Page 134 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Epilogue

The wedding was to be held on the evening of the third of July.

Though this was not common practice—nearly all weddings were held before noon—the Duchess of Moncrieff was anything but common. No one in their right mind would question her edicts. Aside from which, the families planned a massive reception and ball following the event.

For Isobel, it was a dizzying week leading up to the nuptials. There was a flurry of fittings—and not just for her. The entire family needed to be outfitted for the festivities. More than once, she caught her brothers glaring at her as they suffered the pins and needles of the modiste who had come to the house to do her work, on the sound justification of sheer convenience.

Beyond that, there were many callers, all coming to pay their respects to the countess-to-be and curry favor. Isobel, of course, deplored these meetings but was thankful for the support and advice of the Duchess of Moncrieff, who counseled her to be gracious, regardless. “One never knows when one will meet a friend,” she said, and that maxim proved true on many accounts. To Isobel’s surprise, many of the ladies she met were kind, respectful, and delighted to meet her.

That made it easier to ignore the ones who were not.

And as Kaitlin said, “There will always be those who are not.”

Ironically, once the wedding plans were in motion, she saw less of Nick than she would have liked. Both mothers assured her it was because she was busy. It was gratifying, when she finally did get to see him, that he expressed his frustration that they had been kept apart.

“I canna wait until we can be alone,” he grumped to her one day at tea.

Aunt Esmeralda, who had remarkable hearing for a woman of her years, snorted. “I daresay you won’t be alone for long.”

Something in her tone must have captured everyone’s attention, because Kaitlin, Isobel’s mother, and her aunts turned to pin her with curious looks.

“Whatever do you mean?” Sorcha asked.

Esmeralda glanced artlessly at the ceiling. “Nothing.”

Those sharp gazes flicked to her and Nick. Isobel could practically hear the suppositions wheeling in their heads.

“She has been ill,” Esmeralda said, taking a sip of tea.

Isobel glared at her. She had been ill, and it had been getting worse, but there was no call to bring it up now.

She turned to her mother, to offer some platitude about something I ate, but was stopped short by her expression as the truth—one that Isobel was convinced of now—descended.

“Oh, my,” Mama said.

“Oh, my,” Kaitlin sighed.

“Oh, lovely,” Aunt Hannah gushed.

“Don’t tell Papa,” was all Isobel could manage. “Not until after the wedding.”

Mama laughed and then bounded up and across the room to give her a hug. “I wouldna dream of it. Oh, congratulations, my darling. And you . . .” She turned to Nick and fixed him with a stern look.

He smiled sheepishly, charmingly, and shrugged, and in the end, she had to hug him as well, too.

* * *

For some reason, Nick was nervous as he stood next to the altar at the front of St. George’s on the third of July, before all and sundry, and waited for his bride to come down the aisle. Not that he doubted she would come. He knew she would.

It was just that this day, above all others, marked an irrevocable change in his life.

Not one he dreaded, as he had once imagined, but one that filled him with joy.

It was a joy that frightened him. The intensity of it.

He now understood the fear that had caused Isobel to balk, to want to run.

How fortunate he was that she had chosen not to escape this magnificent terror.