Who Will Take This Man?

“Ah, do not be concerned, Mademoiselle Meredith,” Madame said. “I see this always with zee nervous brides. I shall brew her my special tisane and she will feel tres magnifique this quickly.” She snapped her fingers.

Meredith looked down at Lady Sarah’s waxy complexion, and prayed Madame’s assessment was correct. But at least the wedding was still two days away. Surely that would be more than sufficient time for Lady Sarah to recover.

Surely it would.

Two

Pacing the confines of the small private office off an alcove near the vestry at St. Paul’s, Philip Whitmore, Viscount Greybourne, prayed for all he was worth that his bride would not show up.

His stomach cramping with tension, he pulled his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted the time. Mere minutes remained before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Would Lady Sarah come? God help me if she does.

Damn it all, what an utterly impossible situation this was. Had he made Lady Sarah understand? He’d only had that one opportunity to speak privately with her, when he’d dined at her father’s townhouse the evening before last. Due to her suffering a fall earlier in the day and subsequently finding herself the victim of a vicious headache, she had not joined the party for dinner. He squeezed his eyes shut. First the fall and then the headache. Bloody hell, he’d feared it would come to this.

After dinner, however, Lady Sarah had made an appearance. Following several minutes of small talk, he’d suggested she show him the gallery, and she’d obliged. And he’d taken the opportunity to tell her… warn her. She’d listened to his tale with what appeared to be merely polite interest, and at the end of his recitation had murmured, “How… interesting. I shall think upon it,” then had excused herself, claiming the headache. When he’d called upon her yesterday he’d been informed by the butler that she still suffered the headache and was not receiving visitors. He’d tried to speak to her father, but the duke was not at home. Philip had left a note for his grace, but had not received a reply, indicating he’d obviously arrived home too late to respond. And Philip had spent the remainder of his time at the warehouse, searching through the numerous crates for the one item that could bring salvation. He’d been unsuccessful, which meant that one way or another, this day was about to take a very unpleasant turn.

Surely someone would send word to him soon, or Lady Sarah would herself arrive. Or not arrive. He raked his hands through his hair and tugged on his confining cravat. Either way, he was damned. Honor demanded that he marry Lady Sarah. But honor also demanded that he not. Her image rose in his mind’s eye. Such a lovely young woman. The thought of taking her for his wife should have pleased him enormously. Instead the very idea cramped his insides with dread.

A knock sounded, and he quickly strode to the door and opened it. His father entered the room, and Philip closed the door behind him with a soft click. Turning, he met his father’s gaze and waited for him to speak. The signs of Father’s illness were starkly visible in the ribbon of sunlight streaming through the window. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and his complexion was sallow and pale. He was considerably thinner than when Philip had left England, his face bordering on gaunt, the shadow of circles staining dark gray beneath his eyes.

But those eyes remained unchanged. Piercing blue and rapier-sharp, they could cut with a single frigid glance- as Philip knew all too well. Gray strands marked his temples, but his ebony hair remained thick. He looked like an older, tired, paler version of the hearty man from a decade earlier. A man with whom Philip had shared little other than cold silence and tension after Philip’s mother’s death-a situation made all the more painful as he and Father had enjoyed a warmer relationship prior to Mother’s death. A man who had made a deal with Philip, one that had afforded him the opportunity to pursue his dreams, albeit only until “someday,” asking only one thing in return.

Father had not reacted well when he learned it was the one thing Philip could not give him.

His father walked slowly toward him, his eyes taking in every aspect of Philip’s appearance. He halted when only two feet separated them. A wealth of memories hit Philip like a blow, rushing images through his mind, ending, as thoughts of Father always did, with the reverberation of his quiet, condemning words: A man is only as good as his word, Philip. If you’d kept yours, your mother wouldn’t have-

“The ceremony is about to begin,” Father said, his expression unreadable.

“I know.”

“Unfortunately, your bride has not yet arrived.”

Thank God. “I see.”

“You told her.” The words were a statement, not a question.

“I did.”

“We’d agreed that you would not.”

“No. You requested that I not tell her. I never agreed that I wouldn’t.” Philip’s hands clenched at his sides. “I had to tell her. She had the right to know.”

“Did you tell Lord Hedington as well?”

Philip shook his head. “Lady Sarah requested that I not, at least not until she’d thought upon the matter.”

“Well, with each passing minute without her here, it becomes clearer what her thoughts on the matter were.”

Philip could only hope his father was correct.

* * *

Meredith stood in the shadows cast by the columns in the marble-tiled vestibule of St. Paul’s, trying her very best to look dignified and contain her excitement, praying she did not resemble a child with her face pressed against the window at the confectioner’s shop. A procession of elegant carriages wended their way toward the magnificent west entrance of the cathedral, dispensing Society’s finest for the wedding of Lady Sarah Markham and Viscount Greybourne. A hum of excited whispers echoed from the throng of guests entering the church, their voices swallowed by the swell of organ music as they passed Meredith. She caught snatches of their words as they glided by.

“… heard Greybourne was nearly killed during an altercation with some tribe of…”

“… supposedly wants to start his own museum with some American colleague…”

“His importing business venture is rumored to be wildly successful…”

“Amazing that he managed to snare Lady Sarah, what with his odd interests and that scandalous debacle three years ago…”

On and on they came, all of Society’s finest, walking through the magnificent columned entrance to proceed down the nave, passing under the architectural splendor of the dome, until over five hundred guests filled St. Paul’s pews. All except the one guest Meredith most particularly wanted to see.

Where was the bride?

Dear God, she hoped Lady Sarah was not still suffering from that tumble at the dressmaker’s. No, surely not. If so, her father would have sent word. Meredith had been most anxious to speak to Lady Sarah yesterday, to find out how her meeting with Lord Greybourne had gone the evening before. But when she’d called upon her in the early afternoon, Lord Hedington had informed her that Lady Sarah was unable to receive visitors due to the lingering headache. Meredith’s alarm clearly showed, for Lord Hedington had quickly assured her that Lady Sarah had taken a restorative tisane and, after some much-needed sleep, would be perfectly fit for the wedding. He reported that Lady Sarah and Lord Greybourne had spent over an hour together touring the gallery the evening before, and had gotten along “smashingly well,” news that calmed a tiny fraction of Meredith’s jitters. In addition, he said that in spite of his disheveled clothing and abominable cravat-which would surely be solved after employing a proper valet-Lord Greybourne seemed a decent sort of fellow.

Thank goodness. Not that she’d had the opportunity to meet the groom herself and put her own fears to rest. Oh, she’d tried, without success, to meet with Lord Greybourne to assess what, if any, last-minute emergency etiquette lessons he might require, but the man had remained as elusive as fog. He’d responded to her trio of calls upon him with a trio of terse notes stating that he was “busy.”