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Hanover Square, London
I'm to be married, finally.
A fierce joy sparkled inside Lady Frances Elizabeth Dashwood, Fanny to her close friends and family. Her dear mamma had long despaired this day would ever come, considering Fanny had been the cause of a most dreadful scandal several years past. A disgrace that had sent her papa to his grave, or so her mother, the dowager countess often lamented, even though Papa had died four months after the unfortunate incident.
It had taken years, three to be precise before Fanny had been tentatively enfolded back into the bosom of society. How glorious it had been this season to finally attend balls, musicales, and ride through Hyde Park once more, without ladies lifting their fans and cutting her, without speculative whispers, and the dreadful conversations that abruptly ended whenever she approached. Of course, being courted by Harry Basil, the Marquess of Trent had been the feather needed to set her cap upright.
And today they were tying the knot at St. George’s, Hanover Square. Determined to look ravishing, she’d worn a fashionable dress of the palest pink silk, which accentuated her curvy figure to its best advantage. She’d caught her blonde hair up in the most elegant of chignons with becoming wisps framing her face, and a coronet of flowers woven between the strands. Today was to be a most splendid day, and Fanny ensured she appeared the most elegant and perfect bride.
The ceremony was to start in fifteen minutes. Her carriage had already driven around the square a number of times because her mother was so eager that her daughter had landed a gentleman of such esteem, but it would not do for her to be waiting in the church on him. Her mother was glowing with pleasure at the prospective match. Fanny thought it absurd but had agreed to remain in the carriage until the marquess reached the altar. She had done so to settle her mother’s nerves. Fanny had never been one to display emotions of any sorts in public, and she had needed a few moments to herself.
Her carriage paused at the grand frontage of St. George's and a footman jumped down to confirm whether the Marquess had arrived. Apparently, his carriage had delivered him on her previous circuit of the square. Her step was let down, and she was helped down by the footman. She smiled at him nervously as she straightened her shoulders to climb the steps to the entrance. It was hard not to be intimidated by the imposing façade with its six Doric pillars and Grecian triangular frieze. Her mother in the second carriage would organize the bridesmaids and follow her up. Her brother Colin, the current Earl of Banberry should be waiting in the porch for her and then they would proceed up the central aisle on the red carpet to the altar.
She opened the church door and entered, taking a left turn down an isolated corridor. She faltered as she spied a couple ahead. The man appeared familiar. Something terrible and fearful gripped Fanny’s heart and a cold knot twisted through her stomach. For precious seconds she was unable to comprehend the sight. The man she was to marry was locked in the most passionate of embraces with a lady Fanny recognized as Miss Miranda Shelby. Fanny only had cause to know Miss Shelby for she had been the unfortunate recipient of vulgar rumors which claimed Lord Trent had offered this woman carte blanche. She had asked her brother for clarification, and he had refused to mortify her sensibilities. Against her brother's advice, she had asked her betrothed about Miss Shelby, and the marquess had re-assured Fanny, his friendship with Miss Shelby was in the past.
The hot sting of tears burned her eyes. The loving way he placed her palm on his cheek and the tender smile on his lips belied his assurances and promises given only last week. A crushing weight settled against her chest, and an alarming sound of pain slipped from her. The two lovers were too enthralled with their moment, to notice Fanny hovering on the threshold.
“Oh, my darling, I cannot bear that you are to be married. How I despair I will lose you,” Miss Shelby cried, crushing the marquess’s hand to her chest. Her bosom heaved over her low-cut gown, her golden ringlets bobbed with her agitation, and Fanny suspected the lady’s light blue eyes glistened with tears.
“You will never lose me,” Lord Trent vowed fervently. “As soon as possible my sweeting, I will order Lady Fanny to the country, and she will remain there until I say otherwise. Nothing will sway my love for you…” Then he lowered his hand to the gentle protrusion under her gown. “I will be with you every step of the way when our babe comes into this world.”
They kissed fiercely, their ardor for each other mortifying, and an arrow of envy and sorrow darted through Fanny's heart. She desperately wanted to flee, but her limbs would not obey her. She was frozen, the pain hammering through her terribly. Lord Trent had professed to love her, had showered her with acceptable gifts, and had even stolen a few kisses, a liberty she had allowed for she had been so sure she loved him in return.
All evidence showed he was ardently caught in the throes of passion with Miss Miranda Shelby. The few indelicate rumors Fanny had heard, could no longer be denied. She turned away, a harsh sob tearing from her throat, and hurried down the hallway. Tears blurred her vision and hating the notion the marquess might exit and see her fleeing, she clutched the skirts of her dress and ran.
“Fanny?”
With a gasp she halted, pressing trembling fingers to her lips. “Mamma…” How she wished she could fling herself into her mother’s arms.
“My dear girl, you are fleeing as if the devil is on your heel. It is not seemly.” The countess glanced behind Fanny, her elegant brows puckered in a severe frown.
She allowed her mother to tug her toward a hidden alcove near the entrance that would lead her to the altar.
“What is amiss, Fanny?”
She desperately tried to swallow past the pain in her throat. “Lord Trent…”
“Yes?”
A flush traveled along her body. "I saw him just now, clasped in a most improper embrace with Miss Shelby."
Her mother considered her as if she had never seen her before. “And this is what has you so out of sorts?”
Confusion rushed through Fanny. “Mamma, they…they were declaring passionate love for each other, and kissing most salaciously,” she whispered, beyond mortified to be revealing such intimacy to her mother.
“Pish. Today is a most auspicious day, and the only thing that is important is in a few minutes you will be a countess. Lady Trent. The likes of Miranda Shelby should never upset you. She is too low to be given any prominence in our thoughts. Now let’s set you to rights, for the ceremony is to start.”
Fanny grappled for a precious moment to perceive her meaning. “Mamma, I cannot marry a man who has no regard for me, and on the day we are to marry he is professing his devotion—”
“Nonsense,” her mother said sharply, her dark green eyes flashing with ire and determination. “Men will always flatter their vanity and have their mistre
sses. It’s the way of the world, and we do not let it bother us. As ladies, there are far more pressing matters to occupy our attention.”
Fanny recoiled. “You are speaking in jest, of course! The fidelity and the honor of the man I marry cannot be suspect. Mamma—”
Her mother gripped her chin in a painful clasp, shocking Fanny into silence.
“You will listen to me, Fanny Elizabeth Dashwood. You were foolish enough to break your betrothal to Viscount Aldridge because it was revealed it was your fortune which attracted him. It took years for society to forgive your outrageous behavior. You are on the cusp of being a marchioness, and you will not ruin your chances and bring disgrace to this family again.”
