The True Love Wedding Dress (3 page)

But what if Susannah had inherited more than her mother’s pointed chin and her father’s blue eyes? Then she would not wait, as her parents had not waited. So Katie had given her reluctant permission for the engagement and hoped for the best. Now Susannah was having the banns called, which was not the best, not at all.

Taking Katie’s silence for an argument as only an eighteen-year-old could do, Susannah tossed her head, sending blond curls every which way. “You were younger than I when you married!”

Only Katie had
not
married. She had not listened to her parents, had not made wise choices, had not shown an ounce of maturity. No, she had threatened to run off to Gretna Green if she could not wed Frederick, threatened to ruin herself and embarrass them all. They had relented, Lord Bainbridge saying good riddance. Katie had been paying for her thickheadedness ever since. Her foolish fancy had cost her the love of her family, her place in Society, and the ability to purchase a fine wedding gown for her only daughter. Katie regretted the last most of all.

“Very well, the wedding goes on as planned. But you shall have to wear my wedding gown. Now, come, try it on so we can see what needs to be altered before we take it to Mrs. Peebles.”

Susannah brushed a tear from the corner of her eye and stamped her dainty foot again—this time Katie moved the gown. Susannah was not willing to concede, not for her wedding. “I could ask dear Gerald—”

“No! You may not accept gifts from him, even if you are betrothed! His family will think you an adventuress and will never welcome you into their midst. And especially such a personal gift.”

“His mama—”

Bad enough that some other woman was going to see her daughter more than Katie would after the wedding. Mrs. Wellforde would not have the dressing of Susannah before! “That would sink your chances of earning her respect. Why, she would think you were begging for handouts.” The way Katie had uselessly begged her mother for money to purchase Susannah a new gown. “Besides, I see no reason for your upset. This gown is beautiful and will make your wedding day a memorable one. Try it on and you shall see.”

Susannah wrinkled her straight little nose. “It smells. I just washed my hair and do not wish it fouled with that odor.”

Katie held the gown closer, but all she smelled was a lingering odor of lavender that the trunk had been packed with. Spring, new hope, a fresh start—that was what she smelled. “Fine. I shall air the gown out in the sun and then you’ll see.”

Unfortunately, it rained for the next three days.

T
anyon Wellforde, Viscount Forde, did not like weddings. The women were always weeping, embarrassed at their tears and their drunken menfolk. The gentlemen were usually foxed, either in commiseration with the groom or in relief that they were not the poor blighter putting on leg shackles. Afterward, the men were less sober, and the females were more embarrassed at the ribald comments. Foolish ritual, the viscount thought on his way to answer his sister-in-law’s summons to her private sitting room at Wellforde House, but he supposed he had to attend his nephew Gerald’s nuptials. He also supposed that the wedding was to be the topic of the coming conversation. It had been, endlessly, since the nodcock had become engaged.

Forde, as he was called, wondered if the lad would consider a private ceremony and no wedding breakfast if the viscount doubled his wedding gift. No, the bride likely wanted the church, the cake, the flowers, and the fuss. They all did, plaguesome creatures. Maybe, Forde thought with hope in his heart, he could persuade Gerald to call the whole thing off. That’s what a conscientious guardian would do. Nineteen was too young an age for a young man to give up his freedom and settle down with one woman for the rest of his bound to be long, boring, strife-ridden life.

In Forde’s estimation, the worst thing about weddings was that they ended with marriages. Some of his friends must have happy marriages, but dashed if he could tell, meeting them at the gaming hells and bordellos of London. His own match had been an arranged one when he was but a few years older than Gerald, and it had been a disaster. He’d been young and restless; his beautiful, wealthy bride had been spoiled and moody. He’d called her immature; she’d called him cold. Forde had stayed polite; Priscilla had stayed faithful until she presented him with a son. Then she died of a fever in the arms of her current lover.

Two good things had come of the marriage. One, his wife had died before the world, and their son, could learn of her infidelities. Two, that son, Crispin. Forde had an heir of his own. No one could say he had not done his duty to king and country. He had assured the succession and taken his proper seat in Parliament. He gave to charities and let his brother go off to fight for England and die in some godforsaken place. He took good care of his dead brother’s widow and children, every tenant on his estates, every servant in his employ. No, he owed no one anything, especially not another marriage.

He was forty years old, and the matchmaking hens had long given up on their chances of snabbling him for one of the silly, frilly chicks. What, wed a girl as young as his eldest flighty niece? Never. Now the bid-dies were pushing their sisters and cousins at him, or their own scrawny necks and sagging breasts. Give his hand—and his title and his fortune—to a social-climbing spinster or a roving-eyed widow? Hah! There were enough women of fine looks and flexible morals who were willing to enjoy a peer with deep pockets and his own teeth without expecting a wedding band. Forde kept in shape and was keeping all of his dark hair, too. Finding a willing partner for an evening or a month was no problem; staying out of parson’s mousetrap was.

Viscount Forde was not giving up his freedom. He’d felt like he was drowning for the five years the marriage lasted and was not inclined to test the waters again. Poor Gerald had to marry eventually to provide heirs to his own estate. Forde did not, for which he daily thanked his dead wife.

“No, I am not going to interfere,” he told his sister-in-law over the platter of tea cakes she always had nearby. “If the young cawker wants to marry some chit from the country, that is his business. I already refused to purchase him a commission in the Army on your urging. I will not play the tyrant further.”

Agnes helped herself to a macaroon, then fed half to her Pekingese, who sat beside her on the brocade sofa. In Forde’s opinion, his sister-in-law was looking more like her pet every day—fat, frowning, reddish hair all in a frizz. That last might have been because Agnes was nervously pulling at it—her hair, that was, not the dog—when she was not eating. Now she swallowed, moaned, and declared, “You have to stop the wedding. That Woman is a fortune hunter. She will make poor Gerald’s life a misery.”

Wasn’t that a wife’s job? Forde took a slice of poppyseed cake. “But you were the one who told me to give my blessings to the match. I said at the time I thought Gerald was too young.”

“He swore he was in love. What else could I do but approve his betrothal? Besides, I never thought he would actually go through with the marriage. Young men’s infatuations do not last long, you must know.”

Forde did not. His heart had never been affected by any of his
amours,
not past dawn, at any rate. Young Gerald had vowed Miss Susannah Cole was the only love of his life. Who was his uncle to tell him such a notion was rubbish?

Agnes had a lemon tart in one hand and a lock of her hair in the other. Forde watched as carefully as the pop-eyed Pekingese, but his sister-in-law managed to eat, feed the dog, and muss her hair all at the same time. He was impressed, but not by her reasoning.

“I was certain that when he returned to London after his walking tour, he would forget all about the chit. He was bound to meet the perfect bride at one of the come-out balls.”

“Gerald does not care much for social doings. You must know that.”

If she did, she ignored it. “He would have found the ideal wife among this year’s debutantes. A female of substance, not some rural hayseed. He might have wed an heiress, who knows? A fine-looking young man, if I have to say so myself, with lovely manners and an excellent education.”

Which Forde had paid for. He nodded. “I am sure Gerald would be a good catch on the marriage market, but he does not need to wed for money. He has that profitable property from my grandfather and a tidy sum from my mother.”

“He needs a young lady of consequence,” Agnes insisted. “One who can take her place in the beau monde as a viscountess. After all, Gerald is your heir, after Crispin, of course. If anything should happen to the boy . . .”

Forde dropped the slice of cake. The dog leaped off the sofa after it. “That is my son you are speaking of, madam. Nothing is going to happen to him.”

She sniffed. “The child is all of ten years old, and puny.”

“He is wiry, not puny.”

She sniffed again. “Who knows what kind of care he is receiving at that school you sent him to?”

Crispin attended the same academy Forde and his brother had. He was young, but the viscount had thought anything was better than leaving him to be smothered by petticoat rule here in London with Agnes and her two daughters. Still, he worried about that nagging cough the boy had all last winter. No, Cris would do. He had to. The alternative was too dreadful to contemplate.

“Gerald is not my heir. With the grace of God, he shall never be. Therefore, he is free to wed any lady he chooses.”

“Any lady. Precisely. Who knows but that Miss Cole is nothing more than a dairy maid? I was certain Gerald would see reason once her pretty looks faded from his memory.” Agnes needed another macaroon to continue. Raffles the Pekingese needed a lift back onto the sofa, he was so fat. “According to my son, the girl has blond hair and big blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and a fair complexion, despite enjoying tramping through the countryside.” Agnes shuddered at the thought. So did the dog in her arms.

Forde had heard all about Miss Cole’s myriad attractions, endlessly, it seemed. “Gerald does not seem to have forgotten anything about the young woman.”

“How could he when he keeps going back for visits to that young man with whom he was on the walking tour? A squire’s son or some such, from university. I do not doubt they are in clandestine correspondence besides, Gerald and the hoyden.”

“In fairness, I do not believe letters between an affianced couple are anything improper. They’d need to discuss wedding plans and—”

“There was not supposed to be a wedding! Gerald has to marry a female of good family and good connections, I tell you. It is his duty to his sisters.”

Agnes had two daughters after her son, one more goosish than the other. Forde was paying for their finishing lessons, as he would pay for their presentations and their weddings. Gads, two more nuptials to suffer through. “I do not see where Gerald and his bride need concern themselves with—”

“That is all you know. Men! Gerald must have a bride who can help the girls find the bachelors with the deepest pockets, make the best connections, get invited to the best parties. Now if you had a wife . . .”

“Which I do not. Surely, as the brats’—that is, as the girls’—mother, you are best suited to see to their futures.”

“Bosh. I am too weak to do all that gadding about town.”

Too fat and too lazy,
Forde thought but did not say. “Gerald says Miss Cole is very well mannered. I am certain she will be of assistance.”

“She will not be here. The two gudgeons intend to reside at the Oaks in the country now that you have given the estate into Gerald’s keeping. Worse, he intends for me and the girls to go live there, too. He says we should stop being a burden on you and your bank account.” Agnes pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. Crumbs flew across the room.

“Nonsense. You are not a burden and never have been.” The house was large enough that Forde seldom saw his kin by marriage. And his purse was deep enough that he never truly felt the pinch of their expenses. “Gerald cannot intend you to reside in the country, not with his new wife.” Forde pitied Miss Cole if such were the case and wondered about his nephew’s sanity, if not his intelligence.

“Not right away, of course, but soon.” She sighed, loudly. “That is what Gerald said, that you should have your house back, and your privacy.”

The idea appealed to the viscount, but he knew his duty. And he did keep a discreet love nest in Kensington for such private moments. “Gerald is not of age, and I am the girls’ guardian until then, so he cannot force you to leave London.”

“Thank goodness, for how am I to see my gals settled advantageously, if we are stuck in the shires? Gerald says he met Miss Cole in the country, so that is good enough for his sisters.” She started to sob. “He says they are not titled, so they do not need grand presentations and lavish come-out balls at your expense.”

The boy sounded more mature by the moment. Lud knew, Agnes never thought of the cost of anything, or who was to pay it. Still, Forde was head of the family, and he could not let a mere boy, one just starting his own family, beggar himself to support three women. Four, if one counted the bride. “Dash it, my brother gave his life for this country. The least I can do is see his daughters well married. I’ll speak with Gerald. Is he at home?”

“He is at his new home, readying the Oaks for its new mistress and his new horses.”

“Then he truly cares about the girl and is acting in a responsible manner.” Forde stood up, ready to leave, resigned to attending the blasted wedding.

“There is worse.”

“Worse than wanting you to ruralize? Worse than not providing you with an elegant chaperone for your daughters?”

“Far worse. Rushing into this marriage will cause talk that will reflect on the entire family. Such unseemly haste casts doubts on the female’s respectability, doubts that will rub off on my own darlings.”