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“Truly, Weezy, we are concerned about you,” Anthony said, giving her hand a squeeze. “You don’t have to do this. Father would understand completely. In fact, I wonder if he wouldn’t actually prefer it.”
“We’ve talked about all this before, and the argument is always the same,” Louisa replied. “If honor constrained you to do something you were otherwise loathe to do, serve your country in the military, for example”—she looked directly at Anthony, as he intended to buy his commission as soon as he completed his studies at Cambridge—“or were compelled to make a dynastic match, as the heir to a marquess is like to do”—she directed this remark to Alex—“you would do it, wouldn’t you? Your honor would demand it.”
“Yes, unquestionably, we would,” Alex said in a tone that sounded suspiciously as if he were explaining the obvious to an imbecile. “But that is because we are gentlemen, as we’ve pointed out before, and you are not.”
“You think I am less of a Hargreaves, less a child of the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashworth than either of you?” she challenged, trying to keep her voice low and reasonable but without success. “That because I am a female, I cannot have honor?”
“Of course not, Weezy,” Anthony said soothingly.
“Precisely,” Alex countered. “It is not the same thing at all. Women are weak and vulnerable, prone to hysterics, subject to fainting spells and vapors—”
“When have you ever known me to faint? Or Mama either, for that matter,” Louisa exclaimed hotly. “I have followed the two of you all over the countryside my entire life—exploring attics and sheds, climbing trees, swimming in ponds, riding. You yourself said I was as good a horsewoman as you’d ever seen, Alex—”
“That’s true, Weezy, but—”
“But nothing,” she said, cutting off Alex, unable to control her growing irritation. “I will do what I must. I refuse to be the member of the Hargreaves family, the lone child of the Marquess of Ashworth to act with dishonor after all our father has done to restore the family name.”
Anthony heaved a sigh. “Very well, Louisa; your willingness to make this sacrifice for honor’s sake is one I highly respect. There is no point in arguing with her, Alex; she has made up her mind. What can we do to help, then?”
“I don’t know,” Louisa replied, suddenly feeling drained. She wanted to lie down and put a cold compress on her forehead. “Lord Kerridge was at the Meltons’ last night.”
“He was?” Alex said, his countenance darkening. “Devil take him to Hades and back! Now, that’s what I call dishonorable—”
“None of us thought to warn him that we were announcing the betrothal at the Meltons’ assembly. He wasn’t there long—only enough to hear the actual announcement.” She could still see his handsome, aristocratic face looking calmly at her. He’d been able to say so much with that one look: pity and irony mixed with a dash of contempt. It had pierced her deeply—she’d felt all the shame and guilt he’d intended for her to feel in that moment. He’d wounded her, and then he’d left. “I cannot blame him for his being there and can only respect his swift management of what could have been an awkward situation.”
“If you say so,” Alex said, looking unconvinced.
“We will be at church with you tomorrow, little sister,” Anthony said resolutely. “We will smile and greet all the churchgoers, and we will not leave your side. We will be your support.”
“And we shall be ready to provide Viscount Farleigh with a black eye if the situation requires,” Alex added.
Louisa wouldn’t put it past Alex to look for such an opportunity. “I doubt it will come to that,” she said. Truth be told, she would rather have her brothers help her pry information about Viscount Farleigh from him rather than resort to violence against him. It would be much more useful, for, despite her attempts to get him to open up to her, she was still betrothed to an enigma.
* * *
William heard nothing during the lengthy church service on Sunday morning, his mind preoccupied with Heslop’s words of urgency to him: You must proceed with haste in courting Lady Louisa. You must win the lady over. You must proceed with haste . . .
He’d arrived at Ashworth House this morning—he had arranged to drive Louisa to St. George’s today, her parents and brothers following behind them in a separate carriage—trying to convince himself that while he hadn’t been willing to withdraw the vowel, she’d had the right to choose whether she married him or not. He had not coerced her. Not precisely.
She’d chosen a pink muslin dress and matching pelisse to wear that brought out the color in her cheeks, and a straw bonnet arrayed with flowers the exact hue of her lips. He sorely wanted to kiss her again. Their kisses had been a revelation, an experience he’d thought about ever since and longed to repeat. Instead, he’d silently handed her up into the gig he’d discovered in the mews behind his father’s house.
He didn’t deserve to kiss her.
She was now seated next to him in one of the front pews of the chapel, her parents and brothers sitting on the other side of her on the same pew, poised to protect her, William presumed, if anyone in St. George’s were to stand and publicly proclaim a reason why they should not wed.
And if no one stood? They would still have to go through this same ordeal two more times since he’d promised Louisa she could have the banns read and the extra days that doing so would give her. His father, may his soul rot in his grave, would have said William’s promise to Louisa had been nothing more than a bluff and that Louisa had called him on it, weakening his chance to win the game.
Except it wasn’t a game. There was too much at stake for too many people.
Out of the corner of his eye, William noticed Louisa’s gloved hands suddenly clench in her lap, which brought his thoughts back to the services going on around them.
The rector had begun reading the banns.
“If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two people should not be joined together in holy matrimony,” the man boomed from the pulpit, “ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.”
Louisa sat as still as a statue, staring straight ahead. William, too, did not move. He held his breath, waiting—no, dreading—the inevitable moment someone stood and claimed knowledge of a just impediment. William himself could recite more than a few without blinking an eye.
Time stood still.
