“And look,” Lydia cried as she proudly showed off her efforts. “Phoebe sent you a kitten! She says she heard you never had a pet.”
Iona gasped as a tiny golden kitten was dropped into her hands. The kitten crouched and solemnly studied her. She studied him back. He had golden-brown eyes, like hers. Phoebe had noticed her eyes?
Except—she couldn’t remember telling Phoebe that she hadn’t had a pet. Gerard. She had once, a lifetime ago it seemed, told him. Her stupid hope jolted into existence again.
“Hello, tiny little one,” she murmured, stroking a small head with a fingertip. “I trust you don’t eat bees.”
“Cats don’t eat bees,” Arthur scoffed. “They eat mice. We’ll need a barn to keep it in.”
Iona chilled. He didn’t really think she meant to live with him, did he? Big puppy dogs might. She grimaced and gently reminded him of her plans. “I shall take him to Wystan with me, and he may sleep in my room. If there are any mice there, he’s welcome to them.”
Lydia, her pregnancy more noticeable than a month ago, beamed in delight. “Mrs. Merriweather adores cats. Tiny will be one very pampered kitten.”
“Perhaps I shall call him Kingsley. He won’t always be small. Come along, King, let’s see if you like my bridal gown.” Iona sailed off, leaving Arthur to his own entertainment.
She feared she bewildered him. She’d never meant to hurt him. But she wasn’t his damned mother.
Twenty-five
“Will my hair cover the scar?” Edgily, Gerard regarded his reflection in the shaving mirror as Lowell arranged his overlong hair.
“I’ll part it from the other side, but the marquess isn’t a barber. He butchered it in the process of stitching you up. Be grateful you’re alive.” Lowell snipped a few strands and combed them out. “You’ll simply start a new fashion with close-cropped sides until it grows out.”
“I don’t want to start a fashion. I just don’t wish to frighten small children.” Or Iona, but that went without saying.
“A new bride won’t notice her guests.” Lowell scoffed, understanding the direction of his thoughts. “Just put a hat on and smile as if you mean it.”
He’d shoot Arthur first. Well, perhaps second—Mortimer was likely to be there. Max had said the old bastard hadn’t shown up yet, but the twins were at Calder. Now that their stepfather was out on bond, he would head straight there.
Gerard tugged angrily at his cravat. She was marrying in two days. Two days. And he still only had a feeble plan.
“You don’t have to go, y’know,” his valet reminded him. “You had your chance with the wench and you lost.”
The medallion in his pocket snorted. Gerard hadn’t decided if he was relieved or not that his wits were still scrambled. Dolts were already calling him Marvelous Malcolm—or Mister Malcolm, which was worse. He’d never live it down. He was an Ives, dammit.
“I’m not losing,” he said curtly, although he might lose Wystan if he continued down this path. The reward money was frittering away quickly. “I had things to do. Wellington didn’t win by rushing haphazardly into battle.”
“Near enough, if you ask me.” The valet stood back to admire his handiwork. “You’ll pass.”
“Good.” Gerard grabbed his hat and cane, waited for Lowell to pick up their bags, and hurried down the stairs to join the wedding party heading for the station.
His shoulder was pretty much incapacitated. His head ached when he was tired. But he’d have to be dead before he missed this trip.
Iona took one last look in Lydia’s pier glass. Something old—she stroked her mother’s newly strung pearls. The string was smaller now, but she felt her mother smiling as she touched it. Isobel wore hers too.
Something borrowed—she adjusted the beautiful veil concealing her too-short hair. Lydia had worn it at her wedding. Something blue—that would be her garter. No one would see it but her. She’d arranged separate rooms for their wedding night. The bottle of laudanum would take care of both husband and stepfather. She’d be gone by morning. So would Mortimer.
That thought finally brought a smile to her lips.
“You look so beautiful,” Isobel said wistfully, handing her the bouquet. “I wish you were marrying someone a little more dashing.”
Gerard had been dashing that night he’d saved his friends’ lives and almost sacrificed his own. Dashing got people killed.
“I’m a beekeeper. Dashing isn’t for me.” She’d never dreamed of dashing. Her only thought these last years had been of survival.
She checked to see that the lace and embroidered train of her gown trailed correctly. Between her new corset and the gown’s tight fit, with her shoulders and arms bare above a froth of tulle forming her bustle, she almost looked like a mermaid rising from the surf.
“Everyone has arrived and is in the chapel,” Lydia called from the doorway. “Oh, you look so gorgeous!” She burst into tears.
The librarian had a tendency to weep these days. Prepared, Isobel handed her a handkerchief and tucked a spare up her sleeve. Her twin was wearing a magnificent royal blue silk with bustle and ruffles that Isobel hoped to wear again to visit the queen. A coronet of white roses dangled blue ribbons down her nape and over her short hair.
Iona kissed her sleepy kitten and tucked him into a basket of ribbons with instructions to a maid to look after him. Her heart melted knowing Gerard had sent the perfect wedding gift—one just for her, to keep her company on the lonely nights ahead. She did love the oblivious man. She simply didn’t want to destroy his future.
The wail of bagpipes echoed through the ancient stone halls they traversed to the
