’ll shatter the glass, and Lavinia still needs to see herself as she becomes a duchess.”
Moira beamed at them all. “You see? Who needs family when you have a cohort of wild women?”
Fiona patted Lavinia’s hand. “We are all so very proud.”
For a moment, the room was thick with emotion, threatening to spill over into sentimentality. Lavinia tamped it down with a sniff and set her jaw.
“Thank you. All of you. But if you do not let me out of this room, I will never marry at all.”
They bustled her toward the door, Nancy fussing over the angle of the veil, Hester fluffing the train, Fiona making small, panicked adjustments to the bouquet. In the chaos, no one noticed Frances slip back in, arms full of flowers and a streak of dirt on her nose.
“They’re ready,” Frances declared. “We’re to go at once.”
“Very well,” Lavinia said, and tried to ignore the way her knees wobbled.
The church was small, just as Lavinia had requested. She would have preferred a drawing room, but Lady Montfort had issued a decree: if Lavinia was to be a duchess, she would do it with the dignity of at least three generations. She supposed this was a compromise.
The pews were filled with a patchwork of friends, found family, and the odd cousin who had drifted in on the tide of gossip. The air was full of the scent of lilies and lavender, which Frances and Sophia had over-enthusiastically arranged in every available vessel.
Near the altar, the Duke of Sappherton stood and beside him, Tristan. The Duke of Evermere. The man who had, until recently, made an art form of ignoring his own feelings. Today, however, he looked ready to devour the sun and the moon, just to see what came next.
Lavinia watched as Sophia, beaming with pride and clutching her basket, began the walk down the aisle. She had not tripped. Not even once.
The second time she passed down, she was followed by Whisper, who had slipped in behind her and now stalked the aisle with an air of utter authority.
Frances caught up to Sophia halfway and together they paraded to the front, each throwing petals in a manner that suggested they were auditioning for a new Olympic sport.
At the sight of the cat, Sappherton’s eyebrows rose. He turned and murmured to Tristan, who grunted but did not take his eyes from the back of the church.
Lavinia reached them, and Tristan took her hand, then leaned down and spoke with his voice pitched for her alone. “It’s not too late, you know. We can flee to the continent and live as reclusive philosophers.”
