What did one do when one’s fiancé’s kiss had lost its attraction?
When one would rather be removing a splinter than meeting his lips?
Maia opened her eyes and found herself staring at the image of a lovely bride. Golden-coppery-brown hair shone in a shaft of light from the window, and the beam filtered over the pale pink silk of her gown. Over it lay an icy-lemon layer of lace, which gave the frock a shiny, pearlescent appearance.
“You look beautiful, miss. He will be unable to take his eyes off you,” said the seamstress. Satisfaction colored her voice, and she stepped forward to adjust the short puff of a sleeve. It was made from twisted swatches of pale pink, lemon and blue silk, loosely braided and sewn stuffed with padding to hold their shapes.
Maia scanned herself. She did indeed look beautiful—mostly due to the dress, she conceded. Though the bodice was low, and in a new neckline called a sweetheart shape, the little scratch on the top of her breast was no longer visible. It had healed weeks ago.
Since Angelica’s escape from Cezar Moldavi and her return from Paris, both Chas and Corvindale had agreed that the danger from Moldavi had eased. The villain was now aware of Corvindale’s far-reaching protection of the Woodmore sisters, and in light of his recent failure to use Angelica to bring her brother to heel, it was deemed unlikely that Moldavi would make another attempt so soon after.
Thus, the earl had eased his restrictions on the Woodmore sisters, although Chas assured Maia that they were still being protected, even if they weren’t aware of it. Maia had, of course, noticed the extra footmen that always accompanied or followed their carriage, and the unusual number of shadows hulking about on the street from sundown to sunrise. She assumed that most of them were what Corvindale would term “good vampires,” since they were obviously in his employ.
Meanwhile, Chas, to Maia’s immense frustration and concern, had disappeared shortly after Angelica’s return, leaving them once again in Corvindale’s care.
Yet…since she’d fled Corvindale’s study the morning after the incident in the carriage, his mocking words ringing in her ears—you were never enthralled—she hadn’t seen more than the flutter of his coat hem around a corner. It had been more than a month and they’d managed to avoid each other.
Or at least, she’d avoided him. Whether he was doing the same, Maia wasn’t certain. And since Angelica had returned with nary a scratch, and had announced her intention to wed Viscount Dewhurst, Corvindale hadn’t been seen at all.
She’d heard the deep rumble of his voice, and noticed the closed door to his study. And, fortunately, she’d had no reason to disturb the earl.
But Alexander had been to Blackmont Hall often.
And he always seemed to want to walk in the garden, and to stop in that shady pergola.
But kissing him had become as interesting as kissing her own hand. Maia knew—for she’d tried it.
And what had once been a tingling anticipation for his arrival was now a heavy leaden ball in her middle.
She didn’t love him.
One doesn’t marry for love. One marries for money or prestige or position. Or even for good family, as long as it is a good match.
She’d often given such a lecture to Angelica, who, for a time, had thought herself in love with the very untenable Mr. Ferring-Dulles. Love doesn’t factor into it. It might come later if one is compatible with one’s husband. Or if one is very lucky, it might also be there from the beginning.
But one doesn’t expect or seek love in marriage.
Maia knew better, for there was a time when she thought she’d loved Mr. Virgil. She’d thought they were eloping to marry on that night when she dressed in men’s breeches and sneaked out of the house.
But instead, the night had turned out to be a horror, the details of which she’d long forgotten. Or otherwise suppressed. She shivered now, as a wisp of memory flitted through her mind. Corvindale. In the carriage. She in her breeches, hair tucked beneath a sagging cap.
Why could she not remember?
She sighed. No, love definitely could not and should not factor into one’s choice of husband.
And that was why, in three days, Maia would be marrying Alexander Bradington. In the very lovely dress she was now wearing.
Dimitri looked down at the note, glad for the distraction.
The house was filled with energy and activity. Miss Woodmore was to wed Bradington in three days, and for some reason unbeknownst to him, everyone related to the nuptials seemed to be coming and going from Blackmont Hall today. It was as if the walls were swollen to bursting.
Angelica Woodmore’s wedding plans were also progressing, if one were to judge by the number of appointments with flower-keepers and seamstresses and other entities, not to mention the swatches of material, scraps of notes and drawings, that had littered the parlor table yesterday. Couldn’t the blasted chits wait until their brother was back to attend to these things?
Naturally that could take weeks. Or months. Or longer. He knew that Woodmore meant to find a way to kill Cezar Moldavi, for until he did so, Narcise would never be safe. But his continued absence was making things even more inconvenient for Dimitri. And the sisters seemed to have confidence that their brother would be in attendance for their weddings, regardless of whatever else he was attending to.
Dimitri hadn’t had a good day’s sleep in weeks, so there was no sense in attempting it today. Perhaps he would respond to the message.
Lord Corvindale,
I should like to invite you to examine a new collection of works that I have recently procured. I am hopeful that one of them might contain the information you seek. Please advise soonest, for I have other interested clients.
G. Reginald.
Gellis Reginald was another antiquarian bookseller that Dimitri had patronized, although not for months since he’d found Wayren’s shop. Perhaps the man had heard that his most influential customer had gone elsewhere and wished to lure him back, or perhaps he truly did have something of interest.
Regardless, it was an opportunity to leave the house.
Dimitri put aside his other papers—contracts and balance sheets, bank drafts and bills that he’d taken a moment to peruse and sign merely in order to get Beckett, his man of business, to stop nagging him—and rang for the carriage.
The day was a normal gloomy one, with thick rolling fog and gray everywhere. Nevertheless, Dimitri needed his cloak. An abnormal wave of bitterness flooded him as he scooped it up and stalked out, leaving a house filled with squeals and giggles behind him.