Apart from that one visit, Duncan spent the nine days before his wedding simply avoiding the madness associated with it as much as he was able. A grand wedding was necessary, his mother explained to him at great length the day she arrived home from Merton House with the news that Margaret Huxtable was sending out more than two hundred invitations – or perhaps not quite as many as that since some people were in couples and only one invitation was necessary, it being a foolish waste of paper and ink and time and energy to send two.
He did not argue the point with her in the hope that she would not feel the necessity to share any more of the details with him.
Vain hope! 'A grand wedding is very necessary, my love,' she went on to explain with her own particular form of logic. 'Anyone who attends it can hardly give you the cut direct afterward, as you will realize very clearly for yourself if you stop to think about it. You may still not be society's favorite son, but you will be firmly back in the fold, and that is what really matters.' 'Society,' he said, 'can go hang for all I care, Mama.' 'Oh, men can be so foolish,' she said. 'But even if you do not care for its regard on your own account, Duncan, you must remember that you are going to be a married man. You are going to have a /wife/ to consider, and if society snubs you, it will snub her too. You owe it to Margaret to do all in your power to ingratiate yourself with the /ton/ again.' He sighed audibly. She was quite right, of course.
Dash it all! 'Anyway' he said, 'I daresay no one will accept the invitation – except a few of the uncles and cousins, perhaps.' Another vain hope – as he had explained to Maggie a few days before.
His mother clucked her tongue. /'Men!'/ she said with the utmost scorn and a glance tossed at the ceiling. 'They have /no idea/ how people think. /Of course/ everyone will accept the invitation. /Everyone/! No one would miss it for any consideration.' It was an opinion that was corroborated on the gossip page in the next morning's paper. The upcoming event was heralded there as the wedding of the Season – /if/, that was, the Earl of Sheringford did not run off on the day and leave Miss Huxtable standing at the altar alone.
He was in for a grand wedding, then, Duncan realized, as surely as a condemned man was in for an appointment with the gallows.
He dressed on the fateful morning with the full awareness that he was going to be on display more than he had yet been since his return to London.
Which was saying something! 'Not so tight,' he half growled at Smith as his valet tied his neckcloth in a knot that was not too simple, not too elaborate. It was perfect in all ways but one, in fact. 'Are you trying to throttle me?' 'I think it is the occasion that is doing that, m'lord,' Smith said without tampering further with the neckcloth. 'You don't want it swinging about from one shoulder to the other, now, do you? And even if you do, I will not have it. I would never be able to hold up my head again among my fellow valets. Stand up and let me give that coat a final brush. You have a positive gift for picking up bits of lint, though for the life of me I don't know where you find them.' Duncan finally escaped the clutches of tyranny and went downstairs, where a small group awaited him in the hall. Carling looked resigned to a day of boredom that would, nevertheless, release him of the charge of housing and feeding his stepson. His mother declared that she would not hug him lest she crush her new dress and crease his coat, and that she would not weep lest she ruin her face – she would not mention cosmetics, but they were there in full, colorful evidence. But she did blow him kisses before leaving for the church, and she did dart at him at the last moment for a quick hug, and she did dab at a stray tear with a large white handkerchief she pulled from one of Carling's pockets before she preceded him from the house.
Duncan turned to Con Huxtable, who had agreed to be his best man. They both raised their eyebrows. 'Sherry,' Con said, 'I have no idea what happened five years ago. But if you should take it into your head to bolt between here and St. George's, you are going to have to bolt through me.' 'I am not going to run,' Duncan assured him irritably.
Con nodded. 'I do not understand how all this came about either,' he said. 'Margaret has always seemed to me like a sensible lady. However, it /has/ happened, or will have when I have dragged you to the church and prevented you from bolting. You will treat her right, Sherry.' It was not a question. 'There are many things we do not understand,' Duncan said. 'I don't understand, for example, why Miss Huxtable's happiness is important to you, when her family moved into Warren Hall five years ago and pushed you out.' Con's dark eyes were immediately hooded. '/Circumstances/ pushed me out,' he said. 'My father's death, and then Jon's. It is easy to rush into hatred, Sherry, and to wallow in it for a lifetime. I /did/ so rush. I /did/ hate them – or Merton, anyway. But sometimes one needs to stop to ask oneself if a certain person really deserves to be hated. Merton and his sisters were innocent – and they are pretty hard to hate. And one needs to ask who is most hurt by hatred. Do we need to be having this talk at this precise moment?' 'We do not,' Duncan said, resisting the urge to pull at his neckcloth. 'We need to get to the church. Under the circumstances, it would be more than usually calamitous if I were late.' 'Off we go, then,' Con said cheerfully.
Because it was a lovely day and society weddings always attracted a large crowd anyway, Stephen's coachman had to maneuver the carriage carefully before St. George's in order not to run over some of the people who had spilled over from the pavement onto the roadway.
There was a noticeable 'Oooh' from the crowd as Stephen descended and turned to hand Margaret out – almost as if they thought /he/ was the bridegroom. But of course, Stephen always looked remarkably handsome even when he was not dressed in formal black and white attire as he was this morning.
Margaret set a gloved hand in his and stepped down to join him, smiling at him as he smiled back. He had actually shed tears back at the house after Vanessa and Katherine had left with Elliott and Jasper – and had turned his back hastily in the obvious hope that she had not noticed.
But he had turned to her again without drying his eyes. 'Meg,' he had said. 'Oh, Meg, you have always been the most wonderful sister any boy or man could ever ask for. I had no idea today would be so painful – or so happy at the same time. He is a good man. I am convinced of that. And I think you are fond of him, even though you have known him for such a short time.' He had taken both her hands in his and squeezed them tightly. '/Are/ you fond of him?' But she had been on the edge of tears herself and had merely nodded. 'And he is of you too,' he had said. 'I am sure he is. He will love you, Meg. I can safely promise that. How can anyone know you and not love you?' 'You are not biased by any chance, are you?' she had asked, smiling. 'Ah, Stephen, I have loved you all dearly. I still do and always will.
But forgive me if I want to go to my wedding now and not be late.' He had chuckled, turned to pick up his hat, and offered his arm.
The crowd outside the church let out a collective 'Aahh!' as she stepped down from the carriage. And indeed she did believe she was looking her best. She had resisted all the brightly colored garments Lady Carling had thought appropriate for the occasion and had chosen a cream-colored dress of satin and lace, which was high-waisted and simple in design but that had been expertly cut so that it molded her figure to perfection.
She wore a new straw hat trimmed with white rosebuds.
Jasper had told her it was a good thing she was the bride or no one would even spare a glance for the poor woman. And then he had turned and grinned and winked at Kate.
Stephen offered his arm now, and they made their way into the church.
Margaret was assailed suddenly by the panic that had grabbed her earlier. What if he was not here? What if he was not even late? What if he was not coming at all?
But it was an ignominious fear. She trusted him better than to believe he would abandon her now. She pushed the terror aside even before they stepped inside the church doors and she realized that the church was full to capacity and that no one looked worried or unduly agitated. What seemed like scores of heads turned in her direction, and at the end of the nave the clergyman gave a signal with one hand and two gentlemen stood. They both turned to see her.
One of them was Constantine. The other was the Earl of Sheringford.
Her bridegroom.
Margaret swallowed and fixed her eyes on him as Stephen bent to straighten the hem of her dress at the back and then gave her his arm.
She saw no one else. All the trappings of the wedding were quite unimportant despite Kate's protestations about the importance of memories. It did not matter if there were a dozen people here or two hundred. She was getting married and her bridegroom was here, at the front of the church, turned toward her and watching her as she approached.
And he was the bridegroom she wanted, she realized with great clarity.
She felt an upsurge of happiness and smiled at him.
