Page 46 of His Haunted Duchess
“That would depend on the passion of your prayers, Winifred.”
Caroline twisted her fingers in her lap. Winifred patted them.
“Don’t be worried, dear. A few nerves are completely natural before a wedding. Why, Mrs. Earl told me that her eldest daughter didn’t sleep a wink the night before the wedding—she stared at her wallpaper and counted every floret on it until sunrise. And here she is, happily married five years later with two children.”
Caroline adjusted her skirt. Ought she to stay up counting florets? She didn’t even know if her bedroom had them. She hadn’t felt nervous at first. Now, she wasn’t sure.
“Then there was Mrs. Hampton,” Winifred continued. “She knew as much about weddings as a musk ox. When it came time for the ceremony, she was so nervous she walked right past the church in her hurry and had to be led back to the altar. She was so flustered!”
Aunt Olivia polished off her second tumbler of ratafia. It seemed to be helping. Her color returned somewhat to normal, and her eyes drooped affably.
“We are very excited for you, dear. If you have any questions for us, please ask. We are here to navigate the journey—inasmuch as we can—with you.”
Caroline set aside her untouched biscuits.
“I—yes, thank you. I think I understand. Thank you, ladies, for your concern and your—information.”
Winifred nodded benevolently, like she was presiding at a service in church.
“Of course, dear—anything to help you.”
She helped Aunt Olivia to her feet.
“Come, m’lady—to repose with all of us. We’ll have an early morning of it tomorrow.”
Both Winifred and Aunt Olivia embraced her in turn, clinging to her as if in premonition of a funeral. Caroline tried to smile as they left, but the concerns—which had not at all been allayed by whatever they had been trying to say—crimped her face into a well-meaning wince.
She wrapped her shawl a little more closely about her. This was it—the last night, the last fleeting moments before her name and station changed forever.
She looked forward with sanguine hopes toward being the Duchess of Blackmore—the woman who would leave the church tomorrow shortly after she entered it. The woman she would become. What would she be like? What would she say, and do that would be so different from Lady Caroline tonight?
She looked into the mirror above the sideboard, tracing the familiar lines of her face, and the path of her scar. Whatever she was, she would also be a duchess—the lady of Highcastle and wife to the duke. She would have no reason to hide her face.
She walked slowly to her room. On her way, she passed the portrait hall where Winifred had come to stand after depositing her aunt in her room.
“Oh, what precious paintings,” Winifred said, dabbing her eyes as she hovered under the hook-nosed painting of Viscount Oscar Drebbing. “What precious faces I shall look upon no more!”
Caroline passed her in silence, leaving her to her own reflections and adieus. In her room, she ran her hand over the gown,manteau, and gloves. They were meant for her—for the duchess—the woman who could hold her head high in the face of rumor, who had nothing but sadness or grief to regret. A thoughtful look crept into Caroline’s eyes—thoughtful and determined.
Tomorrow, the duchess would wear them.
CHAPTER 15
“Are you sure it’s tied correctly?” Philip asked. “I really can’t tell from this angle, and the knot worries me exceedingly.”
Frederic stood outside the church. He had been awake since dawn that morning as was his custom. Determined that nothing should be amiss, he spent his usual time at study in the library before retiring to dress for the morning’s events. A rapid knocking sounded at his door.
“Enter,” he said, finishing the knot on his neckpiece. Philip rushed into the room, waistcoat unbuttoned and arms dripping with cravats.
“Only just tell me, Frederic, as a brother and as a friend—which cravat would go the best as the brother of the groom? I can’t for the life of me decide upon a suitable hue.”
Frederic eyed the neckties draping like moss from old trees.
“You’ve brought quite the selection. Any one of them seems appropriate enough to—” Philip stared at him in agony. “Very well. Choose the blue on your left arm. Second one from the right.”
Philip dropped all but the chosen cravat in a heap and wrapped the fortunate article around his neck. Frederic finished his own preparations and shrugged on his jacket, standing still while Carlyle finished his cuff sleeves.
Philip, due to the rapid movement of his hands and the tightness of the fabric, had worked himself into a knot that would outrival the Gordian.
