Page 76 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Of course not,” she said, her voice giving a telltale waver. “I may have shed a tear or two before we left Diana’s house, but I’m quite done now.” Her lip trembled as she continued to look determinedly ahead.
“If it’s the waistcoat that’s making you weep, I can’t say I blame you,” he said, and was rewarded with an unsteady smile. Those smiles of hers had at some point become something precious to him—something to be earned, something worth the effort to win.
“It’s not the waistcoat,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Or, rather, it’s not the waistcoatitself—it’s what itrepresents.”
“Bad taste?” he suggested.
“Love!” she said indignantly, then glanced sideways, caught sight of his teasing grin, and elbowed him gently. “Don’t be unsentimental and practical today of all days, Julian. My dearest friend—who swore she’d never marry again—is about to walk down the aisle toward a man wearing the ugliest waistcoat ever made, just because he loves her. This is a lovely day.”
Further comment on his part was forestalled by the appearance of the bride on the arm of her brother, and as the wedding guests rose to watch her proceed down the aisle, Julian glanced forward at her waiting groom—and froze.
Willingham was standing at the front of the church, clad in that hideous waistcoat, wearing an expression that made it perfectly clear that he considered himself to be the luckiest man in all of England. His attention was focused entirely on Diana as she walked down the aisle toward him—somehow without laughing or recoiling in horror at the sight that awaited her—and in that moment it was perfectly obvious that Willingham would have worn that waistcoat every day for the rest of his life, if that was the cost of marrying Diana.
And all at once Julian had the most startling thought: he would wear that waistcoat, too.
If Emily came to him and demanded it, he’d put the bloody thing on—complaining all the while, naturally—and parade around before her until she collapsed into laughter.
He loved making her smile, making her laugh.
He lovedher.
And what was truly galling was that it had taken a waistcoat that was an offense to God and man alike to make him realize it.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, suppressing a wild desire to laugh.
“Julian!” Emily hissed. “We are inchurch!”
“Of course we are,” he murmured, casting a dark look upward, waiting to be struck down by lightning at any moment. Of course he would be in a bloodychurch, of all places, surrounded by a good portion of theton—including, several rows away, his parents and brother, with whom he’d made gloriously unstilted conversation while waiting for Emily to arrive—when he realized that he was in love with his wife.
And now he had to wait to tell her.
Emily wasn’t certain whether it was the wedding or the champagne that had made her bold, but she was undoubtedly not feeling entirely like herself at the moment.
Diana and Jeremy’s wedding breakfast—hosted at Violet and Lord James’s house on Curzon Street—was a long, festive affair stretching well into the afternoon. The newlyweds at last departed for Lord Willingham’s house in Fitzroy Square amid a chorus of well-wishes, though the last words anyone heard Diana call out the carriage door were, “If you don’t stop carrying on so much, I’ll cancel this evening’s ball.” No one took her threat terribly seriously, given that Diana had already extracted a promise from her new husband that he would wear his waistcoat to that evening’s festivities as well.
The rest of the party broke up at that point, with people scattering for their various homes for the chance to rest for a few hours before presenting themselves in their evening finery. Emily and Julian lingered for some time—she found herself deep in conversation with Julian’smother, who had welcomed her into the family with the joy that only a mother who had long since despaired of her rakehell of a son ever marrying could muster.
“Emily,” Julian said, appearing at her shoulder as she was listening to the marchioness explain why Julian had been such a particularly fussy baby. “Are you ready to go home?”
“Hardly,” she said, barely sparing her husband a glance. “Your mother was just explaining to me how you were prone to promptly vomiting back up whatever food you were given as an infant.”
Lady Eastvale smiled mistily. “He made up for it by being such a darling baby, of course. Those chubby cheeks!” She reached up to pinch one of the cheeks in question, despite the fact that her son was nearly a foot taller than she and glowering threateningly.
“Julian,” Emily said earnestly, “perhaps this explains your particular bond with darling Cecil. He does have that same unseemly habit, you know.”
Julian’s glower deepened. “I will thank you to never compare me to that mangy ball of fluff ever again.”
Emily, however, was unfazed by his malignment of Cecil after his defense the other night.
“Mother, I am going to steal Emily away now,” he said, stooping to kiss Lady Eastvale on the cheek; out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw Lord Eastvale several feet away, watching this casual moment between his wife and son. She glanced down and bit her lip to prevent a smile.
Several minutes later, she and Julian were alone in their carriage, rattling across the London streets the short distance from Violet’s house to their own, a comfortable silence between them.
Or, rather, itshouldhave been a comfortable silence. And it wouldhave been, if Julian had not spent the past couple of minutes staring at her with an unreadable expression upon his face.
“What is it?” Emily burst out at last, taken aback by her own boldness. Emily Turner never would have demanded a reply from a gentleman in such a fashion—but Emily Turner and Emily Belfry, she had learned, were two different people.
She found that she vastly preferred the latter.
