Page 57

“Sarah was so careful with her, quietly spending time with her, showing gentle interest…just as if Anne were some shy, reclusive woodland creature she was attempting to tame, persisting until she found subjects of interest to them both. It was not easy, by Jove—but by the end of the visit, Anne was taking her about in her phaeton, laughing with her.”

They were both silent a few moments. “I believe you discovered a rare gem at a common house party,” Darcy mused.

“Hah! There is nothing common about Saye’s parties.”

Darcy nodded. “I would never admit it to him, but…praise the heavens it is so.”

And both men smiled.

Sarah sat before a large, mirrored dressing table in a chamber that had been her grandmother’s, left as it had been in Grandmama’s day—pale yellows, ivory, and soft-blooming roses. Her reflection showed a wide-eyed, radiant bride, and she tried not to feel amazed at it .

“You look lovely, Sarah,” Lady Matlock said. “The royal blue silk was just the thing, after all.”

“Oh, you are beautiful, Sarah,” Lilly, Lady Saye, put in, her golden curls appearing like another sun in the glass.

The door opened at that moment, and Georgette poked her head inside.

Her brow raised in delight at the sight before her.

“Well! You are positively dashing! Lilly, you had better tell Saye to be ready to restrain Fitzwilliam when she enters the chapel. It was very naughty of you, Sarah, to keep him waiting so many months. And I completely approve.”

“Oh, but I am no periodical cicadettine —” Sarah began, as Lady Matlock’s brows drew together.

“Dear Lady Matlock,” Lilly interrupted, “I shall cry and spoil my own dress if I stay to admire the bride much longer. I had better fetch another handkerchief, though I suppose Saye will bring an extra. He is always prepared for me on such occasions, though he pretends to be annoyed.”

“Yes,” the countess agreed, “we had all best go down. Your father will be here any moment.” She patted Sarah’s shoulder. “We shall see you in the chapel. I daresay your groom will behave as a gentleman ought.” She cast her young relation a warning glance, but Georgette only grinned unrepentantly.

Finally alone, Sarah breathed a little sigh of relief.

Thank goodness for Lilly, and her kind friendship; she had eased the way for Sarah more than once in the last months.

In retrospect, she could remember that her mother-in-law would not understand the comparison between a grasshopper who mated once every ten years and her own lengthy betrothal, but she could be forgiven a few lapses on her wedding day.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called, rising from her velvet stool as her papa entered—and blushing when he halted in surprise at the sight of her.

“Well then,” he said, after a moment of silence. “My dear girl. My very dear girl.”

She bit her lip to halt her own tears, while he fumbled for his handkerchief and loudly blew his nose.

Holding out his arm, together they made their way down towards a carriage pulled by four matching white horses and bedecked in cream-coloured roses. “It is beautiful, Papa,” she breathed.

“Like you,” he said, pausing, for once not showing a single sign of distraction. “I warned that pup you are marrying: I know a thousand untraceable means of killing a man. He will treat you well.”

“Oh, Papa,” she beamed up at him.

The short ride to the chapel passed in a heartbeat. And then there was young Percy, grinning, sweeping open the door with a flourish, looking very grown up as she blew him a kiss.

Finally, finally, she could see her groom, so utterly handsome in his wedding clothes. His expression as she walked to him would remain with her always.

“Dearly beloved,” the vicar began at last. Richard reached for her hand, uncaring that it was not yet time.

“I love you,” he mouthed.

“Always,” she whispered, a vow as sacred as any they had yet to share.

Eighteen Months Thereafter

Georgette had not doubted Saye would succeed in making Anderson’s institution the most fashionable charitable cause in London.

She had, however, shared her husbands’ scepticism for the longevity of that renown.

Nevertheless, a year and a half on, its popularity had not waned.

At least two dozen peeresses were still desirous of putting their names and their husband’s money into the venture.

Several of them were present that afternoon at the fête arranged to honour the home’s newest patron and—so they had let it be rumoured—where Anderson would be reconnoitring for others.

Georgette had the less well-advertised but far more enjoyable task of weeding out the unsuitable candidates. She was presently speaking to Lady Swift, a robust woman who was seizing as possessively to Georgette’s every bon mot as she was clutching her plate of petit fours to her bosom.

“I have always admired your husband, Mrs Anderson,” she said. “One cannot help but respect such philanthropy.”

“I am pleased you approve. Though it is not strictly true that you have always respected him, is it? I recall you referring to him on more than one occasion as ‘Blanderson’.”

Lady Swift coughed, spraying crumbs everywhere. “Well, no, I…that is, if I did, it was only because I thought that was his name. I heard it said so often amongst my acquaintances.”

“Were those the same acquaintances who nicknamed me ‘Forgette’ and put it about that I lighten my hair with lemon juice?”

Lady Swift mumbled an incoherent demurral.

“You are a true wit, madam. Though we had better not let you loose on the children at Mr Anderson’s institution. They have rather more serious afflictions than banality and blonde hair. You would be in danger of exhausting your supply of puns.”

“Yes, better to keep those for your friends, Lady Swift,” said somebody behind them.

Her ladyship started. Georgette did not, for she recognised the distinctive Flemish accent.

“Viscount de Borchgrave, what a surprise to see you here. Are you interested in patronising my husband’s institution as well?”

He only smiled and stared pointedly at Lady Swift until she made her excuses and hastened away. Once she was gone, he turned insouciantly to Georgette. “I was curious to see how you fared. I am relieved to discover that you look as well as ever. Remarkably well, considering.”

Georgette refused to be drawn and only inclined her head.

De Borchgrave smiled. “You could have had me , Georgette.”

“Oh, I know, but you could never have had me.”

“You think yourself better than me, do you?”

She smiled expressively. “But that is not the reason I refused you. You were simply too late. I was already in love with Mr Anderson.”

“Are you still in love with him?” he asked with a pout. “For I was going to suggest you could still have me. No one need know.”

Georgette pinched his chin playfully. “That is a terribly sweet offer, Borchy—you are good to think of me—but I must decline. I am afraid I am every bit as in love with my husband now as I was then, if not more. But look, here comes your new wife. Perhaps she will oblige you if you are feeling unloved.”

He cast a panicked glance over his shoulder, muttered something uncharitable, and beat a hasty retreat.

Georgette pitied him, but not everyone could be as blissfully happy in marriage as she.

Equally undesirous of speaking to the ghastly Viscountess de Borchgrave, she went in search of her two favourite people in all the world.

Anderson was supposed to be making himself available to the good and the great of the haut ton , but his attention had been entirely usurped by one particularly captivating person, and the task of securing extra patrons for the institution had been wholly forgotten.

Ignoring the various clusters of nobles awaiting his attention, he stepped closer to the nearest shrub and pointed out a large pink flower to the bundle in his arms.

“You never get any less strange, do you?”

Anderson turned around in surprise. “Randalph! I had no idea you were in town.”

“Had to get away for a few days.”

Anderson sighed heavily and pointedly declined to enquire why. “I told you I would give you no more money. That last sum ought to have been enough to set you up for life.” The babe whimpered with displeasure at being ignored; he adjusted his hold and hushed it soothingly.

Randalph pulled a disgusted face. “Is it not enough that you have made your fascination with London’s Undesirables known to the whole world? Must you parade them around in front of every illustrious personage in town as well?”

A slow smile overtook Anderson’s frown. “It is not unheard of for me to treat the children to a day out, ’tis true, but this one is not from the institution. This one is mine.”

“Yours? But…I had no idea?—”

“I have not seen or heard from you since Grandmother’s funeral. I knew not where to send word. He is named Matthew, after our brother. Should you like to hold him?”

Randalph shook his head violently, but after a moment, crept warily forwards, as though approaching a dangerous animal. “I suppose I could. He looks tolerably endearing.”

Anderson handed his son into his brother’s awkward embrace. “I have wondered more than once these past months whether you were still alive.”

Randalph glanced at him ruefully. “Forgive me. I ought to have written. I have been busy attempting to make something of myself. I’ve not made too much of a hash of it, actually.”

“Why have you left, then?”

His brother blushed and mumbled, “Small matter of a broken heart.”

“Ah. Tricky things, those.”

Randalph nodded.

“Will you come to dinner this evening?”

“Your wife would not object?”

Anderson chuckled. “Take the time to become acquainted with your new sister, and you will soon discover how absurd that question is.” He reclaimed his son and led his brother towards the place he had last seen Georgette, daring to hope his family might at last be whole again.

Three Years Thereafte r