Page 35 of Contracted as His Countess

Some invitations, an upholsterer’s account and a painstakingly written note from the maid who had been left in change of Mist at Beaupierre Castle.

Madelyn read it with a smile and picked up the remaining letter. The handwriting was faintly familiar, but she could not place it. She broke the seal and read the single sheet.

It began abruptly.

Madelyn, my dear,

You do not have to marry Dersington, a total stranger, just because your father wished it. He has gone and it is your life now to live as you please.

I will not try to influence you more, but should you ever need me you have only to let me know and I will do everything I can to help.

Your old friend,

Richard Turner

Madelyn dropped it as though it had become hot in her hand. What was he saying? That he loved her still—or that he truly was her friend and that was all? The address was in the Adelphi buildings, which she understood were respectable apartments close to the river. Richard was clearly staying in London for a while at least.

She sat and stared at the sheet of paper. She had agreed to marry Jack and it would be dishonourable to turn to Richard for anything, whether it was friendship or advice or even something more. She would acknowledge the letter, but tell him she could never see him again.

She sat at her desk and penned a quick note. She thanked him for his concern, hoped that he had not suffered lasting hurt defending her, assured him that she was marrying of her own free will and wished him every happiness for the future.

I think it best if we do not meet again.

She signed it Your affectionate friend and sealed it well, then rang for a footman. ‘See this goes with the next post, please.’

There, that was done and it was the right thing, she was sure. As the door opened and Louisa came in Madelyn took Richard’s note, folded it small and tucked it into her stationery folder. ‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling. The past is the past and has gone.

* * *

She had not allowed herself to think of Richard and everything continued smoothly. But now, on the day of the wedding, all Mr Lyminge’s hard work was about to come to disaster because of one major omission—and the fact that the bride’s attendant was in a state of near hysteria. Madelyn stood in the lobby leading off the west door of St George’s Church while Louisa Fairfield wrung her hands and declared that they would be a laughing stock, that Madelyn would never gain vouchers for Almack’s let alone be received at Court and that Lord Dersington would faint dead away at the altar rail.

‘Never mind that, Louisa,’ Madelyn said, wanting to shake her. ‘Who is going to give me away? We never thought of that, any of us.’

Lady Fairfield merely moaned and sank onto a convenient bench.

‘I could give myself, I suppose, but I have no wish to cause comment,’ she said. Louisa whimpered faintly. ‘Any further comment,’ Madelyn amended. ‘Mr Lyminge, you must do it.’

The secretary, who had escorted the bride from St James’s Square to ensure there were no last-minute problems, recoiled visibly. ‘I could not possibly. I am no relation, I am merely an employee.’

‘In that case, either go and find a member of the congregation or some passer-by off the street,’ Madelyn said, desperate now. ‘Frankly, no one is going to notice, are they? They’ll all be staring at me.’

‘Very well.’ Mr Lyminge, presumably determined to prove himself worthy of the very generous salary his new employer was paying him, or perhaps resigned to instant dismissal, offered his right arm. ‘Let us go, Miss Aylmer.’

Madelyn took a deep breath. ‘Yes, come along, Louisa. The door, thank you.’ A bemused verger flung open the double doors, Louisa blew her nose and fell in behind and the three of them began the slow walk up the aisle.

* * *

Jack faced forward, gaze fixed on the brass candlesticks on the altar, on the carved wooden panelling behind. He was not going to turn and look anxiously down the aisle as though worried that his bride might not appear. Nervous bridegrooms were stock figures of fun and he was on his dignity. The church was packed: delicious curiosity and the scent of scandal had brought acceptances from duchesses to deacons. Beside him Charlie muttered under his breath as he checked, once again, that he had the ring safe.

Then the organist stopped the vague twiddling music he had been playing and launched into something purposeful that Jack did not recognise.

‘And we’re off,’ Charlie said. ‘And coming down the home straight—’

Jack kicked him unobtrusively on the ankle.

Then behind them the murmuring began, gathering in volume, loud enough to be clearly audible above the organ. Charlie glanced over his shoulder, froze and said something that earned him a furious glare from the Vicar.

Jack turned, stared, found he could not think of the words.

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