Page 82 of The Dangerous Lord

Unwarranted though it was, jealousy seized her again. “So why didn’t he marry you? I-I mean, before I met him. Your station in life is no lower than mine. Some of the women he courted were extremely ill-suited to him. At least with you he would have been comfortable and needn’t have feared you wouldn’t accept him.”

“My dear Miss Taylor, he would never have asked me. You see, I know too much about his ‘thorn,’ as you call it, and though I consider it only a tragic incident in his past, to him it is so deep and black, he can’t imagine any woman wanting him who knows of it. That’s why he won’t tell you. Because he fears scaring you off.”

She laid her hand kindly on Felicity’s. “Besides, even if he’d asked, I wouldn’t have accepted.”

That surprised her. “Because you were in love with his uncle?”

“Hardly.” Her tone grew chilly. “I wasn’t Edgar Lennard’s mistress by choice, you see. He made it quite clear after his wife died that I could either be his mistress or be accused of a crime and transported. At twenty-two, I was terrified of him. As an orphan with no family, I lacked anyone to champion my cause, and it would have been his word against mine. So I stayed on as his mistress. Yet I was only too happy when he discharged me, even if it meant poverty or something equally low.”

She smiled. “But much as I appreciated Lord St. Clair’s coming to my rescue at that moment, I had no desire to marry him. It would’ve been awkward, considering his ties to Edgar and my son. I’m sure he would have been perfectly kind about it, but I didn’t want such kindness. You see, I’m much like you. Despite my ruined reputation, I should like to marry for love myself.”

She drew back with a sigh, as if suddenly aware that she’d revealed more of herself than she’d wished. “But that’s unlikely to happen. Still, I should like to see it happen for Lord St. Clair. And I think it will, if you’re there to heal the wound when the festering sore around his thorn finally breaks open. You will be there, won’t you? I’ve set your mind at ease concerning him?”

Oddly enough she had. There was something comforting in the knowledge that Miss Greenaway knew all the facts about Ian’s past and wasn’t appalled. Whatever troubled Ian, it wasn’t insurmountable.

There was the sound of a door opening, and then a young woman popped her head in the parlor doorway. “I’m back, Miss Greenaway. Shall I take Walter for you?”

“No, Agnes, thank you. He’s napping.”

“Shall I tell the man to return the gig to the livery then?” Agnes asked.

Miss Greenaway turned to Felicity. “What time did you say was your wedding?”

Felicity froze. Damn, she’d forgotten all about the time. She scanned the room for a clock, groaning aloud when she spotted one. “Good Lord, I’m supposed to be at the church in ten minutes! I’ll never make it!”

“Yes, you shall. We’ll go in the gig.” Miss Greenaway started for the parlor door. “I can let you out at the entrance to the church, and no one need ever know I was there. Agnes can watch Walter, and if we move quickly, we might make it in time.”

“I still have to dress and everything!” Felicity wailed as she hurried after Miss Greenaway. “The gown is at the church, but we’ll be so dreadfully late ... oh, Ian is going to kill me!”

“No, he’s not. I daresay the man is probably running a bit late himself. We’ll get you there on time, never fear.” Casting an anxious look at the clock, Miss Greenaway grabbed Felicity’s hand and tugged her toward the parlor door. “But we must hurry! Come on, Miss Taylor!”

Chapter Nineteen

How wearisome are these fashionable December weddings—Lord Mortimer to Lady Henrietta, Mr. Trumble to Miss Bateson, and Sir James to Miss Fairfield. Why do brides drag their friends out into the frigid weather when a nice summer wedding is so much more comfortable?

Lord X, The Evening Gazette, December 24, 1820

Ian strode to the window of the vestibule in St. Augustine’s Chapel for the tenth time in as many minutes. But the only sight regaling him in the street half a floor below was the same spectacle of London that had gamboled past all morning—advertising wagons touting Vauxhall Gardens and Dr. Bentley’s Benign Balm, mistletoe and holly sellers, and the occasional fashionable carriage bobbing among carts and gigs.

But no sign of his recalcitrant bride. His carriage had disgorged its passengers half an hour ago without producing her. A dull thudding had begun in his head like that of an incompetent drummer. He wanted to be sick, but he wouldn’t allow it. Not on his wedding day.

Not in front of Mrs. Box and especially not in front of Jordan, who leaned stiffly against the plastered wall a few feet away. The two of them felt sorry for him, damn them. Though Mrs. Box peeked often into the church proper to see if her charges still sat quietly beside their idol Gideon, she spent the rest of her time blatantly observing Ian as he paced and cursed. Jordan pretended not to notice anything or anybody, but he too sneaked glances at Ian every few minutes.

Ian planted his fists on the window sill and leaned out, knuckles scraping against stone as he surveyed the street as far as he could see. Nothing. No hacks with beautiful passengers, no discreetly curtained carriages. Where the hell was she?

He whirled toward Mrs. Box. “Are you sure Felicity said to meet her here?”

“Yes. If she weren’t back in time. Which she weren’t.”

“And she said nothing of where she was going?”

“Not a word, milord, but she promised she’d be here on time.”

He removed his pocket watch, snapped it open, noted the time, and snapped it closed. “She’s already broken that promise by twenty-two minutes,” he growled, pivoting back to the window. “If she doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll have to go look for her. You know Felicity. She may have gotten into another argument with a hack driver, or the coach might be stuck or ...”

He trailed off with a groan. He sounded like one of those bloody besotted grooms who slaver over their brides.

“She’ll be here, milord,” Mrs. Box ventured. “She probably met with a bit more traffic than expected. A mighty lot of carriages are on the road today, its bein’ Christmas Eve an’ all. But she ain’t the kind of girl to⁠—”