On glimpsing it, Kit smiled himself and drove on.
“That’s the drive.” Godfrey pointed to where the brougham was turning in between two gateposts. “It’s rather a nice place—close to the village but quite private, what with these woods all around.”
It transpired that they were to make use of that privacy—tables had been set up on a long, sloping lawn. After leaving the curricle with the various grooms in the forecourt, Kit and Godfrey were shown to their places as more of the guests from the church arrived.
Rand and Felicia had wanted a small wedding, but given their family, “small” still numbered more than fifty guests. Of course, judged against the last family wedding—Ryder and Mary’s—fifty qualified as tiny.
A long table had been set up for the bridal party, just below the raised terrace and facing down the lawn toward the other tables. Accustomed to the way such things were done, Kit wasn’t surprised to find himself seated between Mary and Miss Buckleberry. As he claimed his seat, Miss Buckleberry was already deep in conversation with Miss Throgmorton’s brother, who was seated on her other side, and Mary was chatting avidly to Rand, on her right.
Kit settled—and Mary turned to him and immediately quizzed him on his intentions after the breakfast. After assuring her that he would, indeed, be joining the family at the Abbey—which was definitely what she’d wanted to hear—he deftly turned the tables and asked her about her offspring. From experience, he knew that recounting their latest exploits would occupy Mary for quite some time, and so it proved.
The first toasts were made, the meal was served, and the event rolled on in customary fashion—and, finally, over a particularly good syllabub, Kit managed to seize a moment of Miss Buckleberry’s time. He absolved Felicia’s brother of monopolizing her attention; if anything, the shoe had been on the other foot.
As the laughter occasioned by the final toast—proposed by Ryder—faded, he fleetingly caught the lady’s elusive eye. “I understand, Miss Buckleberry, that you’ve known my new sister-in-law for some time.”
Rather than look at him, she poked at the syllabub, but consented to nod. “Indeed. We met as infants and have been close friends ever since.”
Kit waited, but she said nothing more. “So you often visited each other’s homes?”
“When we were young children, yes. But after her mother’s death, Felicia was more or less stuck here, managing the household, so I was the one who visited.”
“Do you live far afield?”
“My father has a living not far from Bath.”
Aha. She was a clergyman’s daughter. Perhaps that was what was behind her prickliness.
They were interrupted by the staff clearing the empty plates, then Miss Buckleberry pushed back her chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Cousin Flora.”
Kit summoned a meaningless smile, rose, and drew back her chair for her.
With the faintest inclination of her head, she headed to where Flora sat at the end of one of the other tables.
Other guests were getting to their feet and mingling in groups.
Kit stepped back into the shadow of the terrace. With his hands in his pockets, he stared, faintly frowning, at the confounding Miss Buckleberry.
From her words and also from what he’d seen, he judged her to be of much the same age as Felicia, who Rand had told him was twenty-four.
No green girl. No silly, flighty flibbertigibbet.
Miss Buckleberry’s attitude to him had nothing to do with nerves. If anything, he sensed hers were quite steely.
No. For some unfathomable reason, Miss Buckleberry was deliberately giving him the cold shoulder.
Kit wasn’t accustomed to inspiring such a reaction in the breasts of young ladies. Generally speaking, they were effusively attentive, very ready to return his smiles and chatter to him with eager enthusiasm for however long he deigned to make himself available.
Not Miss Buckleberry.
Ryder, with Rand at his elbow, strolled up, interrupting Kit’s cogitations.
“So,” Ryder drawled, “did you succeed in securing what you went to Bermuda to get?”
> Kit had discussed his plans with his half brother; from their earliest years, Ryder had always been the one Rand, Kit, and Godfrey had turned to for advice and to sound out their ideas. Shifting his gaze to Ryder’s face, Kit nodded. “Yes. Cobworth has agreed to return to England and build for me.” He paused, then added, “I’m thinking of setting up in Bristol, rather than somewhere on the south coast. There’s so much ship-building going on in Bristol at the moment, any trade or materials we’ll need will be there, at our fingertips.”
Ryder arched his brows, his expression considering. “That might well be wise, especially given you want to build larger yachts, rather than just sloops to run across the Channel.”
Rand added, “That will also be a point of distinction between you and other yacht-builders—not just the location of your works but that you’ll have access to different craftsmen. And that’s not something to sneer at.”