Jessica could not remember being alone in a room before with a man who was not a relative—oh, except when someone had come to ask for her hand in marriage. But on those occasions Avery had not gone off to stroll in Hyde Park with Anna and her mother and the children. This whole thing suddenly felt horribly real.
Horribly? It struck her how little she knew this man or of him. She had only his word for almost everything he had told her. One thing struck her as a bit odd, though.
“Why was Avery willing to give his blessing?” she asked. “Did he . . . know? Before you came up to the drawing room, that is?”
“He did,” he said. “But not because I told him. Apparently he is too lazy to find things out for himself, but discovering that Thorne was my mother’s name was well within the capabilities of his secretary.”
“Avery is far from lazy,” she told him.
“Yes,” he said. “I have concluded that for myself. That man of his is at Brierley, finding out what he can while trying unsuccessfully to look inconspicuous.”
“Avery told you he had sent him there?” Jessica asked.
“No,” he said. “But my man at Brierley reported that a stranger has been asking pointed questions. It seemed to me from the description he gave that the stranger was almost certainly the same man who had the charge of you on the road to London.”
“It seems to me,” she said, “that there are definite similarities between you and my brother. You have a man at Brierley? Spying, you mean? Do you really have a marriage license?”
“I do,” he said. “Do you still want to marry me?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do.”
If Avery had given his blessing, it would not be just because he had discovered that Gabriel was the Earl of Lyndale. Avery was certainly high in the instep, but he was not shallow. And if Mr. Goddard was at Brierley, trying, poor man, to look inconspicuous, Avery himself must have been very busy here. She was not surprised, however. It would always be a mistake to be taken in by Avery’s studied indolence.
Gabriel had come to stand in front of her. He held out one hand, and she put her own into it and allowed him to draw her to her feet.
“Now?” he asked her. “Or would you rather wait and allow your mother to arrange a family wedding?”
She could in all reality go and fetch her bonnet now and go and get married? She felt suddenly breathless. And very tempted.
“I believe,” she said, “it broke Mama’s heart when Avery thwarted the plans of the whole Westcott family and took Anna off to marry her privately. I think maybe the family wedding, then. But within the week. And not the grand event they will try to press on us. I do wish, however, you also had family.”
He looked at her rather wistfully, she thought, and she remembered that he did have family here in England. Family members who lied and committed rape and possibly murder and tried to blame an innocent man. Family members who would be far from happy to see him again.
“I do have Sir Trevor,” he said, “and Lady Vickers. They are in truth my godparents. And there is their son, who has become my friend in the past few weeks. Shall we decide upon Friday for our wedding, then? I would rather not wait longer than that.”
It was Tuesday already. By Friday she would be a married lady. She would be Lady Jessica Thorne, Countess of Lyndale.
“You would wait that long,” she asked, “just so that Mama—and doubtless Grandmama and the aunts—would have time to arrange some sort of family wedding? Because it is what I want?”
“Yes,” he said.
And she wondered. Oh, she wondered. Last evening he had admitted that he wished to marry her only because she had all the qualifications he felt he needed in a bride. He had also admitted that he wanted her. But wanting her did not necessarily mean he felt any tender emotion for her. Did he care for her? Just a little bit?
And did she care for him? Had she agreed to marry him just because she had decided she wanted to be married and because she wanted him? Was there anything else? It would be wise not even to think of the possibility.
“Thank you,” she said, and he drew her into his arms and kissed her. Slowly and thoroughly, holding her right against the full length of him, though the kiss was not as urgent as last night’s.
It was good even so. Better than good. He felt solid and dependable. Masculine. Desirable.
He already had a marriage license. Mama and Anna and all the other females in the family were about to be let loose upon wedding plans.
She was glad.
She was going to be married.
With her family about her.
She was going to be married.
And then she would have to face his family with him.
Fifteen
I wish to say something,” Lady Estelle Lamarr said to the roomful of ladies, none of whom were related to her by blood but all of whom had welcomed her into the Westcott family as one of their own when her father married the former Viola Westcott, Countess of Riverdale.
The chatter ceased abruptly, and everyone turned to listen to her with identical expressions of surprised inquiry. They were gathered in the drawing room of the dowager countess’s home, it being easier for all of them to travel there than to expect her to travel elsewhere.
“You are all tiptoeing about one point,” she said. “It is to spare my feelings, I know, and I do appreciate your kindness. It is, however, unnecessary. I like Mr. Thorne exceedingly well. I was never for one moment interested in marrying him, however, even though I know you all did your best to promote a match between us. He was never for one moment interested in marrying me. It ought to have been obvious to everyone that he had eyes only for Jessica—and that she had eyes only for him, though I know you were all hoping for a match between her and Mr. Rochford. Please believe me. I am not nursing a broken heart. I am not even in search of a husband yet. I am only twenty-three. I am going to live in the country with Bertrand for a year or two when the summer is over. We are both agreed upon that plan. Meanwhile I am very happy for Jessica and Mr. Thorne.”
“Only twenty-three,” the Dowager Countess of Riverdale said, throwing up her hands. “Whatever has happened to girls these days? It was very different in our day, Edith, was it not? Any girl not married by the time she reached her twentieth birthday was very firmly on the shelf.”
“It is a relief to hear that you are not upset, Estelle,” Wren said, smiling kindly at her. “That would have been very unfortunate.”
“I am surprised at Avery, Louise,” Mildred said. “You told us only a short while ago that he had withheld his blessing upon Mr. Rochford’s suit until after his father has been officially declared Earl of Lyndale, though that is a mere formality. Yet he gave it yesterday to Mr. Thorne, about whom we know far less. He is said to have inherited property and a fortune somewhere to the north, and he is said to have brought a fortune with him from America. It is all very vague, however. He has Sir Trevor Vickers to vouch for him, of course, but really I would have expected Avery to investigate more thoroughly, to make absolutely sure that Mr. Thorne will be a worthy husband for Jessica.”
“You can rest assured,” Louise said, “that Avery has investigated very thoroughly indeed, Mildred.”
“Then where is this property of his?” her sister asked.
“Mr. Thorne wishes to go there in person and settle a few issues before he makes any public announcement, Aunt,” Anna said. “He wants to go soon, but he also wants Jessica to be with him when he does. That is why they have decided to marry the day after tomorrow.”
“We must be thankful, then,” Matilda said, “that they have not decided upon a wedding exactly like yours and Avery’s, Anna. Yes, I know, Elizabeth. You are about to remind us all that it was the loveliest, most romantic wedding you have ever attended—with the exception of your own, no doubt. But you were there. The rest of us were not. Perhaps we will forgive you in a decade or two, Anna.” Her eyes twinkled at her niece. “The wedding breakfast is to be at Archer House, then?”
“Oh, of course,” Louise and Anna said almost simultaneously.
“We must discuss flowers,” Althea Westcott said briskly. “What do you have in mind, Louise? Elizabeth and I will look after those, if you wish.”
“And me too, please, Mother,” Wren said. “I will provide all the vases—from the new collection at my glass-works.”
“Predominantly roses,” Anna said. “Mostly pink. Mr. Thorne has been sending a pink rose to Jessica every day for the last few weeks—except once when it was yellow. I would like to know the story behind that one.”
“He has been sending her roses? Daily?” Edith said. “What a very romantic young man he is. It is a love match, then?”
“But of course,” Anna and Wren said together.
“We have been blind,” Mildred said, shaking her head. “All of us. We made our plans and we forged onward with them and saw none of the signs. That half hour they spent over at the pianoforte during your party, for example, Elizabeth. We were annoyed that Mr. Thorne had drawn Jessica away from Mr. Rochford.”
“And the church, Louise?” Matilda, always the most disciplined planner of family events, asked. “Will we be able to decorate that with flowers too? I will see to that. You too, Viola? Do we know which church?”