“The guests,” Caroline repeated. “Of course. The guests.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something I do not.”
“I know many things you do not. For instance, I know that you have been sleeping poorly for four nights, and that you walked past his door yesterday and stood there for half a minute, and that you have not eaten a proper breakfast since he left.” Caroline folded the ribbon. “I know these things because Mary tells me, and Mary knows everything.”
“Mary should learn to keep secrets.”
“Mary does keep secrets. She keeps yours. But she also keeps mine.”
“Traitor,” Valeria muttered.
“Loyal servant,” Mary corrected. “To both of you. Now, hold still.”
“The neckline is too low,” Caroline observed, examining the dress from across the room.
“The neckline is perfect,” Mary countered.
“It shows her collarbones.”
“That is the point.”
“Richard will look.”
“Richard looks at you, Your Grace. He has not looked at another woman since you threw a teacup at his head in the drawing room at Ashcroft.”
“I did not throw a teacup. I placed it firmly.”
“It shattered against the wall.”
“The wall was closer than I expected.”
Valeria almost smiled. Almost. The corner of her mouth moved the way the corner of a door moved when a draft caught it, present and then gone.
“Are you nervous about tonight?” Caroline asked, suddenly serious.
“I am not nervous. I am irritated. There is a difference.”
“You are nervous and calling it irritation because it sounds more dignified.”
“I am not nervous. I have paint under my fingernails from ruining my dead husband’s portrait with the most dangerous man in England.”
Mary looked up from her pins. Caroline looked up from her swatches. They stared at Valeria. Valeria stared back.
“That,” Mary drawled, returning to her work, “is the most interesting thing you have said in three years.”
Caroline had taken charge of the wedding preparations with the ruthless efficiency of a woman who was running out of time before the baby arrived.
The candles should be beeswax, not tallow. The flowers should be white roses, not lilies, because Valeria hated lilies. The musicians should play waltzes, because waltzes were more romantic. When Valeria protested that she did not need “romantic”, Caroline told her that she did, and that was final.
Throughout all of it, Valeria functioned. She approved. She decided. She managed. Three years of managing Gordon had made her exceptional at it.
But at night, alone in her room, the managing stopped, and the thinking started.
Edward had left. A message arrived, and he was gone within the hour, riding toward London and the life that had existed before her.
