Moira pressed her lips together, neither amused nor entirely displeased. “I can always send for the undertaker, if that would make you happier.”
“Not necessary,” Nancy said, tilting her chin to examine the line of her jaw. “I am only wondering if I should have chosen the peach. It is much brighter. No one can weep at a wedding if the bride looks like a slice of fruit.”
Her mother crossed the carpet, trailing the scent of lemon soap and rosewater. “You do not wish to draw attention, I suppose?”
“God, no.” Nancy reached for a stray curl and tucked it behind her ear. “Today is a day for disappearing. The guests should not even notice I am present.”
“You do yourself a disservice,” Moira replied, adjusting the sleeve of Nancy’s dress with the efficiency of a woman who had dressed a dozen cousins and a hundred debutantes. “But you are a Gallagher through and through.”
Nancy stifled a smile. “You say that as if it’s a curse.”
“It is. And a blessing. And a great responsibility.” Moira met her eyes in the glass. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”
Nancy turned from the mirror, smoothing the skirt as she did. “I chose this, Mama.”
Moira set her hands on Nancy’s shoulders and spun her around. The movement was brisk, but her touch lingered. “There is no shame in changing your mind.”
“I am not changing my mind,” Nancy said, quieter now. “I am changing my future. Which is the point.”
Her mother studied her, reading the lines of her face the way some people read tea leaves. “Then why do you look as if you have been condemned?”
Nancy forced a smile that she hoped would convince her mother. Moira shook her head, then pulled Nancy into an abrupt and crushing embrace. “You are too clever for your own good. If you would only trust yourself to be happy?—”
“I am happy,” Nancy lied, pulling back with a small, apologetic smile. “I am marrying the Duke of Scarfield. A promotion, in all things.”
Moira’s gaze searched hers. “I wish you would tell me the real reason.”
Nancy held it, refusing to blink. “This is the real reason. I wish to do it.”
For a moment, Moira looked as if she would press, but something softened. “Then I will not press.”
They stood there with their hands twined until Nancy noticed her mother’s eyes were wet. “You are crying,” Nancy said, her throat tightening. “You, who survived two ducal matriarchs and Highland winters.”
Moira wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, then pulled Nancy’s hands between hers. “It is only the weather,” she said. “It is growing far too cold for comfort.”
Nancy smiled, and for a second she felt something like warmth in her chest. “You know I will always write, don’t you?”
Moira sniffed. “Write? You will be a duchess. You must have thetonknow and respect your opinion, or at least have them printed in the Times.”
“Noted.” Nancy squeezed her mother’s hands. “I am ready.”
Moira gave her one last look, then led her to the door. Only then did Nancy see her hands trembling in her mother’s. Moira noticed, too. She turned and said, soft but fierce, “Don’t let anyone extinguish your fire, my darling.”
Nancy nodded, and for the first time since the night before, the world felt almost bearable.
A sharp knock sounded. Her father’s voice, precise as a gavel: “We’re ready to depart.”
Moira straightened. “Go, then. Do not dawdle.”
Nancy kissed her mother’s cheek and swept from the room, collecting her calm as she went.
Her father waited at the base of the stairs, immaculate in a dark coat and starched cravat. He offered his arm without a word. Nancy slid her hand into the crook and let him lead her out.
The carriage stood waiting, its horses stamping clouds of breath in the cold. Nancy climbed in, arranged her skirt, and fixed her eyes on the street ahead.
There would be no turning back now.
Scarfield Manor’s entrance looked much the same as it had a week before, and in the front hall, three women waited like an ambush party: Fiona, Hester, and Lavinia, all gathered in a loose clump of silk and smiles.
