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Chapter 6
For it is a universal rule that however bashful or angry a woman may be, she never disregards a man’s kneeling at her feet.
The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana
One month later...
Hatherly was late.
Beyond late.
Maybe he wasn’t even coming.
Alice ripped a pearl off her wedding dress and pressed the hard little globe between her thumb and forefinger.
She sat in the front pew, back straight, cheeks flaming with humiliation.
Her parents flanked her. Grim Papa. Nervously fluttering Mama.
She imagined Mama was wishing she’d agreed to a small, private ceremony, as the whispers behind them grew louder.
She was marrying in all the pomp and circumstance her father’s fortune was expected to supply. No expense had been spared.
The church was filled with hothouse roses. The distinguished priest had officiated at the ceremonies of no fewer than three dukes.
Why wasn’t Hatherly here yet? He’d promised her, over and over, that he’d be here, and she’d believed him.
Despite her telling him he didn’t need to woo her, he’d visited several times, under heavy supervision from Mama, of course, and she’d thought they’d... well, she’d rather thought they had been on their way to becoming if not friends, at least allies.
They’d spent hours picking apart the frivolous fops of the ton, Hatherly performing a deadly impression of Lord White, and Alice amusing him with her caricatures of the many simpering society misses she’d encountered in her days of self-imposed wallflower-dom.
Had he only been amusing himself at her expense?
What if, she thought with a lurching feeling in her stomach, what if he’d planned this entire episode as one of his infamous entertainments?
Enter the virgin sacrifice, trussed in pink silk and crusted with pearls, like some slab of underdone beef to be devoured by the gossips.
Admit the aristocratic audience, riveted by the possibility of scandal looming larger with every passing second.
Supply one very dour-faced priest who glanced up from his prayer book every few moments and skewered her with a disapproving glare, as if the lack of groom were somehow her fault.
Cue solemn, melancholy music from sonorous organ pipes.
Send a weak ray of sunshine wavering through the stained glass windows, striking Our Lord as he suffered upon his cross.
Teach Sir Alfred a lesson in suffering. Teach him that upstart merchants should never aspire to marry their daughters into the true nobility.
“He’s not coming, Mama,” Alice whispered.
“He’ll be here any moment now, I’m quite sure,” her mother said with false cheer.
“He’d damned well better be,” her father muttered. “Or he’ll wish he’d never been born. I won’t just confiscate his bloody house. I’ll strip him of everything.”
“Lower your voice, sir.” Mama glanced around fearfully lest anyone hear her husband curse.
Her father’s whiskers quivered with fury. “He won’t have two brass farthings to rub together when I’m through with him.”
Alice felt like a wilted cabbage under the weight of all these petticoats and pearls.
