Page 8 of The Broken Marchioness (Lords of Inconvenience #3)

CHAPTER EIGHT

“T here, don’t you look beautiful, dear?”

Frederica turned to face the mirror, at least content that her mother had not chosen the dress with as many ruffles as there were stitches. This one was a little more elegant. Column style in design and pure ebony white with lace sleeves and a lace collar, it was a flattering style.

Half of Frederica’s face was hidden by the veil. Frederica swept it off her head, for she was hardly able to breathe for the netting that kept falling in her face.

“What are you doing? You are ruining it.” Margaret tried to pick up the veil again.

“I’m sorry, Mother, but I do not wish to wear it. I’ll go as I am.” She turned to the mirror again though her eyes didn’t dwell on the gown. She looked instead at the shadows under her eyes.

She had barely slept this last week. She had stayed awake at night wondering why Lord Padleigh was prepared to go through this, and constantly fearing what Lord Wetherington’s reaction would be when he heard about it.

Her one comfort was that her mother and father hadn’t mentioned him since the day Lord Padleigh had proposed, and neither had he appeared at the house. She just prayed that he wouldn’t turn up at the house unannounced.

“Well, if you insist.” Margaret sighed and returned the veil to a table. “Now, are you ready? It’s time to go.”

“Will Dorothy and Charlotte be meeting us there?” Frederica asked, turning to face her mother.

“They will be in the congregation.”

“The congregation?” Frederica repeated. “But I sent them letters asking them to be my bridesmaids.”

“And I intercepted those letters.” Margaret smiled, as if this wasn’t an interference. “I think it best if you are up there alone today.”

“Why would that be best?”

Margaret pretended not to hear her and fussed with flowers nearby. It was plain that Margaret didn’t approve of Dorothy or Charlotte as friends, even though they were both duchesses and usually the sort of woman Margaret would have climbed over another to befriend.

“Now, shall we go?”

Frederica stood stock still, fury pumping through her veins. Not only was she marrying a man today that she was certain had no real wish to marry her, but she would also have to stand at that altar alone without her friends there as support.

A knock sounded at the door, and Margaret went to open it.

“A letter for Lady Frederica, My Lady.”

Margaret took it and sent the butler away again. As she passed it into Frederica’s hands, she considered not reading the letter and saving it for later. That was until she caught the scent.

No, it’s not possible.

The heavy cologne wafted at her from the envelope.

Fear pulsed Frederica’s heart. She no longer hesitated but ripped into the envelope, very aware that Margaret was now pulling on her own shoes across the room, not taking any notice of her.

My dearest Frederica,

How could you do this to me? How could you possibly betray our love and consent to marry another?

I will not stand for it. I cannot.

Maybe this is your ploy to get my attention, for I did not come to you at once since your arrival in London.

If that is the case, be reassured that I will come. I intend to come for you, Frederica. To make you mine at last.

M.

There was something aggressive in the letter. The words ‘to make you mine’ cast a shiver of fright through Frederica’s bones. She closed up the envelope quickly as she was very aware that Margaret was now staring at her from across the room.

“What is it?” Margaret asked, standing from her seat now that she had her shoes on. “Has something happened?” She glanced down at the letter in Frederica’s clutches.

Maybe I should tell her the truth.

Frederica considered it her best chance. After all, Margaret may be demanding and cool, but she was not as icy cold as her father was. Margaret had even hugged her when she saw her again. There was hope for an understanding mind and kind heart, wasn’t there?

“If this is about the wedding.” Margaret’s manner suddenly became as icy as Frederica had just persuaded herself it couldn’t be. “If you are intending to back out at this late stage, I will not stand for it. You know you must do this. It is the only way to save all of our reputations.”

Frederica had not even considered backing out of the marriage. Not only would marrying Lord Padleigh give her an escape from Margaret and Ernest, but it would also close the door firmly in Lord Wetherington’s face again. He would never be able to claim her ‘as his own’ to use his words.

Yet her mother’s reaction firmly resolved her on one thing.

I cannot tell my mother. As much as I wish for her to be understanding — to help me in this matter — she would not.

She was beginning to think that no one would understand. She couldn’t even see Dorothy or Charlotte to ask what they thought of all these threats, for she had been confined to this house and all of her letters had been intercepted.

“It doesn’t matter.” Frederica turned away.

She found a loose bag in which various items had been stuffed, ready for her move to Lord Padleigh’s house later that day. She hid the letter firmly in the bottom, intending never to read it again.

“I am ready,” she said, turning and standing straight, grasping a small bouquet of flowers that had been prepared for her for the day. “Let us go to the church.”

* * *

Frederica stood trembling at the church door. She tried not to move a muscle though she could feel herself shaking from head to toe. Her eyes moved constantly from side to side, for she was wary of someone’s approach. She constantly looked out for Lord Wetherington, fearing he would be part of the congregation.

After the letter she had received from him that morning, was it not possible that he would storm into the church today? Perhaps he intended to stand up and shout an objection when the priest asked if there was any impediment to wed.

She could well imagine her parents never forgiving her for such an interruption. They would think her beyond redemption.

“Would you raise your chin a little?” Ernest said sharply in her ear. “Honestly, Frederica. I am beginning to think we did not instill in you a sense of pride or position at all.”

She dutifully raised her chin though she chose not to say anything in response to her father. He had already stood disparaging her for many minutes at this church door as they waited for the ceremony to begin. She had lost all intention to argue back to him and just stood there, allowing him to berate her.

“When I think what this has come to,” he sighed. “It is from the grace of God alone that you are marrying a man as distinguished as Lord Padleigh. A marquess no less.” He suddenly smirked with self-satisfaction, prompting Frederica to stare at him in awe. “He will open doors for us now; that is true.”

He was speaking more to himself than to her, rubbing his hands together with a kind of childish delight. “Yet you will have to be careful.” He grew serious again. “Lord Padleigh will not stand for you to continue in your disgraceful ways.”

“He is marrying me,” she reminded her father in a small voice.

“He is doing it because he has no choice. Good lord, Frederica. You surely do not think you are worthy of any affection from him? After all you have done?”

Frederica stared at her father, her jaw slackened.

No. Affection from him was never something I had hoped for.

Yet it was the way her father spelled it out so plainly. How confident he was that she was worth nothing that made her feel so utterly depleted and hopeless. She saw truly for the first time how much she was like dog muck beneath her own father’s shoes.

Her chin turned down of its own accord as she fussed with her bouquet, looking for something else to do.

He will forever be ashamed of me.

From within the church, organ music began. Ernest outstretched an arm toward her. When she didn’t take it right away, he cleared his throat, and she dutifully took it though she barely touched him with her fingers. She had a feeling he was glad of that, for he clearly wanted so little to do with her.

The church doors opened, and they stepped inside.

The first place Frederica looked was at the congregation. Desperate for a comforting face, for a true friend, she sought out Charlotte and Dorothy. The two of them were in the second row back behind her mother, both of them smiling at her encouragingly.

Charlotte even raised her hand to offer a tiny wave, and Dorothy had a gleam in her eye that made Frederica wonder if she was holding back tears.

Frederica smiled back at them as best as she could though it did not last. She couldn’t help looking at her mother in the front row. Maragaret didn’t even look at her. She was too busy talking in hushed tones to the friend she had dragged to sit beside her. They waved their hands at the beautiful flowers and must have talked quite readily about how beautiful the wedding was for an affair that was so small.

Frederica ached for her mother to look at her as she walked down the aisle to the church music, but she never did. Not once.

If only Honora was here.

She longed for her aunt, for another comforting face in that crowd, but she knew if she had asked her father to invite Honora, he would have realized at once where she had been this last year. Honora would have had even more condemnation thrown at her head but never an invitation to the wedding.

Still desperately seeking another comforting face, Frederica looked at the only place that was left to look. She faced the altar, where her husband-to-be stood waiting for her.

Lord Padleigh was not facing the priest, nor was he looking at Dorothy’s husband, Stephen, who took the place of best man. He was actually looking straight back at Frederica.

She nearly tripped in surprise. Only her hand on her father’s arm stopped her from going over. She heard him tut disparagingly, and she promptly loosened her grip on him at once.

As they reached the altar, Frederica couldn’t stop looking at Lord Padleigh. There was something intense in that gaze. It was a far cry from the formal look he had given her when he had told her he intended to marry her in front of her parents. It was more in-keeping with the look he had given her when they had hidden in the music room to talk.

Ernest offered her hand to Lord Padleigh.

“Good luck, My Lord,” Ernest muttered under the cover of the music.

Frederica found herself lowering her chin again. She was not sure she had ever felt so small in her life. For her father to wish her betrothed luck, he must think so ill of her indeed.

Lord Padleigh’s hand closed over Frederica’s hand and pulled her towards him. She stood beside him, expecting him to loosen his hand swiftly, so they were no longer touching, but he didn’t. She turned her chin downward to look at that grasp.

Calmly, without fuss, he held onto her hand gently between them. There was something comforting in that grasp.

She dared to look him in the eye again and found the very thing staring back at her that she had been looking for in that church. He offered the smallest of smiles. It was a comfort.

She sighed, doing her best to return it as much as she could.

“Are you ready?” he whispered, just as the organ music came to a halt.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, then he turned the two of them to face the priest who approached from the back of the altar.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God to join together this man and this woman…”

Each sentence blurred into another. For Frederica, she could barely distinguish one word from the next. All she could really think of was her parents’ judgmental stare, her fear that Lord Wetherington would appear through the church doors at any moment demanding the ceremony be cancelled, and Lord Padleigh’s soft grasp of her hand.

When it came time to utter her vows, she snuck glances at the church doors, breathing a sigh of relief when they did not open. They signed the register, with Dorothy and Stephen acting as witnesses to their signatures, then they returned to the altar.

“I now pronounce you, husband and wife.” The priest smiled broadly and stepped back.

As a polite applause began from their small congregation, Frederica felt Lord Padleigh’s pressure on her hand again.

Frederica had been to enough weddings to know that quite often, couples kissed at this point. Her heart hammered in her chest as she turned to face him, wondering what he would do now.

He lifted her hand upward, placing it to his lips. The soft press of his lips to the back of her hand startled her. She stared at him, her lips parted, fully aware that such a touch from him now made her heart thunder for reasons that had nothing to do with nerves.

“Lord Padleigh,” she whispered as the congregation continued to clap.

“No,” he said, just as softly. “My name is Allan, Frederica. From now on, we are husband and wife. That means I am Allan to you now.” Slowly, he looped her arm through his own and turned them to face the congregation. “Now, shall we face our guests and all the congratulations we are to receive?”

“And the censure,” she whispered, thinking of her parents.

“Ignore them,” he urged. Clearly, he had seen where she had looked in the pews.

He asks the impossible of me.