Wallace and Lady Augusta following at some distance. Miss Lydyard covered the ground swiftly, creating a charming picture to take his eye. Dappled summer sunshine illuminated her through the soft green of the elm leaves and the frisky breeze ruffled her skirts and ribbons as she strode towards him, as if conscious of her lateness, with fluid and vibrant elegance.
But this vision of Miss Lydyard was not what he had expected. Not at all. He had seen her in breeches and boots. He had seen her in a dowdy, unappealing gown that did not flatter and had seen better days. Now this lady…! Even if she did stride towards him as if she were about to board Lydyard’s Ghost . The Earl of Venmore cast an experienced eye over his betrothed, soon-to-be bride.
French style and gloss, was his first thought, from the days before the Revolution, before fashions began to move in the direction of austerity. It was a dress of spring, of romance, cream silk embroidered with sprigs of flowers in softest palest green and yellow. Full skirts caught back with cream ribbons from a plain satin petticoat embroidered and rouched round the hem. Elbow-length sleeves allowed a fall of fine lace. A fitted bodice emphasised her waist, quite different from any garment a connoisseur of London fashions would have designed for the Countess of Venmore. A lace-edged scarf in finest linen crossed over the bosom to tie behind. Altogether remarkably pretty, both feminine and frivolous. And someone had tamed her hair to catch it up on the crown of her head in cream ribbons, to fall in luxuriant curls to her shoulder. The débutantes of the haut ton would never have worn such a gown, but Harriette Lydyard did so with style.
Which realisation struck Luke as solidly as a punch to his well-muscled stomach. So that was it—and he had never even given it a thought. An obvious reason for Miss Lydyard, if she had any pride, not to want a society wedding. She had nothing fashionable to wear and her brother, now that the groom was caught and at the altar, was not going to waste more money than he need on the bride.
He should have thought of it. The fact that he had not given it even the slightest consideration caused him a momentary brush of shame. Of late he had acquired an ingrained selfishness, not a desirable quality in a man of his breeding, he admitted with a grimace. He should have provided her with something suitable—an easy enough task to send a dress as a wedding gift. But there again, he thought, she might have too much pride to accept such a gift from him. For her it would have hammered home once again the vast distance between them as she had so coolly listed for him. The problem, he mused as Miss Lydyard came to a halt in front of him, was that he did not know her. All had to be achieved through guesswork and careful manoeuvring if he did not wish to ride roughshod over her sensibilities. And as yet he did not know what those sensibilities were.
But now she was here, standing before him, cheeks flushed becomingly from the speed of her approach, eyes sparkling, lips curved in a delicious smile. How could he have ever considered reneging on his promise to wed her? And, taken aback by this fragile vision in silk and lace, by a need to sweep her up and protect her from the cruel jibes of high society, the Earl of Venmore could do nothing but take his smuggler’s hand in his and kiss the tips of her fingers. They fluttered in his hold.
‘Miss Lydyard. I swear, a man never met so elegant a bride at the church door,’ he said gallantly.
‘Pretty words,’ she replied with a tilt of her head. ‘The bride is not as elegant as her bridegroom. I wasn’t sure you’d come.’
‘Am I not a man of my word?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied with devastating frankness. ‘Perhaps it depends on how much you need the use of my cutter. You never did tell me what you were doing in France!’
‘Miss Lydyard, you do me an injustice.’ Luke felt the sting of
But this vision of Miss Lydyard was not what he had expected. Not at all. He had seen her in breeches and boots. He had seen her in a dowdy, unappealing gown that did not flatter and had seen better days. Now this lady…! Even if she did stride towards him as if she were about to board Lydyard’s Ghost . The Earl of Venmore cast an experienced eye over his betrothed, soon-to-be bride.
French style and gloss, was his first thought, from the days before the Revolution, before fashions began to move in the direction of austerity. It was a dress of spring, of romance, cream silk embroidered with sprigs of flowers in softest palest green and yellow. Full skirts caught back with cream ribbons from a plain satin petticoat embroidered and rouched round the hem. Elbow-length sleeves allowed a fall of fine lace. A fitted bodice emphasised her waist, quite different from any garment a connoisseur of London fashions would have designed for the Countess of Venmore. A lace-edged scarf in finest linen crossed over the bosom to tie behind. Altogether remarkably pretty, both feminine and frivolous. And someone had tamed her hair to catch it up on the crown of her head in cream ribbons, to fall in luxuriant curls to her shoulder. The débutantes of the haut ton would never have worn such a gown, but Harriette Lydyard did so with style.
Which realisation struck Luke as solidly as a punch to his well-muscled stomach. So that was it—and he had never even given it a thought. An obvious reason for Miss Lydyard, if she had any pride, not to want a society wedding. She had nothing fashionable to wear and her brother, now that the groom was caught and at the altar, was not going to waste more money than he need on the bride.
He should have thought of it. The fact that he had not given it even the slightest consideration caused him a momentary brush of shame. Of late he had acquired an ingrained selfishness, not a desirable quality in a man of his breeding, he admitted with a grimace. He should have provided her with something suitable—an easy enough task to send a dress as a wedding gift. But there again, he thought, she might have too much pride to accept such a gift from him. For her it would have hammered home once again the vast distance between them as she had so coolly listed for him. The problem, he mused as Miss Lydyard came to a halt in front of him, was that he did not know her. All had to be achieved through guesswork and careful manoeuvring if he did not wish to ride roughshod over her sensibilities. And as yet he did not know what those sensibilities were.
But now she was here, standing before him, cheeks flushed becomingly from the speed of her approach, eyes sparkling, lips curved in a delicious smile. How could he have ever considered reneging on his promise to wed her? And, taken aback by this fragile vision in silk and lace, by a need to sweep her up and protect her from the cruel jibes of high society, the Earl of Venmore could do nothing but take his smuggler’s hand in his and kiss the tips of her fingers. They fluttered in his hold.
‘Miss Lydyard. I swear, a man never met so elegant a bride at the church door,’ he said gallantly.
‘Pretty words,’ she replied with a tilt of her head. ‘The bride is not as elegant as her bridegroom. I wasn’t sure you’d come.’
‘Am I not a man of my word?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied with devastating frankness. ‘Perhaps it depends on how much you need the use of my cutter. You never did tell me what you were doing in France!’
‘Miss Lydyard, you do me an injustice.’ Luke felt the sting of
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