“That might be the more accurate description.”
“But somewhat less romantic. And I am attempting, however poorly, to be romantic.”
“Romantic?” she echoed, and stilled completely, as though the word itself had startled her. “Why would you wish to be romantic with me?”
“Because,” he said, the lightness falling away, “if I am to be your husband, as now seems inevitable, I should like to deserve it. Not simply stumble into the role by accident or scandal, or the sheer force of your mother’s determination.”
She was looking up at him, and those damnably kissable lips had parted in shock. “You speak as though you intend to woo me.”
“Perhaps I do,” he murmured, wondering if he should indeed kiss her again. “Or at least make a credible attempt. I must confess I –”
The door burst open with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge.
“There you are!” cried Lady Tolliver, sweeping into the corridor. “I trust the vicar has confirmed your intentions, though Heaven knows the entire neighbourhood has already done so. Come, Henrietta – the lace samples have arrived, and I cannot make heads or tails of them without your guidance. And you, Lord Langley, must cease gallivanting about! You are still convalescing, and you shall ruin everything if you perish before Thursday.”
“Lady Tolliver, might I entreat another moment with Miss Tolliver – ”
“There will be time aplenty for that after the ceremony,” she interrupted, already turning on her heel. “Preferably in private.”
Hetty cast Theo a rueful glance as she was swept away in her mother’s wake.
Theo remained in the corridor, hand pressed gingerly to his side, biting back both a smile and a wince. How, exactly, had he become ensnared in this ridiculous business of matrimony? He had long valued his freedom above all else – but he found himself oddly untroubled by the prospect. For all the chaos and absurdity of it, marrying Hetty might well prove to be the very best kind of trouble.
Chapter 19
The evening before the wedding arrived like a storm with lace trimmings, and it could only be said that the Tolliver household had entered a state best described as bridal siege. There were violinists rehearsing in the east parlour, a milliner had been summoned, dismissed, and summoned again, someone had mislaid Benedict’s waistcoat, one of the dogs had devoured a place card, and Hetty was perilously close to locking herself in the linen closet.
Instead, she had taken refuge in the library with a decanter of sherry she’d rescued from beneath a crumbling bust of Cicero. The room was blessedly quiet and entirely devoid of daisies, soprano rehearsals or her mother. She curled into the corner of the settee, tucked her slippers beneath her, and let herself breathe. For a brief and shining interval, she felt almost at peace, which was precisely what unsettled her most. For what was a Tolliver – what wasHetty,in particular – without a crisis to wrestle, a door to slam, or a scheme to concoct? She had very nearly begun drafting a most dramatic exit: not a true escape, of course, but the mere idea of climbing out thewindow, decanter in hand, just to see if she might, had become terribly appealing.
At that moment, the library door creaked open, and Theo stepped inside. He paused upon the threshold, looking about the room until his focus landed upon her curled form, half-shadowed and cradling a glass like a woman gone to sea.
Hetty sighed and tipped her head back against the cushions. “If you are here to speak of seating arrangements, Theo, I fear I must refuse. I have only just survived the calamity of the missing pudding moulds, and I fear I am not equal to further trials.”
Lady Tolliver had insisted – under the guise of benevolent concern – that he remain at Tolliver House to complete his recovery. Ostensibly, the arrangement was intended to allow the family ample opportunity to nurse him back to health. Hetty, however, strongly suspected it had rather more to do with keeping the prospective bridegroom firmly within reach until Thursday, lest he make a desperate bid for liberty and disgrace them all before the altar.
She could not help but observe – as he entered the library, somewhat breathless from the stairs – that he looked thoroughly dishevelled and, to her great irritation, utterly devastating. His coat was unbuttoned, his cravat uneven, his hair in that artful state of tousled disarray that suggested either great exertion or careful intention. Even the walking stick at his side lent him a certain romantic air.
“I bring no news of seating charts, I promise you,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Though I must confess, I am quite relieved to have discovered you. I feared you had abscondedaltogether… But I thought, if you were anywhere in the house, it would be here.”
“I am hiding,” Hetty replied without shame, not bothering to rise from her seat. “I had hoped that if I remained here long enough, Mama might take it into her head that I had succumbed to a sudden and tragic ailment and postpone the entire affair.”
Theo crossed the room with slow ease, as though he had not recently been shot and lowered himself carefully into the chair opposite her. “You underestimate your mother’s resolve. She would simply drag your corpse down the aisle and insist the violinists play something cheerful.”
Hetty groaned and raised her glass. “You jest, but she has already asked the baker whether the wedding cake might convey a theme of resurrection.”
“Good God. Has she truly?”
“Oh, yes. She asked whether he could produce a sugared dove rising from a bed of candied wounds.”
His laugh came low and helpless. “I cannot explain it. I do so adore your family.”
“You are utterly deranged.”
“I was shot by one of them. I believe I have earnt the right to be so.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You were shot by me, technically.”
“Ah, but you are also the one I am marrying on the morrow. So I daresay the scales have been balanced.”
