Truly, though, her fantasizing wouldn’t present any real harm to her husband or to her vows. She would be entirely faithful to Halford…except in her mind.
Raven took a deep breath, renewing her resolve as she turned to ring for her maid. She had made her own bed, as the saying went. Her betrothed would soon be awaiting her at the church-St. George’s, Hanover Square-along with several hundred of their friends and acquaintances, the very cream of the ton. And she intended to look her best for her special day.
Two hours later she descended the stairway to the entrance hall where, with the aid of a cane, her grandfather stood alongside his sister Catherine. The elderly viscount stayed here on the rare occasions when he came to town, rather than open his own cavernous mansion.
Lord Luttrell was tall and silver-haired like his sister, though not as handsome. He’d been ill for a long while, suffering from a weak heart.
Tears brimmed in his eyes, Raven saw when she reached him.
“So you approve, do you, Grandfather?” she asked, offering him a smile. She couldn’t totally forgive him for repudiating her mother so many years ago, but they had come to terms of sorts during the nearly eight months since her arrival in England.
He took her hand in his own shaky one. “Very much, child. You are exceedingly beautiful.”
Raven did think her appearance pleasing. Her empire gown was of pale lemon lustring, with an ivory net overskirt shot with gold threads. And she wore her mother’s pearls, while her raven hair was gathered high into an elegant coiffure.
Beside the viscount, her dragon of a great-aunt agreed even while sniffing in disapproval. “She is indeed beautiful, Jervis, but you will turn her head with such flattery. And Raven is not a child in the least. She turned twenty months ago.”
As usual, her grandfather ignored his sister’s waspish tone and patted Raven’s hand. “I
have never been so proud of you. You will make a grand duchess.”
Raven bit back an instinctive reply. In her grandfather’s opinion-along with the much of the world’s-a woman’s worth was only measured by her husband’s position in society. Yet to his credit, Grandfather only wanted her to be well settled in life.
Despite the strain that had marked their early relationship, Lord Luttrell had welcomed her with a touching eagerness, making her feel like a cherished member of his family. And Raven had found herself immensely glad for the connection. He and Lady Dalrymple were the only blood relations she had left, other than an American half brother whom she could never publicly claim. She’d never even known her real father, the wealthy American shipping magnate who had died some years past.
And she knew the viscount truly mourned his late daughter and regretted his intractability.
“I am sorry your mother is not here to see you,” her grandfather said now in a trembling voice.
Raven felt her own throat constrict. She, too, wished her mother could be here to witness her triumphant union.
“Jervis, if you are finished wallowing in sentimentality,” Aunt Catherine interjected sharply, “we have a ceremony to attend.”
“Yes, of course,” Luttrell grunted with a quelling look at his sister.
After accepting her cloak from the Dalrymple butler, Raven allowed her grandfather to lead her slowly down the entrance steps of her aunt’s residence to where the viscount’s grand, crested carriage stood ready to transport them to the church.
To Raven’s delight, her long-term groom, Michael O’Malley, waited beside the carriage to see her off.
“ ’Tis a grand sight you are, Miss Raven,” the Irishman said in his lilting accent, beaming when she reached him. “And a proud day to be sure.”
With a brilliant smile of her own, Raven stepped aside to embrace the hulking, gray-haired fellow. “Thank you, O’Malley,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.
She kissed his grizzled cheek, ignoring her aunt’s sudden stiffening and her grandfather’s obvious frown of disapproval. For most of her childhood, O’Malley had been more father than servant to her. And he had accompanied her to England from the West Indies when she’d come to face her haughty, unknown relatives. She was immeasurably grateful to him for standing her friend.
Turning then, Raven allowed O’Malley to take her elbow so he could hand her into the elegant barouche. When she heard a sudden commotion, though, she glanced curiously up the street to see a closed carriage barreling toward them, its windows shuttered, its coachman wearing a hooded cape that made him appear phantomlike.
Strangely, the coach slowed as it passed the barouche, then rumbled to a halt while three armed, masked figures leapt out. To Raven’s shock, two of them pointed pistols directly at her, while the third brandished a cudgel.
“Ye’re to come with us,” one said in gruff voice, gesturing at her.
“Who the devil are you?” Lord Luttrell demanded.
When Raven stood frozen in bewilderment, the leader lunged at her and gripped her arm, dragging her toward the coach.
With a fierce growl, O’Malley made to intervene, but the man with the cudgel moved directly into his path, swinging his weapon viciously, preventing her groom from coming to her aid.
For an instant Raven wondered if she were imagining this nightmare, but the pain in her arm was very real as she was hauled toward the open door of the coach.