Remember me, p.25
Remember Me, page 25
Philippa raised her knees beneath the covers, wrapped her arms about them, and lowered her forehead to rest on them.
She thought about marrying for love. She was not at all sure she loved the Marquess of Roath. How could she? She was even less certain that he loved her. He had never said anything to suggest that he did. She thought about a wedding at St. George’s on Hanover Square, with members of the ton crowding every pew, organ music filling the church—perhaps played by Sir Ifor Rhys—bells pealing from the church tower outside. She thought of a flower-bedecked carriage and showers of petals as she made a dash for it from the church doors with her bridegroom. She thought of a lavish wedding breakfast at Stratton House and speeches and cake and champagne. She thought of all the shopping that would precede such a wedding, of choosing designs and fabrics for her own gown and Stephanie’s and perhaps Joy’s. She thought of walking along the nave of the church on Devlin’s arm while the Marquess of Roath watched her come, the light of—
Even in that scenario was the Marquess of Roath to be her bridegroom, then? Not the man of her dreams, the love of her heart, and all the other commonplaces she might think of if she gave herself a bit more time?
She raised her head and looked at her mother.
“This is the wedding I want, Mama,” she said. “The Marquess of Roath is the man I want.”
Her mother heaved a deep sigh. But she did smile, albeit somewhat ruefully. “Then it is time you got out of that bed,” she said. “There is so much to do, Pippa, that my head is about to spin on my shoulders.”
Philippa threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, actually smiling at her mother.
Chapter Nineteen
The Duke of Wilby had been denied his morning coffee. He was inclined to be grumpy about it and bark at anyone who came within his line of vision. Until, that was, the duchess reminded him of two facts that should make him ashamed of himself. First, he was still alive this morning, when last evening at Almack’s it had looked as though it was all over for him. Second, Lady Philippa Ware was going to marry Luc today.
“A day is still better worth living when it begins with coffee,” he muttered peevishly.
“You are an ingrate, Percy,” she said. “You might have been just a memory to me this morning.”
He brooded upon her words.
“I did not harass that young woman, did I, May?” he asked.
“You did your very best, Percy,” she said. “But I do not believe she allows herself to be bullied.”
“Hmph,” he said. “All is in readiness, I assume?”
“It will be by two o’clock,” she told him. “One great advantage to my being old, Percy, is that no one expects me to exert myself any longer. More than that, no one wants me to exert myself.”
“I daresay you did not get more than a wink of sleep last night,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Either go to your bed right now, May, and lie down, or climb in here beside me. Am I right in the middle of the bed? Is there room?”
“There is room. You do not need to move,” she said, looking toward the corner of the bedchamber, where His Grace’s valet had been standing quietly through most of the night lest his services be needed. He was already letting himself quietly into the duke’s dressing room and closing the door softly behind him.
The duchess drew back the covers and lay down beside her husband, her head on his outstretched arm. She sighed and relaxed.
“Percy,” she said. “Try not to give me any more frights like the one you gave me last night.”
“Not until at least nine months from tonight,” he said. “It is a promise, May. I intend seeing my great-grandson before I set out on my final journey. And I always get my way—or so say some people who shall remain nameless.”
They were both sleeping before many more minutes had passed.
* * *
—
Lucas stood in the doorway of the drawing room, remembering another quite recent occasion when he had been doing the same thing. He had been looking in then upon a roomful of guests at one of Aunt Kitty’s tea parties. He had stood here, gathering his courage to step inside and begin circulating—that dreaded word when one was not particularly sociable, especially when one knew hardly anyone. Then he had spotted his aunt just before Jenny’s waving arm had caught his attention. A moment later so had the woman who was seated beside her.
Lady Philippa Ware.
Today he would be marrying her.
“Ah, you are back, Luc,” his sister Charlotte said, coming briskly toward him, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked though she could not have had much sleep last night. Her hair was disheveled and the sleeves of her dress were rolled up above her elbows. “Did you get everything you need?”
“I did,” he said.
“The ring, Luc?” Aunt Kitty called from across the room. She was balanced on a stool, rearranging vases on the high mantel. “Did you get the ring?”
“I did,” he said.
“The right size?” she asked him.
“The right size,” he assured her. She had sent Gerald to Stratton House early this morning with a note for the Dowager Countess of Stratton and a verbal request for Lady Philippa’s ring size. Lucas had purchased a plain gold wedding band and another set with a single large diamond. It would have been a betrothal ring if there had been a betrothal of longer duration than fourteen hours or so. As it was, he would present her with both rings today.
“You have given it to Gerald?” his aunt asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “I sent him home to bed after he returned from Stratton House, if you will remember.”
Gerald had been up all night, and he had been busy. He had accompanied His Grace’s secretary as they dashed about London achieving the impossible. They had returned before breakfast with a special license and an assurance that a clergyman designated for the task by the archbishop himself would perform the nuptials at Arden House at precisely two o’clock this afternoon.
The drawing room, Lucas could see, had been transformed into a flower garden. There were vases and epergnes everywhere, covering every available surface that was above floor level and encroaching even upon the floor itself. A linen-and-lace-draped table stood before the window at the far end of the room. A branch of candles, as yet unlit, stood upon it, along with a silver cross. A few rows of chairs had been set up to face it. Not very many chairs, but more than Lucas had expected. Were they all going to be occupied with his family and hers? It occurred to him, though, that at least she would have all her immediate family about her, as would he. When he had taken her home last night, he had met the eldest brother—half brother, actually. Ben Ellis, that was. And he had met the young student, Owen Ware, who had somehow been spirited from Oxford to London.
“You are going to have to move out of the doorway, Luc,” Charlotte said, waving her arms at him in a shooing gesture.
He turned to see a couple of footmen behind him. They were carrying a large roll of . . . carpet? Red? It was indeed carpet, but it was white. He watched them set it down across the doorway and unroll it all the way across the room and between the rows of chairs to the table so that anyone attending the wedding would not have to set their feet upon anything so mundane as the Persian carpet beneath it. The footmen even managed to turn a corner skillfully with it without leaving behind them treacherous folds or lumps for someone to trip over. Charlotte was busy directing them, though it was clear they did not need any direction. Aunt Kitty, still perched on the stool, added a few contradictory suggestions. Jenny, seated in her wheeled chair, was making some adjustments to one of the enormous bouquets of roses—red, of course—that flanked the table.
There was a harp in the room by the fireplace, Lucas noticed suddenly. It had not been there yesterday or any day before that. Dared he ask? He decided against doing so. He would only distract his female relatives from what was clearly a very busy time for them. And he was, after all, only the bridegroom.
All of this was not at all what he had expected last night when he had been sent by his grandfather—with the silent acquiescence of his grandmother—to make his offer to Lady Philippa, who, His Grace had assured him, would accept it. She had capitulated to their bullying, then, he had thought, half sympathetic to her, half annoyed that she had not after all held firm. He had expected a dour, chilling, very private nuptial ceremony this afternoon in this huge, normally barren room. It had not occurred to him that anyone would try to make a wedding out of it.
What had occupied his mind through much of the night was the very real possibility that his grandfather would not survive it. His Grace had very definitely suffered a rather severe heart seizure, Dr. Arnold had reported to the family. But his condition had stabilized during the night and might improve if he was kept very quiet in his bed and in a darkened room and if he avoided company and any sort of excitement.
None of them who had been present when he gave his report this morning—Aunt Kitty, Charlotte, Sylvester, Jenny, Gerald, or Lucas himself—had informed the physician that there was to be a wedding at the house today. None of them had promised to keep the duke from attending it. How could they have done so in all good faith? Trying to stop Grandpapa from doing what he had set his mind upon was akin to King Canute trying to order the tide to stop coming in to wet his feet and the legs of his throne.
One of the chairs that had been set out, Lucas noticed now, the one just to the right of the white carpet in the front row, was his grandfather’s favorite wing chair. The one next to it was his grandmother’s more modest armchair. All the others were upright chairs not specifically designed for comfort.
“I really must dash home,” Charlotte said as she rolled down her sleeves and patted her hair ineffectually. “Will you have a carriage summoned, Luc? I must make sure the children are getting ready. Goodness, is that the time? After eleven o’clock?”
It was indeed. Lucas went to do his sister’s bidding. Three hours from now he was going to be a married man.
It was a stomach-churning realization.
Unless Lady Philippa Ware came to her senses before then, that was.
* * *
—
Philippa traveled to Arden House in a carriage with her mother, Devlin, and Stephanie. Her mother alternately patted her hand and lightly rubbed it the whole way from Grosvenor Square while Stephanie nodded and smiled encouragingly and Devlin gazed out of the window, his expression blank and stern—if an expression could be both at the same time.
Philippa appreciated his silence and the way he did not look at her. She appreciated too the wordless reassurances her mother and her sister were beaming her way. She was not feeling nervous, however. Or if she was, then it was an anticipatory sort of nervousness, not a doubtful one. Mama had suggested this morning that it was not too late to call off her wedding or at least postpone it until she had given herself more time to consider. Devlin had suggested the same thing an hour later. He had offered to go in person to Arden House to tell the marquess so. Nicholas, half an hour after that, had made the same offer. He had reminded her of other times when she had acted impulsively and regretted it afterward. Not that he had anything against the Marquess of Roath, he had assured her. Far from it, in fact. He seemed a fine sort of chap and there could be no doubting his eligibility. And he could understand, Nicholas had said, why they all wanted to please the old duke, who had looked for a few moments at Almack’s as though he were beyond being pleased or displeased by anything more in this life.
“But when all is said and done, Pippa,” he had said cheerfully, “it is your life and your happiness at stake. Love him, do you?”
“Yes, Nick,” she had said, because it had been the easiest thing to say and he had been looking at her with such kindness and anxiety that she had simply wanted to hug him and maybe shed a tear or two on his broad shoulder.
She was committed to the decision she had made last night. She was not going to start having second and third thoughts until she did not know which direction was up and which was down. She loved the Duke and Duchess of Wilby and their family. Perhaps she even loved . . . But her feelings for the Marquess of Roath were far too complex for any neat label. Not that there was anything neat about love. Had anyone ever defined the word to encompass all its many meanings and manifestations? She was beginning to believe there was no definition. Love was too vast a thing. It was not even a thing, in fact, but what else did one call it? And the word vast must itself have limits. She did not believe love had any.
It was such thoughts during the morning that had calmed her—surprisingly, perhaps. For there was no point in trying to think of something no one could even define. One could only live one’s life day by day, minute by minute, holding true to the choices and decisions one made and hope that somehow one would find . . . what? Love? But she refused to allow her thoughts and emotions to spin in endless circles.
She set her hand in Devlin’s as she descended from the carriage and looked up the steps to the open doors of Arden House. The butler, looking both stately and avuncular, awaited them. She did not know what to expect inside. One great blessing, though, was that somehow or other—certainly not by prearrangement—all her immediate family would be present at her wedding. She might have wept over Owen last night if by the time she arrived home and saw him she had not been numb to all feeling.
As the butler bowed them into the hall, Viscount Mayberry was coming downstairs, a warm smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye.
“I am to hand you this,” he said to Philippa after greeting them all. He picked up a long package from the hall table, unwound the white cloth in which it had been loosely rolled, and handed her a perfect peach rosebud. The long stem had been ingeniously wrapped about with golden gauze to protect her hand from the thorns.
“Thank you,” she said, raising the flower to her nose and inhaling its sweet perfume.
The gold would complement her gown. It was one of her new ballgowns. She had not worn it before because it had seemed too gorgeous even for a grand ton ball. Perhaps she would keep it for a ball at Stratton House if Gwyneth and Devlin chose to host one, she had thought. But then along had come today—her wedding day. It was pure white, with fine lace wafting over soft silk. It was high-waisted, low-necked, short-sleeved. It fell in straight folds from beneath her bosom to give her a narrow, Grecian profile, but it billowed a bit as she moved—to add femininity and draw attention to her slender figure, Mama’s modiste had explained before suggesting gold sequins to catch the light and add distinction to the gown. They encrusted the bodice and sleeves quite thickly and were dotted sparingly over the skirt, almost unnoticeable until she moved and they caught the light. She was wearing gold slippers and long white gloves. Her hair, dressed simply with only a few fine, wavy ringlets, was unadorned.
“Ma’am?” Viscount Mayberry was bowing to the dowager countess and offering his arm. “Allow me to escort you up to the drawing room. You may follow as soon as you are ready, Stratton, with your sisters. All is in order, and His Grace sets great store by punctuality. Having said which, I will add, since he is not present to overhear me, that it ought to be a bride’s privilege to be late by a minute or two or even ten if she so chooses.” He winked at Philippa.
Her mother, elegant as always, dressed in blue, ascended the stairs on his arm, and Stephanie fussed with the hem of Philippa’s gown though there was no need to do so. She was wearing her pretty sprigged muslin dress, one of the few new garments to which she had consented. Her hair was dressed in its usual thick braids wrapped over the top of her head.
Joy might have been a bridesmaid too, as she had been for Gwyneth and Devlin’s wedding before Christmas. But when Philippa had asked her this morning, she had shaken her head vigorously, moving all her soft curls and her whole body with it, and checked to see that her papa was not far away.
“Not even with Aunt Steph as your fellow bridesmaid to hold your hand?” Stephanie had asked.
Stephanie was perhaps Joy’s favorite person after her papa, with the possible exception of Owen. But she was not to be moved and had shaken her head again and gone to wrap her arms about one of Ben’s legs. The weeks she had spent at Penallen with him seemed to have brought back some of the early shyness she had shown when Ben first brought her to England and Ravenswood with him after the Battle of Toulouse.
“You look gorgeous, Pippa,” Stephanie said now.
“You do indeed,” Devlin agreed, and at last there was a smile in his eyes. “Ready?”
Yes, she was ready. She ascended the stairs, her hand through his arm. Stephanie came behind them. Philippa could hear the soft murmur of voices coming from the drawing room. Viscount Mayberry stood in the doorway and waited for them to cross the landing from the top of the stairs before smiling warmly at them and turning to give a signal to a person Philippa could not see.
Someone played a sweeping chord on a harp, and Devlin turned his head to smile fully down at Philippa. He patted her hand on his arm.
“Gwyneth’s little surprise,” he murmured.
Gwyneth was sitting across the room beside the fireplace—just where she, Philippa, had been sitting with Jenny one afternoon not long ago when she turned her head to see the Marquess of Roath standing in this very doorway. It was Gwyneth who had played the run on the harp, though it was not her own instrument.
The murmur of voices from the other end of the room had stopped. And Gwyneth played and sang in her lovely contralto voice. She sang the very hymn the choir had sung at the start of her own wedding in the church at Boscombe before Christmas. The choir had sung unaccompanied because Gwyneth was the bride and Sir Ifor Rhys, her father and the organist at the church, was leading her in, just as Devlin was now leading Philippa into the drawing room.
