“You most certainly are,” Mari said, without looking up from her book. “And it is exceedingly tedious.”
“I was merely informing Miss Tolliver,” Theo said smoothly, lifting his teacup, “that I am most uncommonly pleased to be alive. I thought it prudent to say so aloud, considering the recent attempt upon my person.”
“You are being very odd,” Nell said.
“We are always odd,” Hetty replied, a shade too brightly, as she reached for her knife and buttered her toast with great concentration. “It is the natural state of this household.”
“No,” said Lottie, folding her arms as Nell nodded in agreement. “You are being oddtogether,which is far more alarming.”
“Eat your eggs, Charlotte,” Benedict said gruffly, still glowering into his plate.
From behind the Morning Post, Lord Tolliver gave a sudden start, as though only just becoming aware there were other people in the room.
“Well, hullo there, Langley!” he said heartily. “Shall you be sufficiently restored to stand for the ceremony on Thursday, or must we carry you in upon a sedan chair like a wounded Roman general?”
“I am, I assure you, quite mobile, sir,” Theo replied, bowing his head. “Though I must confess, I should not object to a sedan chair. Borne, of course, by no fewer than six footmen in matching waistcoats.”
“Aha!” cried Lord Tolliver, slapping the arm of his chair in delight. “Capital notion! Let us revive the toga while we are about it – give the whole affair a proper sense of grandeur!”
Lady Tolliver swept back into the room, placing an uninviting bowl of steaming broth before Theo. “There shall be no such revival of ancient fashions,” she declared. “However, I have resolved that the violinists shall be stationed by the east window – the acoustics are far superior – and I am cancelling the rose garlands entirely. They put me in mind of funerals.” She stared pointedly at Theo. “Lord Langley, do you believe yourself capable of remaining upright through the entirety of the ceremony?”
“Without question, Lady Tolliver,” he said, though his wince as he shifted slightly in his seat suggested otherwise. “Provided someone is nearby to catch me should I swoon. Perhaps the bride might consider it.”
“I shall do no such thing,” Hetty said.
“Then I shall swoon at your feet,” he said with solemnity, though the mischief in his eyes quite undid the effect. “It will be terribly poetic.”
Hetty reached for her teacup in a poor attempt to look composed. Her hand brushed his where it rested upon the table, and neither of them made the slightest effort to withdraw.
Across the table, Lottie gave a long-suffering sigh. “I do wish you two would simply kiss again and be done with it. Breakfast is becoming rather exhausting.”
“Charlotte Tolliver, I am eating!” Benedict barked.
Nell promptly snorted into her cup. Mari turned a page in her novel with a studied air of detachment. Georgie beamed, and from behind his newspaper, Lord Tolliver muttered, “Ah yes. Love at the breakfast table. Very continental.”
—♥—
Much to Theo and Hetty’s dismay, Lady Tolliver had arranged a private appointment with the vicar the following morning. It was not done in malice – at least, not in the conventional sense – but in the spirit of what she referred to as “responsible housekeeping” following Hetty’s ill-timed announcement over dinner that the engagement had been a fabrication. In Lady Tolliver’s view, such a notion was wholly inadmissible. The engagement was most certainly not a farce, regardless of how many protests her eldest daughter flung about. After all, two decidedly public embraces, one duel and a bullet wound (delivered, no less, by a member of the bride’s own family) rendered the match, in Society’s estimation – and more importantly, in Lady Tolliver’s – “as good as consummated. If not in law, then most assuredly in the eyes of every scandal sheet and meddling aunt in England.”
Thus it was that Theodore, Earl of Langley, found himself seated beside Miss Tolliver upon an unyielding settee in the modest study of the Reverend Mr Peters, the long-serving cleric of St Bartholomew’s on Brook Street – a respectable if somewhat draughty parish, favoured by those of good breeding and even better gossip. The room, plainly appointed, bore all the hallmarks of clerical life: a large, worn Bible upon the desk, an assortment of pamphlets entitledOn the Moral Conduct of Young Ladiesand, most peculiarly, a rather baldstuffed owl positioned upon a high shelf, its glass eyes fixed upon them with unblinking judgment. Theo shifted slightly, wincing as his ribs protested, and cast a sidelong glance at Hetty, who sat very upright with her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap and her expression arranged into the finest imitation of pious obedience to ever grace a Tolliver.
The Reverend Peters was a small, rather harried gentleman with an expression of perpetual apology and an overly large collar that bobbed every time he cleared his throat, which he did often. He cleared his throat once more and consulted a small leather-bound book with more ceremony than seemed strictly necessary. “My purpose in calling you here,” he began, “is not to pry, nor to cast doubt upon what has already been so publicly affirmed – though I understand it was affirmed under somewhat… unconventional circumstances – but simply to ensure, before God and conscience, that this union is entered into freely, and with full understanding of the vows to be made.”
Theo inclined his head with all the solemnity he could summon. “You have our undivided attention, sir.”
Hetty, seated beside him in a straight-backed chair that appeared to have been designed as an instrument of penance, gave a quick nod.
The vicar peered at them over the rim of his spectacles, which had slipped down the bridge of his nose. “Lord Langley, do you affirm your intention to marry Miss Henrietta Tolliver of your own free will, without coercion, deceit, or duress?”
“I do,” Theo replied at once, rather more easily than he might have expected. The silence that followed seemed to stretch a fraction toolong, so he added, “Though I must admit, it all feels rather subdued without a pistol or a marriage-minded mama waving smelling salts in the background.”
Hetty turned sharply, fixing him with a glare capable of withering crops.
The vicar coughed and cleared his throat once more. “Ah. Yes. Well. Thank you. And now, Miss Tolliver – do you, of your own volition, consent to this union, without force or undue persuasion?”
There was a pause – not long enough to be called a hesitation, precisely, but long enough for Theo to feel something lodge in his ribs that had nothing to do with the bullet.
“I do,” Hetty said at last. “I enter into it willingly.”
