“Yes. Friends. Very good.” It was as good a place as any to work from. He shuffled his feet and tugged at his cravat. “I’ve arranged an appointment at St. George’s for later this afternoon.” Blackheart had, anyhow. Having a duke for a friend was convenient more often than not. “For the ceremony.”
“I thought you could only marry in the morning.”
“Apparently, Blackheart has convinced the rector otherwise, for this particular occasion anyhow.”
Her fidgeting increased. “What time? What should I wear?”
It was a natural thing for any gentleman to study a woman’s figure when she asked such a question. The gown she wore hinted at full hips, but he’d never allowed himself to notice before. Nor had he ever considered that his best friend’s sister had pleasantly plump breasts. She had a delightfully generous hourglass shape.
Which perhaps explained why he’d been unable to forget that Bethany’s bottom had felt soft—not too soft, just soft enough—and lush when he’d soothed the stinging heat away. He ought to have known she wasn’t Miranda immediately. Was it possible he had but that he’d been so lost in his own enjoyment he’d refused to listen to his head?
“That frock ought to be fine.” All of this was beginning to feel disconcerting to say the least. “Four o’clock. I can send a carriage round—”
“We’ll meet you there.” She shrugged. “My mother and my sister.”
She had ceased her fidgeting and instead was painstakingly smoothing her skirt.
Chase had a sudden urge to take off running. To the park, across Mayfair, perhaps to the outskirts of London, whereupon he could keep going.
Her expression indicated that she might feel the same.
“You aren’t going to leave me standing at the altar, are you?” His question was only half in jest. Although, if she did, he’d be off the hook. Until Westerley returned, that was.
“As you’ve so eloquently pointed out, we don’t really have a choice.”
Ah. Yes. He met her eyes—more gray than blue today—and for an instant felt something other than resentment and guilt. An understanding that both of them were in uncharted territory.
“Right then.” She dropped her lashes. Chase had never felt uncomfortable around women, and yet in that moment, he couldn’t decide if he ought to bow over her hand or seal their engagement with a more affectionate gesture. She was Westerley’ssister, for God’s sake.
He stepped closer, leaned forward, raised her hand to his lips and then just as quickly stepped away. Pink flushed her cheeks, and she was staring at the carpet again.
“Until this afternoon, then.”
“Yes.”
Chase stepped outsideonto the pavement an engaged man.
Soon to be a married one.
He dismissed his coach in favor of walking home, where he would then deal with his mother.
She’d likely already read of the scandal in the papers, but unless the gossip columnists had spies in Westerley’s drawing room, he’d need to tell her of his pending nuptials himself.
It wasn’t that he lived in his mother’s pocket, but she was easily agitated and required special handling. Shortly after his father’s death, Chase had quickly learned the benefit of keeping her from becoming riled.
Following that meeting, Chase would walk over to the house on Farm Street. His marriage ought not to affect them but the girls deserved to hear the news from him personally.
His bachelorhood was set to expire in just over four hours. Whereas other men might choose to visit a mistress, or a brothel, Chase would spend those final hours performing familial duties.
His butler, Mr. Ingles, opened the door to Byrde House before Chase reached the top step. One glance at his longtime retainer’s expression revealed that his concerns had been legitimate.
“Your mother is watching for you in the front parlor—” Ingles barely had a chance to get the words out before a whirlwind of color flew into the corridor.
“Chaswick, my love! I was dreadfully worried when you weren’t home to take breakfast with me.” She wore the same scarlet dress she’d worn the day before, which, despite being somewhat faded, stood out like a beacon. Over it she’d draped at least six different scarves, all different colors.
Long gray hair hung down her back, and she wasn’t wearing any shoes. Her maid, Mrs. Finch, who also acted as nurse on occasion, managed to put his mother’s hair up most days, but today was not one of them.
“Apologies, Mother.” Chase took hold of both of her hands, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Have you read the papers yet?”
