Page 23 of The Indigo Heiress

22

They dream in courtship but in wedlock wake.

Alexander Pope

Upstairs in the guest bedchamber, Juliet readied her gown for the wedding, remembering Mr. Buchanan’s remark as she pinned the elbow ruffles in place.

Do you always wear indigo?

In light of blue being his favorite color, she chose a garish purple damask with silver lace. The only hint of blue about her was Mama’s pearl choker with its center sapphire pendant. Wearing it brought a pinch of melancholy, though she’d felt melancholy ever since Loveday dismissed the notion of a Buchanan courtship.

But one mustn’t lose hope. Time was short. If Loveday did not want to talk more of such matters, that didn’t prevent Juliet from working behind the scenes. Matchmaking was not her forte, but Juliet sensed she must seize the opportunity when it presented itself.

Drawn to the window, she studied the icy street as coaches began to form a line in front of the townhouse. The large guest list included many planters in town for the holiday season that would last till Twelfth Night in January. Father and Zipporah would leave on their honeymoon the day after Christmas, when she and Loveday would return to Royal Vale.

A gust of wind rattled the glass and she stepped back, but not before she saw the Ravenals exit their townhouse.

With one tobacco lord.

Snow coated Williamsburg like sugar icing on a wedding cake. Bride’s cake, to be exact. Leith had never tasted that confection, but Juliet explained its charms as they stood by the parlor hearth after the nuptials. He liked her timely explanations. When she shed her reserve, he’d begun to detect in her a keen enjoyment of life’s little pleasures like confections. But first, the feast.

“We have an abundance of fish and chowder, and stewed oysters, which are Father’s favorites. Mrs. Pay— Catesby —prefers venison and roasted pork. If you’ve a sweet tooth”—she gestured toward a window—“the bride’s cake is the one surrounded by nutmeats and enriched with spices, Madeira, and brandy.”

Aside from the bountiful table, the jollity and laughter in the room raised his spirits. Colonel Catesby was gazing at his new bride with all the adoration of a much younger man. The new Mrs. Catesby seemed equally besotted.

Unbidden, Havilah sprang to mind in her wedding garments at the front of the kirk. Had they been so devoted? At least at first?

“My sister has a seat open beside her if you’d like to sit down, Mr. Buchanan,” Juliet continued, smiling up at him. “I’ve sampled so much in the kitchen beforehand that I’ve quite lost my appetite, though I confess I’m never too full for cake.”

He continued standing, glad when someone took the seat she’d suggested. Juliet left his side, disappearing to what he guessed was the kitchen. Everyone else’s attention was on the happy couple, who moved about the room talking with their many guests. Juliet returned in time for the cutting of the cakes, wielding silver knives, and helped the footmen serve.

When Loveday gave a delighted exclamation from the sofa she still sat upon, holding up a piece of nutmeg, all broke out into applause. Leith watched, mystified.

Juliet was again at his side, explaining, “The lady who receives the slice with nutmeg baked inside is said to be the next bride.”

“A most curious custom.” He forked a bite of cake. “How did you arrange it?”

She looked up at him, feigned innocence in her gooseberry-green eyes. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Buchanan?”

“You seem unusually determined to foist me upon your sister, Miss Catesby. Do you deny it?”

At full flush, she stammered, “I—well, you are certainly...”

“Astute?” He waved his fork about. “Shrewd?”

“Inebriated and imagining things.”

“I’ve had but one whisky with cream.”

A tense lull ensued. She was clearly asimmer. Had he pressed her too far?

She sighed and sampled her slice of cake. “So, you’ve found me out.”

“I’m always alert to any scheming.” He looked past Loveday to a window filigreed with ice. “It doesn’t become you. Have done with your matchmaking and apologize.”

She fell into a sullen silence as myriad conversations swirled around them.

“Granted, you have a low opinion of tobacco traders, Miss Catesby. But it is clear you underestimate me.”

She gave a curt nod. “You are nothing if not shrewd, in spades. Perhaps proud is the better word, Mr. Buchanan.”

“Aye, proud, mayhap even arrogant.” He pressed on, having given the matter some thought. “Your sister might make a better pairing with my youngest brother.”

“The pugilist?” Derision laced her tone.

He shrugged. “Niall’s as much a catch as your bonny sister.”

“Hardly a catch, sir. Her dowry is in danger of being utterly null and void.”

“Nae matter. He needs none.”

Loveday was still making a delightful fuss over the nutmeg as if it was a divine revelation from above. Niall, the most swayed by exuberance and beauty, would capitulate in a breath. She could do worse. He was the brawest of the three Buchanans.

Wouldn’t it be a wonder if he returned to Glasgow with a bride for his brother if not himself?