Thomas stumbled back a pace. “Forgive me,” he choked, and turned on his heel. Turned—away from her.
Mr. Shrimpton made a lunge for his arm, but Thomas shoved free and bolted past his groomsmen, then leapt the rail into the nave.
The crowd rose amidst a great communal shriek. “Swine!” someone shouted, and “Catch the cad!”
Thomas sprinted across the nave and cut a sharp left toward the arcade. Someone made a grab for him; he ducked into a somersaulting roll, shot to his feet, and bounded out of sight behind a row of pillars.
At her side, Mr. Shrimpton gave a low whistle. She turned, the world trailing sluggishly past her eyes, to look at him.
His brows were at his hairline. “Had no idea he could run like that,” he said.
Vises clamped onto her arms. She glanced down. Hands, they were—pale, slim fingers, wrists bound in fluttering ribbons and white tea roses. Oh, she thought. Her bridesmaids were trying to draw her away from the altar. Again.
God above. It had happened again.
He actually let me walk up the aisle.
Even Lord Trent didn’t do that.
“Oh,” she said, and the sound startled her. “Oh,” she whispered, as she tripped over her train and the candles seemed to brighten and the scent of flowers sharpened, pricking her eyes and making her nose run. She shook off the grasping hands. This was new; it really was. At least Lord Trent had the decency to have jilted her before the wedding day, to let her cry off the betrothal. A terrible mess, informing four hundred guests that their attendance would not be required; the number of notes she’d penned had left her hand cramped for weeks. But this?
Oh, this was quite different. Twice, now.
She stumbled back a pace, and then another.
The altar began to recede.
There could be no recovery from this.
Chapter Two
“Please, miss. Madam is determined that you come downstairs.”
Gwen pulled her knees closer to her chest. She was buried beneath the covers, with a pillow atop her face, but it still wasn’t enough. What she needed was a shell. Then she could crawl into it and hide, no matter where she found herself. How lucky turtles were, in that regard. “Once again,” she mumbled, “I send my regrets.”
“Miss, she insists! There is company!”
It was only the Ramseys, who would forgive her. Nevertheless, the maid’s wheezing voice made her lift the pillow for a peek. An unhealthy flush blotched Hester’s cheeks. No wonder! Aunt Elma had sent her scrambling up the staircase five times in the last half hour.
Gwen threw off the pillow and sat up. “The next time my aunt sends for me, you’re to pay her no heed. Just wait a bit in the hall, then tell her I refused again.” When Hester looked hesitant, she rose to her feet for the added air of authority. “I assure you, that’s exactly what I’d do if you came anyway.”
The maid gave a little panting moan, then ducked a curtsy and withdrew. As the door closed, the room sank again into darkness.
Gwen swayed indecisively. There was no desire in her to do anything. Her whole body ached. But she did not think she would manage to go back to sleep now.
She crossed to the window and pulled open the curtains.
Surprise stopped her breath. Bits of mild blue sky showed through the green leaves that brushed the glass. Still daylight! How was that possible? It felt as though the day should have been over years ago.
She glanced disbelievingly to the clock on the mantel. Only a quarter after five! Why, people were strolling through the park still! They hadn’t taken their afternoon tea yet, while already she’d woken, breakfasted, nearly been married, cried herself to sleep, and been rousted five times by an aunt who wished her to go downstairs and contemplate, amongst company, her public humiliation.
Quite a lot to fit into a day, really.
Tears pricked her eyes. Not again! She dashed them away. Stop crying, she thought. You did not love him. She had liked him very much, and she had hoped and vowed to grow to love him, but these endless tears were not for the life they would have shared. They were for humiliation, she thought. And betrayal, and shock. And they had already given her an awful headache and she didn’t want it to worsen.
Her hand fell from the drapes. With a sigh, she turned away from the window. A piece of paper lay discarded on the carpet. After a startled moment, she recognized it: her anonymous admirer had sent another note today; it had been waiting on her return from the church. Had she read it earlier? It looked as if she had, but she couldn’t remember doing so.
She took it up and sat down in an easy chair. Yes, there was a tearstain near the top. She swallowed and decided to ignore that. The script was very elegant, wasn’t it? Oh, she would not fool herself. With her luck, the author probably had gout, six children, and no hair.