Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Wescott strode about, swearing that such villainy could not be borne, that he had to avenge the insult to his sister. The Duke of Arlington checked him, saying he must not contemplate murder. Even in the wilds of Wales, one would face the law.
“Torture, then,” Wescott had growled, and the duke’s eyes had narrowed a moment in agreement with his son before he walked back into the chapel to invite the lingering guests to breakfast.
August didn’t understand how Fortenbury had had the nerve to leave, but leave he had. It appeared that, for the fourth time, Elizabeth’s wedding was off. What a terrible blow, to be left at the altar in such a fashion… Just at the holidays…
With all of them gathered together to see her disgrace.
He worried for her, but she would not be grieving alone. Her mother and sisters would be with her, and her father and brothers too, when they were sufficiently calm. She was in capable hands, but he felt helpless. He went with his friends to the wedding breakfast, which was, of course, no longer a wedding breakfast or a celebratory thing. He noted how quickly the servants had removed any hint of marital decoration, leaving behind plain sideboards of sumptuous cakes and gourmet refreshments.
“My God,” said Marlow. “Good fucking God.”
“Your wife is with her?” asked August.
“Yes, Rosalind’s been with her all morning. Poor Lisbet. What a disaster.”
“I can’t believe he dared,” said Townsend. “The duke will have his head next time he sees him.”
“He’s made a powerful enemy today. A very powerful enemy,” said Marlow. “He’d better hide in Hampshire the next five or ten years. Hell, I’ll deck the man on sight. Won’t even wait to arrange a duel. Just…” Marlow mimed a violent fist to the face.
“I’d love to introduce him to the point of a sword, but he’ll doubtless flee to the Continent rather than face retribution for what he’s done.” August growled. He had a few more choice words to say on the matter but had to swallow them back as Townsend’s wife Jane appeared with their young son Charles in tow.
“What now?” she asked, her normally bright features dim with anguish. “Will we all just return to Oxfordshire?”
“I don’t know,” said Townsend, taking Charles in his arms. The toddler immediately set to tugging his papa’s dark hair. “I suppose we’ll wait to hear what the family says. Perhaps they’ll wish us to remain, to spend the holidays together.”
“Yes, to raise Lisbet’s spirits,” said Marlow. “Sad for her Christmas to be ruined, too.”
“At least this didn’t happen in London during the Season,” said August.
“Goodness, you’re right.” Jane brought her fingers to her mouth to hide an expression of horror. “I pray by the time the ton returns to London in the spring, the gossips will have moved on to some other topic.”
August doubted they’d be so lucky. Gossip had a way of following Elizabeth around. He watched the assembled guests at breakfast, his spirit as dark and heavy as the worsening storms outdoors. When the meal was done, they didn’t linger in their fine suits and formal gowns but retired to their rooms out of respect for the shell-shocked family. Even the cantankerous old baron was eventually subdued and sent off to his chambers with the bottle of whiskey he’d intended to gift to the bridegroom.
August parted from his friends and returned to the chapel, to his quiet monk’s room. To get there, he had to pass through the sanctuary, where a pair of somber footmen were taking down the swags of holly and pine they’d gathered from Cairwyn’s forest.
Such lovely decorations, all for naught. He hated this outcome for Elizabeth. She’d so wanted to get married, to start a family. He hated Fortenbury for being an unworthy, smug bag of horse shit. He continued to his room, where Marston waited.
“Terrible news,” said August, shrugging out of his deep blue coat, and unbuttoning his formal waistcoat. “The wedding is off.”
“The poor lady,” his servant murmured.
August changed into warm country clothes, a brown wool vest and buff trousers. He wished he could go out for an hours-long walk, but the weather kept him caged in his small room. He needed to work off his unsettled feelings, his wrath. He could just about walk all the way to London or Hampshire, wherever Fortenbury had flown, just to strangle him blue in the face.
As he contemplated continuing work on his half-carved hawk, his gaze fell on the prayer book at his bedside, the leather now imprinted with the faintest outline of Elizabeth’s teeth. The switch remained beneath the bed. He didn’t know why he kept it, except that the memories titillated him. He picked it up, turning it in his fingers.
Where was Elizabeth now? Was she sobbing still? Staring, bereft, into the distance? Would Fortenbury’s betrayal change her forever?