Page 30 of Buon Natale, My Wicked Rogue
The chamber was decorated for their wedding. What was she doing here? She was still a little afraid that she was going to awaken and find she had been dreaming.
She had asked Susan to come and be her matron of honor, but she hadn’t heard back from her friend. That fact put a little heaviness into her heart because she missed her friend and wanted to share the happiness of this day with her.
“Ah, my dear, there you are!”
The familiar voice put a burst of warmth into her chest, and she turned to meet the merry brown gaze of Lady Wyndam. The older woman’s brown hair, threaded with silver, was fashioned into an elegant up-swept bun from which a waterfall of ringlets was allowed to spill over her neck. Though she still walked with her ornate walking stick, her cheerful hairstyle and the broad smile she wore made her look youthful. “You look pale as a ghost, Mrs. Berry. We must feed you before you faint.”
Angela didn’t feel hungry, but Lady Wyndam wouldn’t take no for an answer. She found herself ushered up the stairs to a bedchamber and settled into a velvet-covered wing chair. A tray was set up that bore blueberry scones, fine soft cheeses, and pears with a choice of steaming hot tea and coffee.
She’d suddenly developed a puzzling distaste for coffee, the first in her entire life. But the fragrance of the steaming tea wafted to her, and she looked at the deep golden honey. Tea fortified with honey might be just the thing to settle her stomach. But no cream. Lady Wyndam herself prepared the cup and handed it to her.
Angela accepted with grateful thanks. “Oh, could you please have the coffee removed?”
Lady Wyndam arched a brow.
“I can’t bear the smell today for some odd reason, but this tea is heavenly. You truly are my guardian angel, Lady Wyndam.”
The older woman directed the servants to remove the offending coffee and then turned back to Angela. “I am no angel, believe me. I am as mortal as the rest.” The lady chuckled softly. “You are still so pale, and I see the faint tremble in your hands. What is this? Bridal nerves?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been so happy since we decided to wed. But downstairs, looking at all the marvelous preparations you made for us, I began to remember my wedding to Jacob, and I grew sad, yes. But also, I was filled with nerves and foreboding.”
Lady Wyndam’s brows drew together, and her face crinkled with concern. She reached across the small tray table and patted Angela’s hand. “That’s natural, my dear. You told me how thrilled you were to be marrying Jacob. You told me how much you looked forward to your wedding night with him. And you were disappointed by both. Now that you are getting married again, do you grieve your earlier marriage?”
“I suppose I feel so foolish. I know it seems so sudden for everyone else, but I know that Evan loves me. And I love him. I know that he is so different from Jacob in all the ways that are so important. I can trust him. I can trust him with my very life.”
“I understand, my dear.” Lady Wyndam’s voice sounded a little thick now, and she paused to clear her throat. “Something borrowed, something blue, so they say. Well, perhaps the borrowed bit can come from Jacob. He gave you his, what would one call it? His brokenness, that’s the borrowed bit. Your grief for what could-have-been-but-never was can be the blue bit.”
A feeling, part gratefulness, part deep affection, welled within Angela. Her throat began to burn, and her vision blurred. She took her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Then she looked up at Lady Wyndam. “How do you do that so effortlessly?”
“Do what, my dear?” Lady Wyndam was dabbing her own eyes with her handkerchief.
“You always help me put things into their proper perspective.”
“I am pleased to be of help to you, Mrs. Berry. Now dry your eyes before they become red-rimmed and swollen.” She clapped her hands softly. “This is your wedding day, and I have been waiting for years to see Evan fall into the parson’s trap, believe me.”
Her smile was so merry, so mischievous, that Angela had to laugh. She dabbed her eyes dry and shoved the memory of Jacob and the unhappiness of her first marriage back where it belonged.
“Will you sing for us this evening at the Christmas ball?”
The question startled Angela. She put her hand on her chest. “Me? You want me to sing at your Christmas ball?”
“My dear, I had no idea I was in the presence of such talent. When you told me your mother’s name, I didn’t recognize it. But I wrote to Evan’s mother.”
Angela’s blood froze. “You told Evan’s mother about me?”
“Yes, I did, my dear. I had my reasons.”
“Oh, you had your reasons.”
“I just said that you were good friends and how taken he was with your beauty.”
“Oh Mamma Mia!”That was all she could think of to say.
Lady Wyndam waved dismissively. “Evan’s mother is a member of the Wicked Widows’ League. She is broader-minded than most, and she would never betray or berate you to anyone, even if you were not her son’s bride. She has a generous heart, and she knows what it is like to face a scandal.”
“She does?” she asked weakly, her fingers and toes still tingling. Someday, all of society would find out that her mother was the famous opera singer Maria Breda in Italy, that her fatherwas the Duke of Amesbury, and that her parents had never married. She didn’t mind for herself but for Evan. If they could have an heir first, before the scandalous facts became known commonly, then she felt, rightly or wrongly, that her parentage wouldn’t matter so much.
“You may as well be privy to some information,” Lady Wyndam said. “It’s not gossip. All of society already knows. Her marriage to Evan’s father, while not terribly unhappy, was not a passionate love match. It was more like good friends who shared the parenting of their children. After Evan’s father died, his mother found comfort in his uncle’s arms. Marriage to a late husband’s brother is not well-received here. It’s scandalous. So, your marriage to Evan will not be the first scandal to befall the Hayley family, my dear.”
