Page 67 of The English Wife

“You may kiss the bride.”

Teddy Newland turned the requisite peck into something a little less traditional, provoking titters and raised eyebrows and more than one discreet harrumph.

“What would you expect?” one dowager trumpeted to another behind Georgie.

What, indeed?

Georgie had expected to feel relief at Anne’s wedding, but mostly she felt queasy. The festivities had been held at Teddy’s family home, the Knoll. Private trains had ferried the guests from Grand Central to the local station, where they had been met with ribbon-bedecked carriages driven by liveried coachmen who had taken them to a village church decked with a fortune in orchids.

There had been something more than a little disconcerting about watching Bay deliver his cousin down the aisle, her arm tucked in his. Georgie could hear the whispers, see the heads turning. Carrie Rheinlander had done her work well.

Everything was too much: too many bridesmaids milling about with flowers in their hair; too many jewels; too much perfume. The whispers were too loud, the music too bold, even the sunlight slanting through the stained glass seemed too bright.

The toasts at the wedding luncheon seemed to go on forever, although Georgie couldn’t make herself concentrate on them. Mouths open, lips moving, forks laden with food. The scent of the lobster mousse made her gag. Georgie set down her fork, hoping no one would notice.

She nibbled on bread, instead, and choked down the champagne without tasting it; her stomach wouldn’t seem to settle, no matter what she did.

“Are you all right?” It was her husband, appearing behind her chair.

“It’s very close in here,” said Georgie. It was true. The dining room was large, but the windows had been closed, and the scent of hothouse flowers was overpowering. Georgie could smell them slowly rotting, like funeral flowers, strewn on a grave.

Fancies. Fancies and foolishness. Her dress was laced too tight, that was all. She’d wanted to put on a good show today, for Bay. And for herself.

“Shall we seek some air?” suggested Bay, and Georgie nodded wordlessly, not trusting herself to open her mouth.

The terrace was deserted, save for a handful of smokers banished from the house, puffing on their cigars and Turkish cigarettes. Georgie leaned her head back and concentrated on the cool October air, the scent of mud and dying leaves, fresh and clean after the cloying perfumes of the house.

Around them, the trees blazed red, orange, and gold, and in the distance, the hills rose in mottled beauty, rising and falling like the back of a sleeping giant.

Georgie felt Bay’s hand on the small of her back. “Better?”

Georgie braced her hands against the cool white paint of the veranda rail. “The lobster mousse—it was too rich. I’ll be all right in a moment. You can go back if you like.”

“I’d rather go for a stroll if you don’t mind missing the fun.”

Georgie glanced up at him, then regretted the movement, which made her stomach lurch. “Aren’t you expected to do the pretty?”

Bay drew in a deep breath, letting his eyes close for a moment. “I’ve done all the pretty I need to do. I’d rather be with you. If you don’t mind.”

Pining for what couldn’t be? Georgie bit back the words. She didn’t have the energy to voice them. And to what end? Anne was married. She would be gone tomorrow on an extended tour of the Continent. Months and months and months without Anne. Georgie clung to that thought, feeling a rise of optimism even as her stomach rebelled. They’d been happy before Anne. They would be happy again once she had gone, when the whispers and rumors had trembled to a stop.

Anne would be gone and she would be here, and perhaps something else, which she hadn’t quite confided to Bay yet, because she wasn’t entirely sure.

Georgie let herself lean back against Bay, in the familiar curve of his arms. “If you’re sure you won’t be missed…”

“They’ll all be busy gawking at the wedding gifts,” said Bay drily. This was a new Bay, a Bay with a bite beneath his gentle manner, a bitter undertone she hadn’t been aware of in Paris or London. “No one will notice me unless you cover me with sapphires and gold plate.”

“Or I could just wrap you around with pearls,” suggested Georgie, speaking at random through the fog of sickness.

“Like Carrie? No, thank you.” There were no dead leaves to crunch beneath her feet. The Newland gardeners had done their work too well. “Pearls are for tears.”

“That doesn’t seem to stop anyone from wearing them.” The garden was almost too quiet. It was as if even the wind had been warned not to rustle the branches too loudly. Georgie tilted her head back, looking for a breeze. “Or do they think the wealth is worth the sorrow?”

Bay tugged at his cravat. “Paris was worth a mass.”

“Yes, but that was Paris,” said Georgie, and felt a surge of relief as Bay choked on a laugh.

“There is that.” He looked down at her, looked as though he were really seeing her, for the first time in days. “I miss Paris. Do you?”