Page 31 of Wedding the Widow

Her gaze strayed, naturally, from her friend to the man standing beside Nash. Lord Brack looked so elegant and dashing in his black morning coat, cut in excellent lines to show off his broad shoulders and lean build. The riotous mass of curly, honey-blond hair always made her want to smile. They made him seem so much a little boy, though in all other ways he was very much a man.

She must have been smiling then because he sent her a dazzling smile in return, just as Charlotte reached the foot of the altar, and he turned, with Nash, toward the vicar, Mr. Moore. Her cheeks heated, but she continued to smile as she sat and the service began.

“Dearly beloved, we have come together in the presence of God . . .”

The words transported Elizabeth back to her own wedding to Dickon, almost eight years before. An affair much different than this one.

He’d been Major Easton then, quite the dashing officer in his regimentals. Not that she’d fallen for a uniform, but he’d cut such a splendid figure the first time she’d seen him, she couldn’t help thinking him the handsomest of men. It hadn’t happened in a ballroom either, but on the parade grounds in Brighton, during an exhibition, where her family had gone immediately after her come-out Season. One look at him—sitting his horse like he’d been born in the saddle, chiseled features tanned by the bright sun, an air of dedication that bordered on a passion for a duty he loved—and her heart had been lost.

She’d managed to discover his name from an old family friend who had military connections, had begged an introduction from this same friend, and made her interest in Major Richard Easton known to him during the first dance he had asked for. His deep blue eyes had widened when she had squeezed his hand and told him he must ask her for a second dance, and then a third, for she never wished to partner with anyone other than him ever again.

A week later, with her father’s reluctant permission and a special license clutched in her hand, they had married in St. Nicholas’s Church in Brighton, before her family and Dickon’s mother. After a blissful month as newlyweds, Dickon had left for Spain, leaving her uncertain and fearful that he would never return. Thankfully he had, though almost a year later.

“Charlotte, will you have this man to be your husband? To live together in the covenant of marriage?” Mr. Moore’s voice suddenly brought Elizabeth back to the present, to the sight of Charlotte’s face as she gazed at Nash. Her eyes sparkled, and her face glowed radiantly with an inner beauty born of true happiness. Surely, that was how she herself had looked when she had married Dickon. Would she look thus at Lord Brack if she married him?

A wave of heat rose from her neck into her face and even into her head, until her hair felt like it was on fire. Lord, had someone lit a fire beneath her feet? She dug into her reticule for a fan, though it might seem inappropriate to fan herself. If she didn’t get some relief, she would melt into the pew.

“What is wrong, Elizabeth?” Fanny whispered in her ear.

“Hot. I’m terribly hot all of a sudden.” She found the fan, opened it as quietly as possible, and waved it as surreptitiously as she could toward her face. It helped a little, but the burning heat in her face continued. “Are my cheeks red?” she whispered back to Fanny as the vicar blessed the ring.

“A little.” Fanny peered at her, a frown puckering her brow. “Are you unwell?”

Elizabeth abandoned conversation, concentrating instead on breathing slowly and keeping her fan going. The cool December air outside would be a blessing now. Soon she would be out in it, for Mr. Moore was about to proclaim the marriage.

“Now that Charlotte and Nash have given themselves to each other by solemn vows, with joining hands and the giving and receiving of a ring, I pronounce that they are man and wife, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder.”

The congregation rose, bringing Elizabeth gratefully to her feet. What had come over her?

Charlotte and Nash turned toward them, happiness radiating from their smiling faces.

Elizabeth tried to smile in return, tried to catch her breath, but the world had suddenly turned black, and she faintly heard Fanny calling her name before the darkness enfolded her completely.

* * *

“Oh, wretched smell!” Elizabeth jerked up into a sitting position. The horrible smell of sal volatile reeked in her nostrils still. She opened her eyes to find her circle of friends— Fanny, Georgie, Jane, and even Charlotte in her beautiful blue wedding dress—gathered around her. Fanny had removed the small silver vinaigrette with the smelling salts from her face, though the scent lingered in the air. Georgie and Jane had their own small bottles in their hands, ready to step in if Fanny’s didn’t work. “What happened?”

“Goodness, Elizabeth.” Georgie bustled forward to help her sit up. “You gave us such a fright.”

“You swooned, my dear.” Jane peered at her and felt her cheeks, her hands cool and soothing on her hot skin.

“Went over like a sack of potatoes, just before Charlotte and Nash started down the aisle.” Fanny had capped her silver vial and slipped it back in her small, black reticule.

“Charlotte! I am so sorry.” Elizabeth turned to her friend, mortified that she’d made such a spectacle of herself, ruining Charlotte’s long-awaited wedding. “I don’t know what happened. Can you ever forgive me for spoiling—?”

“Hush. You’ve spoiled nothing, my dear.” Charlotte patted her shoulder soothingly. “I am just as married as I will ever be. But what happened to cause you to swoon?”

“I cannot think.” That was true. Her head was in a whirl. Gingerly, she lay back down on what appeared to be a plain, cracked leather sofa. A swift peek at the room—small, plainly furnished, with a religious painting of Jesus addressing a mass of people—led to the conclusion she must be in the vicar’s office.

“She complained that she was hot just before it happened,” Fanny said, feeling Elizabeth’s forehead, “though she doesn’t seem to have a fever.”

“Should I run and ask Jemmy to fetch the apothecary?” Georgie pocketed her vial and headed for the door.

“No.” Trying to rise, Elizabeth’s head spun even worse, and she dropped back onto the sofa. “Please. If I could be taken back to Lyttlefield Park and put to bed, I will be quite recovered by morning. I believe,” she halted, then gathered her courage. “I was thinking about my wedding to Dickon, Charlotte. It must have upset me more than I thought. I believed I was over his death, but I see that is not true.” She closed her eyes and sighed, fearing that might not be the reason at all.

“Of course, my dear.” Jane stepped in to take charge. “Georgie, get your brother to fetch the carriage. Fanny, find Elizabeth’s cloak, and Charlotte . . .” Jane stopped giving orders as the friends scattered. She grasped her cousin’s hands. “You return to your husband and continue to Wrotham Park for the wedding breakfast. I am certain, after all the trouble to win his bride, Lord Wrotham will hardly heave without her.”

“But Elizabeth—”