Page 87 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
It wasn’t quite time to leave for the church.
“No, Your Grace. I understand Her Grace is still at her toilette.”
“In that case”—Drago gathered Denton and Warley with a glance—“I suggest we wait in the library.” Smiling, he turned toward the door. “Glencrae sent a bottle of his whisky around. This might be an opportune moment to sample it.”
He wasn’t surprised that Denton and Warley happily followed him downstairs.
* * *
In Half Moon Street,excitement had been building since before dawn, and welling wedding frenzy now pervaded the house. The staff had never seen a bride walk down the stairs on her way to a new life and were determined to make the most of the occasion. Pru had married at Glengarah Castle in Ireland, so today’s event was the only chance the Half Moon Street staff would have to be a part of such proceedings.
In Meg’s bedchamber, amid a froth of lace, silks, and endless chatter, she and her bridesmaids, Lydia and Anthi, sorted out their gowns, then Meg sat on her dressing stool while Rosie brushed her hair and Lydia and Anthi were helped into their gowns by their maids.
Then Meg’s mother and Pru arrived, along with their maids—everyone wanted to be a part of the day and, preferably, to play a role, however small—and Meg found herself swept up in the moment, enveloped in warmth and family affection, in the blessings of good wishes and the delights of shared joy.
The oohs and aahs when she finally stood clad in her wedding gown—as she stared, wide-eyed, at the vision her cheval glass revealed—would forever live in her memory.
A pearl-encrusted band had been set amidst her burnished curls and secured a gossamer-fine veil edged with tiny seed pearls. Although presently set back, when down, the veil hung to her waist in the front, but swept lower at her sides and still lower at her back to drape in a short train that Lydia and Anthi would carry as Meg walked down the aisle.
The gown beneath the veil was of the shimmering pink-tinged silk she’d chosen, with seed pearls edging the neckline, the cuffs of the fitted sleeves, her waistline, the silk peplum, and finally, the hem of the skirt.
Teary-eyed but beaming, her mother stepped up behind her and clasped a three-strand pearl choker about her throat. The necklace matched the pearl bobs that already hung from her earlobes.
“A wedding gift from your father and me.” Her mother rested her hands on Meg’s shoulders and, in the mirror, met her gaze, then with a final pat, her mother stepped back, allowing Pru, smiling fit to burst, to step forward.
Pru raised Meg’s right arm and deftly secured a matching three-strand pearl bracelet about her wrist. She, too, met Meg’s eyes in the mirror. “From Deaglan and me. Just for you.”
Meg smiled mistily back. She blinked several times, willing the tears not to pool and fall.
“Now, now—none of that!”
They all whirled to find Meg’s grandmother, Horatia, stumping through the now-open doorway.
At the universal looks of surprise, Horatia humphed. “You didn’t seriously imagine I would miss this, did you?”
There was no correct answer to that.
Horatia waved her cane at Meg. “Turn around, my dear, and let me see.”
In a rustle of silk skirts and petticoats, with Lydia and Anthi rushing to help with her train, Meg complied.
Horatia, who ranked as one of the senior grandes dames in the ton, raked Meg with her gaze, then Horatia beamed and met Meg’s eyes. “You look divine, my child.” With blatant satisfaction, she added, “Wylde is going to swallow his tongue.”
With a satisfied cackle, Horatia nodded to the others. “You all look well and will do the family proud.” Then with a last glance at Meg, she waved and turned to the door. “George is waiting downstairs, no doubt having a bolstering drink with your father and Glengarah, but it’s time we were making for the church.” Horatia directed a final nod at Meg. “We’ll see you there.”
Horatia pulled the door closed behind her, and the room erupted with exclamations.
“Good heavens!” Meg’s mother looked faintly horrified. “Is that the time?”
“When did you ask for the carriage to be brought around?” Lydia asked.
“The flowers are downstairs,” Anthi said. “We mustn’t forget them.”
“The fan!” Rosie pounced on the delicate pearl-decorated fan with a design picked out in bright-blue silk embroidery, which Horatia had sent as a personal wedding gift. Swiftly, Rosie looped the fan’s ribbon about Meg’s right wrist.
“Your father will be waiting to propose a toast to the bride.” Along with everyone else—especially the five maids—Meg’s mother scanned the room, trying to spot anything else they’d missed.
“In that case,” Pru said, running a critical eye once more over Meg, “we’d better hurry, or there won’t be any champagne left!”
