Barely a Bride (Free Fellows League 1)

“No, it isn’t,” Alyssa said. “But I’d rather have this one.”

Lady Tressingham shook her head. “I don’t understand you, Alyssa. I’ll never understand you—”

“No matter, Puss,” Lord Tressingham interrupted. “The original Abernathy betrothal ring is still at the jeweler’s. If the gel is happy with the new ring, so much the better, for she’ll receive the other one after the wedding. It’s like getting two rings for the price of one. Besides, the contract is signed and the gel is no longer your concern.”

“She is until she’s married,” Lady Tressingham reminded him.

Lord Tressingham rubbed his palms together in anticipation. “Then all I have to say is: When shall we have the wedding?”

“A proper wedding will take months of planning,” Lady Tressingham said.

“It will take seven days,” Alyssa answered. “For that’s all the time we have before Lord Abernathy leaves to join his regiment.”

Lady Tressingham gasped. “Seven days? That’s impossible!”

“Not for me,” Alyssa announced. “We will be married at Saint Paul’s and host a wedding breakfast for two hundred guests here following the ceremony. And we’ll do it in seven days’ time.” She glanced up at Griffin. “You lived up to your end of the bargain, my lord. Now, I’ll live up to mine.”

Griffin met her gaze with a smile, suddenly completely at peace with his choice. He knew in his heart that Lady Alyssa Carrollton would live up to her end of the bargain. She wouldn’t fail him.

Chapter Twelve

“My bride-to-be is planning our wedding with all the precision of a general planning a military campaign. My role is minimal. I’ve been asked to show up at all appointed times in order to escort her to the rounds of parties, and fetes, and to stay out of the way otherwise. I’m following those orders.”

—Griffin, Lord Abernathy, journal entry, 26 April 1810

An hour later, Griff straightened the folds of his neckcloth, splashed on bay lime, and ran a brush through his hair. He turned from the mirror as his valet appeared with a black evening coat.

“Lord and Lady Weymouth are waiting for you downstairs, my lord,” Eastman announced.

Griff shrugged into his evening coat. “Am I late?”

Eastman shook his head. “Not at all, sir. You’ve made splendid time.”

Griffin had burst through the front door of his parents’ town house an hour earlier and hit the stairs running. Eastman had a tub of hot water and his evening clothes prepared. Griffin had rushed through his bath, dressed as quickly as possible, and now, garbed in evening wear, stood ready to join his parents for light refreshments before escorting Alyssa and her mother to Lady Harralson’s party.

“Lords Grantham and Shepherdston sent word that they will be expecting you to join them for brandy and cigars at the club once your duty as escort to Lady Alyssa and her mother is concluded.”

Griff pocketed the handkerchief Eastman handed him, then walked over to his writing table and scribbled a note to Colin and Jarrod informing them that he would meet them when Lady Harralson’s ball concluded. He folded the note and gave it to Eastman. “Send this around to the club.”

“Won’t Lords Grantham and Shepherdston be making an appearance at Lady Harralson’s?”

“God, I hope not,” Griff admitted. “I shall get plenty of grief from Lady Tressingham. I shan’t need additional grief from my boon companions.”

Eastman bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “Anticipating mother-in-law difficulties, sir?”

“With every breath she takes,” Griffin answered. “Until she finishes venting her spleen over her disappointment in getting me for a son-in-law instead of His Grace.”

“Perhaps her displeasure will be short-lived,” Eastman offered.

“Perhaps.” Griffin didn’t sound convinced. “But since you and I will be joining my regiment in ten days, I’ll only have to endure Lady Tressingham’s temper for a little while longer. I’m afraid my bride won’t be as fortunate.”

“Your bride will be safely ensconced at Abernathy Manor,” Eastman reminded him. “Far away from her mother.”

“Mothers have been known to visit,” Griff said, “with or without an invitation, and countesses outrank viscountesses.” He frowned. “Another point in Sussex’s favor. If Lady Alyssa were marrying His Grace, she wouldn’t have to worry about her mother pulling rank.”

“She isn’t marrying the duke; she’s marrying you,” Eastman replied. “Perhaps a word in Lady Weymouth’s ear will do the trick, sir.”

“Mother doesn’t outrank Lady Tressingham,” Griff reminded his valet. “They’re both countesses.”