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Brendan’s friend, Lord Julius Trafford, sat behind them in the next pew. Trafford had been indignant at the news he was to marry and had expressed as much in dramatic terms, but had begrudgingly shown up for the ceremony dressed to the nines in the latest fashion. Frankly, Brendan thought the elaborately embroidered coat and waistcoat looked rather uncomfortable, not to mention the intricate knot of his cravat, which tilted Trafford’s chin to a haughty angle and gave him the appearance of a man prepared to duel rather than witness a wedding.

Across the aisle sat Miss Abbott’s family, including her brother and Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, kin to Richard. Their expressions were carefully neutral, but Brendan felt their scrutiny like the press of heat through a frock coat.

“My lord, I have services soon.” The vicar shuffled on his feet, a pained expression on his dour face. “I need to prepare.”

“They will be here any minute.” Brendan’s assurance was thin, thinner than he wished it to sound. He did not know his bride. Not truly. It had been his assumption that the wedding was imperative to mitigating their scandal, a formality to preserve reputations. But how well did he truly know the Abbott family?

What if they do not come?

Brendan shifted, raising a hand to knead his temple and shield his eyes from the vivid shaft of sunlight pouring through the stained-glass window above the altar. The light scattered in jewel tones across the flagstones, falling like a benediction he did not feel he had earned.

The thought that Miss Abbott might not appear carried more sting than logic could explain. That sting required examination. She had struck him as a genuine person. When he had imagined his future marriage, it had always been to someone sincere and enlivened. Someone with grace like his late mother, someone with courage like his sister, and someone capable of strategic insight like Richard’s wife—or the indomitable woman who had chosen Perry.

It seems Miss Abbott fits the bill.

The young lady was everything he admired in a person. She possessed sincerity, a quiet intelligence, and a refreshing absence of affectation. His only objection—if it could even be called that—was the absence of romantic spark. Yet surely that was a trifling concern in the face of something as enduring as a lifetime partnership. He was, after all, a man of the world. With time, mutual respect would bridge any such gap.

Confound it!

The thought slipped sideways, turning to the expectations of the evening ahead. Duty would require him to consummate a union with a girl who, in her sweetness and softness, reminded him somewhat of a younger sister—playful, innocent, even childlike in her manner and manner of dress.

Brendan pressed his thumb to the ache blooming at his temple, attempting to relieve the mounting pressure behind his eyes. It was no use. The discomfort only grew sharper.

The vicar shuffled again in agitation, a quiet clearing of the throat reminding Brendan that their ceremony was running increasingly late.

Just then, a burst of movement at the chapel doors drew every head around, including his own.

The countess entered with Lady Moreland, gliding swiftly down the aisle to take a seat near the Abbott family. Brendan blinked, registering their presence with only half his mind, for at that moment, Lord Moreland followed, escorting a woman he did not recognize.

Brendan’s breath caught.

For the span of one stunned heartbeat, he could do nothing but stare.

My word. If only I were marrying her.

The young woman was arresting. Her rich brown hair had been swept into an elegant coiffure, several curls escaping to frame her face in soft, artless spirals. She wore a deep crimson gown veiled with gossamer tulle threaded with gold, which shimmered faintly with each step. The color brought a luminous warmth to her complexion. The modest cut of her bodice did little to obscure the refined grace of her figure—poised, confident, composed.

A strange yearning swept over him, unbidden and unwanted.

He shut his eyes. This is your wedding day, and you are admiring another woman? He might as well be a schoolboy again, ruled by fancy and impression rather than principle. Had he no discipline?

Opening his eyes, he saw that Lord Moreland and the young woman had progressed to the front pews. She released his lordship’s arm and stepped forward, pausing near Brendan with an elegant nod.

He returned the smile automatically, though his expression was still puzzled. Where was Miss Abbott?

Turning his head to glance at the chapel doors again, he could see no sign of her arrival.

When he looked back, the woman gave him a curious smile, her brows rising ever so slightly.

“Shall we begin? The vicar surely needs to prepare for service.”

“Miss Abbott?”

Her smile widened, tinged by gentle amusement. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Brendan hesitated, his eyes surveying her quickly. She was undeniably petite, the approximate size of the young woman he had visited at the Abbott home. She had a heart-shaped face, wide brown eyes framed by thick lashes, a pointed chin, and delicate ears that peeked from beneath her coiffure. If he imagined her in ringlets and ruffles, he supposed these might indeed be the same elfin features with which he had spoken only days before.

Drat! Do I not even know what my bride looks like?