Sabrina tugged at the itchy Brussels lace at her throat. “Phillip is very kind. He would never do such a thing.”
“Ha. He’s a man and men do whatever it pleases them to do. If he chooses to ignore you, then he will. If he chooses to humiliate you, then he will. However, in all truth, the viscount has a good reputation. He is known as an honorable man. We will see. I will say that I’m shocked that you managed to fool him. I had not taken him for such a blockhead.”
Not for the first time in the last three days, Sabrina wished she could smack her aunt. Just one little smack, right in the middle of all those ridiculous crimped gray curls. “He isn’t a blockhead,” she said, swallowing her anger. Soon she would be out of her aunt’s house. Soon she wouldn’t have to see her at all. Well, perhaps once every six months. That would be more than enough. She straightened, then turned. “I believe it’s time to go downstairs, ma’am.”
“Yes, it’s time. For God’s sake, girl, pinch your cheeks. You look like I’ve abused you when it’s been the other way around. The good Lord knows how much I’ve had to deal with, between you and your sister. But you, bringing scandal into my house and lying—” She broke off. Sabrina just might tell the viscount something less than truthful, and the truth was that she had treated Sabrina better than anyone could possibly expect, given what the girl had done to her. Lady Barresford turned on her heel and walked toward the door, not looking back.
Sabrina closed her thumb and forefinger about her cheek and pinched herself. Her maid, Hickles, emerged suddenly from the corner of the bedchamber where she’d conveniently withdrawn into the shadows. Sabrina jumped. She was certain Hickles had been eavesdropping. “Will you need anything else, my lady?” Hickles asked, her voice trembling with excitement.
“Yes,” Sabrina said quietly, turning. “I never want to see your face again, Hickles. You truly are irritating.” She swept up the train of her gown and walked from the room, without a backward glance at her maid.
“Sabrina was a lovely bride. Perhaps a trifle pale, but hardly a wooden doll.” Margaret Drakemore turned away from Madeleine Bingly, her hands clenched at her sides.
Lady Bingly raised a painted eyebrow. “I do believe that you’re taking loyalty a bit too far, Margaret. Do finish with that flounce, you stupid girl,” she said to the maid who was kneeling before her mending a torn ruffle in her gown.
Lady Dorchester said from her seat before a mirror, “Now, Madeleine, surely it’s time for some Christian charity.” Particularly, she thought with a small grimace, since her spouse, Lord Dorchester, was a good friend of the groom’s and Rohan Carrington’s. She, for one, wouldn’t gossip about the new viscountess, which was surely a pity—it would have meant many pleasurable hours.
Lady Bingly did a small pirouette. “There, no one could tell that Colonel Sandavar put his foot through the flounce, clumsy man.” She waved away the maid and turned to Margaret. “I believe I hear a waltz striking up. Shouldn’t we go back into the ballroom before our husbands think we have run away from them? Ah, to run away after being wicked and still manage to finish off your adventure being married to Phillip Mercerault, that is more than luck. That would require cunning and planning. It quite makes me gnash my teeth with envy that she managed it.”
Margaret, who wished suddenly that she and Lady Bingly were at the top of the stairs and she could shove her down, rose to her full height and said, “I have told you the facts of the entire matter, Madeleine. It is really quite mean-spirited of you to continue these silly lies.”
Lady Dorchester rose from her seat and gave a final pat to her dark hair. “Margaret is right, Madeleine. What’s done is done. It’s over.” As she swept from the dressing room, she said over her bare shoulder, unable to help herself, “At least the viscount will not have a shrinking bride on his hands tonight. How perfectly quaint that the wedding should follow the wedding night.”
Her laughter rang out. Lady Bingly moved to follow her from the ladies with drawing room. She called out, “Or was it a wedding week, my dear Lady Dorchester? With the viscount’s winning manners, it must have been an exquisite experience for the, er, child.”
“Bitches,” Margaret said under her breath. She heard Madeleine call out, “I do wonder if the viscountess is breeding. An excellent reason for placing a gold band so quickly on her finger.”
Margaret heard the carrying words, as, she suspected, she was meant to. At least, she thought, her spirits rising a bit, most of the guests were behaving as they should, with no overt nastiness toward Sabrina. The small wedding, held in the drawing room of Lady Barresford’s town house, had gone off without a hitch, her brother, Charles, having acted in the stead of Sabrina’s family. Rohan Carrington had been Phillip’s best man. She wished that the wedding dinner and ball had been kept similarly small, but Phillip had insisted. “No, Sabrina will dance her wedding waltz with me before as many people as I can squeeze into the ballroom. This will be no fly-by-night wedding.”
Naturally everyone had come.
Perhaps, Margaret thought, Phillip had been right. But it didn’t help that Sabrina looked so white and drawn. Margaret dismissed the maids and walked slowly back down the oak staircase to the ballroom.
Sabrina shrank back into the shadows until Margaret disappeared from her view down the windi
ng stairs. She hadn’t been meant to hear the cutting words, but she had. What had she expected? Indeed, what could she expect? She drew a long sigh. At least it was nearly over. She forgot the thick braid that was coming loose and made her way quickly back downstairs.
“Hold still, Sabrina, and I’ll fix your hair.”
“Phillip,” she said, praying he hadn’t overheard the women. He stood two steps below her, a slight smile playing about his mouth. She realized with a start that she’d been so closed into herself for the entire day and evening that she had scarce even been aware of him. She looked at him now, devastatingly handsome in his severe black evening clothes. “You look beautiful,” she said. “I hadn’t really seen you today. I’m sorry. You’ve done so much for me and this is the first time I’m really seeing you. You have eyelashes thick as a girl’s, only most girls I’ve seen don’t have thick lashes either.”
The smile became a wide grin. “Well, eyelashes is a good place to start. You really think I’m beautiful? I’m just a man, Sabrina. Beautiful?”
“Now you’re showing your conceit. You want me to reassure you all the while you’re jesting with me. Very well, yes, it’s true. You are beautiful. Does that please your vanity?”
“Yes. I trust that my thick eyelashes are all that a girl would want. Come here, Sabrina, before your hair falls into your face.”
She obeyed, her steps slow and careful, for she feared tripping on the hem of her wedding gown. She felt his long fingers move deftly to draw the sagging braid back to where it belonged. She felt him slide in the pin to anchor it securely.
“There, now you’re the perfect viscountess.”
She stared up at him. “Goodness, you’re right. That’s what I am now. But I don’t feel like a viscountess. All of this—” she waved her hand around her—“it all seems like a dream, like I’m not really me, that it’s someone else who’s done all this.”
He hooked his thumb beneath her chin. “It’s real, Sabrina. You’re real, as am I. We’re married now. It’s done. What was the dream was all the nastiness before today. It’s over and done with now.”
She thought of the malicious words of the women just moments before, but she forced a smile. “Yes, it’s almost all over now. Thank you, Phillip, for all you’ve done for me.”
He hated her gratitude, and thus said without thinking, “It’s your money that’s paying for all of it. Thank yourself as much as me.”