Dara stared at her blankly. She was. The thought was shocking, and a touch horrifying. She was marrying Michael Brogan.Allthe implications of that statement roared through her. She was going to be his wife. This couldn’t be happening to her. He was too—too.
And as was so often the case when she found herself in the center of things, fear took hold. This could not be happening to her, even if, secretly, she was elated. She pushed back the mess and snarls that were her hair, embarrassed as pins fell from the tangles.
Gwendolyn bounced down on the bed beside her. Her sister appeared well rested and lovely with her dark hair perfectly coiffed and the gold in the deep brown of her eyes giving them a sparkle. She looked so beautiful, Dara covered her own sleep-wrinkled face with her hands as if to hide from everything she was not. She heard herself mutter, “I can’t marry him. It’s not right.”
Gwendolyn pulled down Dara’s hands from her face and looked her in the eye. “Stop this. You are marrying him, and you deserve to marry him. Besides, I’m not the one who knowsallthe rules in the family. If Elise or I had taken off with a gentleman, especially one we were betrothed to—”
“I never said yes to him.”
Gwendolyn ignored the protest. Instead, she held Dara’s hands in hers and said, “—youwould insist we marry the man. Especially if we liked him.”
“I don’t like him,” Dara said stubbornly.
Her sister countered with a soft “Liar.”
“Why do you say that?” Dara challenged her.
“Because I realize Tweedie was right. You and Mr. Brogan—well, he’s asked me to call himMichael. A very good name, Michael. I like it. You and Michael had been conducting a flirtation from the beginning. I actually believe the two of you will suit each other very well. That is, if you don’t play martyr.”
Dara took offense. “I am not a martyr.”
“Oh, please.” Gwendolyn let go of her hands and rose from the bed. “You take pride in thinking of everyone else before yourself. Why, I wouldn’t have put it past you to marry that one duke who called on us—what was his name? I blocked it from my mind. The old one with the short sparrow-like legs and bad breath.”
The Duke of Minton.Dara kept silent. She’d danced with him, often out of pity. But would she have accepted an offer from him?
Gwendolyn returned to her original point. “You would have sacrificed yourself if it meant helping Elise and me. At the same time, the whole reason we are in London is that you wouldn’t letmemarry Squire Davies. I was not to sacrifice for you. Well, I believe we should both be done with settling. Be happy, Dara. You are marrying a remarkable man who I suspect might love you. He certainly acts as if he understands you very well. He warned me that you would not be a willing bride this morning once you found yourself in his bed. And do not be fussy. He informed Tweedie and me that he slept on the settee.”
But Dara was only half listening. Her mind had caught on the wordlove.
Michael might love her? Such as in romantic novels?
Or as in the heartbreaking sobs of Mrs. Ferrell last night? That type of love? Where one feels as if one’s soul had been attached to another?
Dara had not thought a great deal about love. She’d been too busy managing everyone’s life save her own. She ran her hand along the crisp, clean sheets and remembered tucking herself in next to Michael on the settee last night. It had felt good to burrow into his warmth, and that was not like her. She usually kept a bit of distance between herself and other people, but not with him. He upended all of the barriers she placed between herself and others. He acted as if he understood her, and still liked her.
What woman would not wish to marry such a man?
She looked up at Gwendolyn. “Is Elise here?”
Her sister’s smile faded. “No.” There was a pause, and then Gwendolyn said, “But Tweedie and I are. In fact, Tweedie is out in the sitting room, trying to cajole Teddy into fixing her a little nip. I warned him he must not. However, she can be persuasive.”
Gwendolyn was trying to distract her. “Does Eliseknowabout the ceremony?”
Her sister picked up the valise and set it on achair by the bed. She opened it to pull out Dara’s hairbrush before saying, “I sent a note to Lady Whitby. And now we must prepare. Teddy is very efficient. He has everything planned, and the minister will expect you at eleven o’clock.”
“Do I have anything to say about all of this?” Dara usually was the one making the plans, although she’d never really thought of her own wedding. Her musings had always centered on her sisters. Was that martyrish?
“Not today,” Gwendolyn answered. She began pulling errant pins from Dara’s hair. “Let me take care of you today.”
Dara allowed her to do what she wished without complaint. “A first!” Gwendolyn murmured.
As Gwendolyn attacked the snarls in Dara’s hair, she talked about what had happened after word of Sir Duncan’s murder spread at the ball. Apparently many women, and one man, had swooned.
“There were so many reacting to the news in that manner that the servants couldn’t catch them all. It made crossing the ballroom difficult,” Gwendolyn said. “Tweedie and I were worried, but when we were informed you were with Michael, we knew you were safe.”
Dara didn’t share the information about Mr. Ferrell. Then Gwendolynwouldworry.
Gwendolyn left to fetch a pitcher of hot water and to give Dara a moment of privacy. Dara noticed his jacket, the one he’d given her last night as a blanket, was hung over a chair next to a small desk. She had to touch it, to feel the wool beneath her fingers.
