Page 75 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Mama, I love you, but I am not yours to command anymore—and I am not Julian’s, either. Cecil ismykitten, and if I wish to placehim in the centerpiece on the dining room table so that we all might admire his adorable little paws, I’ll do just that.” She paused, considering. “Though I will grant you that I do not believe his paws to be the cleanest portion of his anatomy, so perhaps it would be better if he were not in such close proximity to the food.”
“Emily.” Julian’s voice was amused, and she snuck a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, pleased to see the smile curving his lips.
Her mother, meanwhile, gave every indication of preparing for a display of wounded offense.
“I was merely trying to ensure that you knew how to act a proper hostess—a proper wife,” her mother said.
“I already know how to do that, Mama,” Emily said, striving to keep exasperation from entering her voice. “I lived with you for twenty-three years; I spent six Seasons under your wing. But I am married now,” she added, her tone growing firmer, “and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’m sorry that you disapprove of my marriage, but I—” Here she faltered, took a breath, then plunged on. “I’m very happy, and if you cannot see fit to accept that, then I’ve no interest in inviting you to my home again anytime soon.”
“What is wrong, Mary?” came her father’s voice now, close at hand; Emily had been so focused on her mother that she had not even noticed his approach.
Emily’s mother paused for a long moment before answering, her gaze on Emily unwavering.
“Nothing,” she said after a moment, her voice softer than usual. “It is just—I am feeling unwell, all of a sudden.” Emily held her breath, willing herself not to feel disappointed when her parents left early, her mind already on the seating arrangement at dinner, how she would move guests around in the wake of their absence. “But I think it ispassing,” her mother said after another moment, and Emily exhaled slowly, Julian’s hand suddenly at her waist, a warm, comforting weight.
“Perhaps we should return to our discussion with Lord and Lady Eastvale,” Lady Rowanbridge added—a bit stiffly, it was true, but Emily was not inclined to complain as she watched her parents cross the room to where Julian’s parents still stood. Her mother’s spine was stiff, irritation writ clearly into the lines of her body—but she was still here. She had stayed.
“Emily, I could positively weep with joy,” Diana said, glee evident in her voice. “You were brilliant.”
“You were,” Julian murmured in her ear, sending warmth coursing through her, but then he was placing Cecil back in her arms with a dark look, muttering about bloodshed, and there were guests to be spoken with, a dinner to preside over, and little time at all for Emily to reflect on the wonderful and terrible fact of how desperately she loved her husband—and how desperately she wanted him to love her, too.
Twenty-Two
“I should have known itwould storm on my wedding day,” Diana grumbled a few days later, though Emily found it difficult to take her complaints seriously, given that she was suppressing a smile with great effort. “I suppose this is some sort of omen, and Jeremy and I shall end up murdering each other before the year is out,” Diana continued, before adding philosophically, “Perhaps we should wager on who will end up killing whom.”
“Diana,” Violet said, affection and exasperation evident in equal measure in her tone, “do you think you could perhaps wait until after the wedding before you start contemplating killing Jeremy?”
“If you insist,” Diana said with a shrug, in the tone of someone humoring an unreasonable request but not willing to argue the point. She surveyed herself in the mirror in her bedroom—shortly to be her bedroom no longer; this was, Emily realized, the last time she and Violet would ever visit Diana at this house, where she’d lived for the five years since her marriage to her first husband. Diana was wearing a gown of green silk embroidered with white flowers, lace at her sleeves, a bonnet nowhere in sight.
“Where are my flowers?” Diana asked, turning away from the mirror to face Emily and Violet, who were alone in the room withher. Diana’s ill-tempered lady’s maid had departed a few minutes earlier.
“Downstairs,” Violet said, smiling, and forbearing to point out that this was the second time she’d answered this question. For all of Diana’s bravado, she was still nervous. It was odd to think of Diana as being nervous about anything, much less a wedding—even herownwedding. She certainly had not displayed any sign of nerves at her first wedding, Emily recalled, despite the fact that she’d been a girl of merely eighteen.
There was a tap at the door, and Penvale poked his head into the room. “Are you ready?” he asked his sister, his gaze softening as he regarded Diana in her wedding finery. “The carriage is downstairs, and Jeremy and Audley are already at St. George’s. It would be cruel to force anyone to stare at Jeremy in that waistcoat for a moment longer than necessary.”
“What Ibelieveyou mean,” Diana said briskly, “is that it would be cruel to denymethe sight of him in that waistcoat for a moment longer than necessary.” She crossed the room to her brother, Violet and Emily trailing in her wake, and took his proffered arm.
“Diana,” Penvale said, resisting her attempt to tug her out the door.
“What?” she asked impatiently. “Waistcoats await us, Penvale! The most horrifying waistcoat known to mankind, in fact!”
“You look beautiful,” he said simply, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her cheek, and Emily felt an unexpected rush of tears spring to her eyes.
“I love you, Penvale, but if we don’t leave this room in five seconds, these two”—Diana jerked a thumb over her shoulder—“will turn into watering pots, and I refuse to tolerate that.”
And with this heartfelt exchange of sibling affection, they were off.
“It really is appalling,” Emily whispered to Julian as she took her seat next to him in a pew at St. George’s, her eyes on Willingham as she spoke.
Julian spared a glance for the groom—the most noticeable thing about his appearance, as Emily had noted, was the truly awful waistcoat he was wearing. It was a yellow paisley pattern and was, quite honestly, the single ugliest article of clothing Julian had ever seen in his life. Furthermore, it did nothing so much as highlight the fact that Willingham was looking rather more pale than usual.
“However much money Lady Templeton spent having that made, it was too much,” he said in an undertone.
“I feel certain Diana would disagree with you,” Emily said with a smile that lit up her whole face. She looked lovely today—she always looked lovely, he supposed, but she was positively glowing, clad in a demure gown of butter yellow that was a far cry from the garish hue that Willingham was sporting. Her hair was pulled back neatly from her face, a flowered bonnet firmly in place, and her eyes were shining as she gazed up at the waiting groom.
Wait. Were they shining, or were theyglistening?
“Are you crying?” he demanded.
