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She wanted to scramble out of bed and run. She wanted to hide some place where no one would ever find her.
Patricia took a deep, ragged breath, trying to calm herself. Her mother had told her it was perfectly normal to be beset by nerves on one’s wedding day. But was it normal to tremble and feel as if she wanted to be violently ill?
She blinked back tears, as a wave of guilt washed over her. She had tricked the Duke of Merriweather into this. She had deliberately entrapped an honorable gentleman for her own calculating purpose. He had no idea that her family’s fortunes had plummeted so woefully. No one did. The Hunters had managed to make everything appear perfectly normal thus far, as if they were still as flush with wealth as they had once been.
How would he react when he realized it was not the case?
She felt sweat break out on her neck. If she asked him for funds to secure Margaret’s dowry, he would know immediately. And if she went further and asked him for more funds to save her parents from financial disgrace, then he would probably realize that she had tricked him into this. That her motivation had been his wealth the whole time.
She really hadn’t thought any of this through properly at all. The pressing need to secure a husband had simply overwhelmed her. It had been easy to push it all to the back of her mind, thinking she would worry about it when the time came.
And now that time was upon her.
How had she gotten herself into this?
The door opened. Dulcie briskly walked to the windows, pulling open the heavy drapes, letting sunshine stream into the room. Her mother was close on the maid’s heels, still dressed in her nightgown. She was still wearing her white nightcap on her head, but Patricia knew that beneath it her hair was tightly rolled, in preparation for today.
“What are you doing?” Lady Hunter barked, staring at her daughter as if she had lost her wits entirely. “You need to get up. Now. Dulcie must start your hair and toilette immediately. There is not a moment to lose.”
Patricia reluctantly pushed back the blankets, swinging her legs to the floor.
“Are we not going to break our fast first?” she asked, while privately thinking food was the last thing she wanted. She didn’t think she could eat to save her life. Still, it would buy some time before the preparations began.
Lady Hunter took a deep breath. “There shall be more than enough food at the wedding breakfast, Patricia! But I shall have a maid bring up something for you to nibble upon if you are truly ravenous.” She paused. “I could not eat a thing on my own wedding day.”
Patricia nodded. It had been a long shot, but worth a try. Slowly, she walked to her dressing table, where Dulcie was already standing to attention, hairbrush in hand.
She sat down, staring at herself in the mirror. A pale girl stared back at her, her golden hair rumpled with sleep, beneath the tight rag rollers. It did not look like the face of a bride, about to embark on the happiest day of her life. Rather, it looked like the face of a scared, sickly woman, who had suddenly realized the ramifications of her hasty actions.
“Hair first,” said Lady Hunter, in a firm voice. “And then you shall perform your ablutions. After that Dulcie shall see to your face. Just a little rouge and a touch of darkened ash upon your brows and lashes, I think.” She paused dramatically, her eyes shining with triumph. “And then you shall put on the gown. I cannot wait to see you, Patricia! My own dear, sweet girl is finally a bride!”
Patricia forced a smile onto her face. She truly did feel sick, as if she wanted to curl up in her bed and never emerge from the cocoon.
“Yes,” she said, in a faint voice. “So I am. What joy.”
She had never been more frightened in her life.
