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Joshua had been run ragged with the preparations. Organizing a wedding was never going to be an easy task, and he wasn’t entirely sure how the whole burden of the preparations had fallen to him, Joshua Eaton.
“I’m not even a blood relative.” He muttered mulishly, double-checking that there was enough punch for everyone. The bride’s parents ought to take their share of the work, but naturally that was never going to happen. Baron and Baroness Wyre were torn between their own glee and delight that their daughter was marrying a duke, and a very healthy fear of Benedict.
Very wise, Joshua thought. Benedict was not a man who suffered fools or schemers easily, and his in-laws were two prize examples of both.
Rosaline tried her best, of course, but she took such a lackadaisical attitude toimportant thingsthat Joshua simply couldn’t allow it to go on. She didn’t seem to mind very much what kind of lace they used on her dress, actually asking what the difference was between Indian and Parisian lace! She’d actually said that shedidn’t carewhen he asked what sort of flowers she would like for centerpieces. When he’d pressed her for an answer, she suggested lilies -which were completely unsuitable since they were funeral flowers-, then roses -which were cliché and often disappointing-, then eventually given Joshua the option to choose whatever flowers he would like.
He'd chosen forget-me-nots, baby’s breath, poppies, and a few other wildflowers. They looked very nice, if he did say so himself. Colorful and neat, yet chaotic. Very appropriate for Benedict and Rosaline’s personalities.
Joshua took a step back, surveying the final centerpiece. Benedict’s townhouse was only a short walk from the chapel, and the wedding breakfast would be held here. Finally,finallyevery detail was perfect.
“What are you doing?”
He flinched at the unfamiliar voice and turned to see a stranger standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.
“What areyoudoing?” Joshua countered.
The lady pursed her lips, throwing back spun-gold curls over her shoulder. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than Joshua, which was unusual, and wore fine clothes which proclaimed her as a wedding guest. She was oddly familiar, but Joshua couldn’t recall her name.
“I’ve been sent to fetch you. Rosaline doesn’t want to go into the chapel until you’re there.”
“Ican slip in unnoticed.” Joshua answered, tweaking a flower back into place.
“You have the rings.”
He winced. “Ah. I thought it was a bride’s prerogative to be late.”
The girl rolled her eyes. “It is, but Rosaline insisted on getting there early. She’s so very keen to be married. I’m not sure why, but I suppose love is blind, after all.”
Joshua’s hands stilled on the flowers.
“Iknow who you are. You’re Miss Cordelia Atwood.”
Miss Atwood arched one golden eyebrow. “Yes, and you’re Mr. Joshua Eaton. Now that we’re introduced, perhaps we could hurry up and get down the chapel, unless you want to fuss around with flowers a bit more.”
“You’re that girl who was so desperate not to meet Benedict you paid your friend to pretend to be you.”
Miss Atwood flushed. “Ah. I forgot that you and Lord Benedict are ridiculously close.”
“We’re practically brothers, and he’s a finer man thanyoucould ever secure.”
Miss Atwood snorted. “Fine talk from a man who’s spent all morning arranging flowers.”
“What’s wrong with flowers?”
“Nothing, except all you need to do is plonk them in vases with water and be done with it, not spend hours arranging and rearranging them. It’s a waste of time.”
“Or perhaps you’re just lazy.”
Joshua was well aware that he was getting more and more irritated with this wretch of a girl. Like any good friend, he took a slight to one of his friends as a personal slight to himself. Who did Miss Atwood think she was, turning up her nose at Benedict? Just because she wasmoderatelypretty, she thought she was entitled to ignore such a fine man.
Miss Atwood seemed to also be somewhat annoyed. Her delicate strawberries-and-cream complexion was now more scarlet than pink, and anger was giving her doll-like face a bit of much-needed animation.
“You’re a fop.” She shot at him.
“You’re an air-head.”
“You’re a bore.”
