It didn’t seem as if she remained in the window seat for long after that, gazing down upon the silent, moonlit grounds, but she must have done, because when she came to herself again it was to the soft chime of the mantel clock.
It chimed twelve chimes, then came the hush after the echo of the ringing faded away.
Her wedding day had arrived.
She remained where she was, her arms wrapped around her legs and the coverlet draped over her shoulders, watching as the moon’s glow began to fade and the sun rose over the stable roof, tinting the sky a glorious rosy pink.
The day would be a fine one. Surely, that was a good omen?
“Prue?” There was a tap on the door, and Franny’s voice drifted in from the corridor outside her bedchamber. “Are you awake?”
She was indeed, and had been for days. “Yes. Come in, Franny.”
Franny opened the door and peeked around it. “You’re already out of bed.”
Prue rose from the window seat with a smile. “Yes. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nervous, I daresay. All brides are anxious on their wedding day.”
That was what everyone claimed, yes, but it didn’t make much sense to Prue. Surely the wedding was the least of her worries. It was the marriage itself that terrified her.
“You needn’t be, you know,” Franny went on. “Montford’s a dear soul, despite what London may say about him, and Giles and I will be there to help if things should go awry.”
Franny and Basingstoke had intended to remain in the country until the end of the month, but once Prue informed Franny of her betrothal, she’d insisted on throwing a ball in honor of the new Duchess of Montford. It would take place in two weeks, and Franny was returning to London at once to plan it.
Prue smiled at her friend and took her hands. “You’ve been so very good to me, Franny, so patient with all of my, er . . . blunders and mishaps. I daresay you’ll be pleased to see me safely wed at last.”
“Nonsense. You do know that the more tumultuous the courtship is, the happier the marriage will be, do you not?”
“Is that what they say? I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s whatIsay, dearest, and I offer my own marriage to Basingstoke as proof, though to be fair, we never had a proper courtship. It was more of a skirmish, really, rather like one of the brawls one sees in the pit at the theater. It was all perfectly wretched, I assure you, but you see how I delight in him now. It will be the same for you, you’ll see.”
Delight, in Montford? That didn’t seem likely, but it was unseemly to abuse one’s husband on one’s wedding day, so she merely smiled again. “Then I’ll have nothing else to wish for.”
Franny patted her cheek, then turned and threw open the door to the wardrobe. “Now, which of these gowns have you decided on?”
Prue had hardly given a wedding gown a thought, but once she’d accepted Montford’s proposals, Franny had appeared in her bedchamber with a half dozen housemaids on her heels, each of them carrying one of Franny’s own gowns in their arms. She’d commanded Prue to choose one for her wedding gown and wouldn’t hear any arguments to the contrary.
It wasn’t as if Prue could marry a duke wearing her worn riding habit and old cloak, after all.
Franny had dozens of gowns that might serve as a wedding ensemble, but after much discussion, they’d narrowed it down to two. One was a pale yellow silk with a full, flowing skirt. It had a sumptuous train, and yards of extravagant embroidered lace at the neck and sleeves and in a panel down the front of the bodice and skirts.
The other was much simpler. It was a creamy ivory color of the thinnest, finest linen imaginable, with a scooped neck, a pleated train that fell in an elegant drape from the shoulders, and long sheer sleeves that ended at the wrists in a wide band of the prettiest lace Prue had ever seen. It was so delicate it looked as if the gentlest of breezes would scatter it like dandelion fluff.
She joined Franny in front of the wardrobe, reaching out a finger to touch the yellow silk. “I hardly know which to choose. They’re both so pretty.” Except, no, that wasn’t the truth at all. The trouble was, the gown she ought to choose wasn’t the gown she wanted.
The yellow silk was much grander than the simple ivory gown, and thus far more appropriate a garment in which to wed the Duke of Montford.
But it was the other one she wanted.
The ivory gown was perfection, an utter dream of a gown, from the graceful lines to the exquisiteness of the linen to the restrained lace at the wrists. It was almost painfully simple, but the beauty of it arose from that very simplicity. Even as she fingered the fold of yellow silk, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from it.
And she may as well begin as she meant to go on . . .
“The ivory.” She turned to Franny, an inexplicable shyness falling over her. “It must be the ivory.”
“That’s the one I would have chosen for you.” Franny squeezed her arm, then removed the ivory gown from the wardrobe and laid it carefully on the bed. “What shall we do for a veil?”
