Lord Philip gave her an almighty push which sent her flying backwards down the aisle as a deafening report rang out. The ball, meant for Constance, hit the squire who had stumbled forward to her aid, and he collapsed like a stone.
Scream after feminine scream rent the congregation as Philip nimbly sprang up the pulpit and leapt from the top of it so that his fingers grasped the brass rail of the gallery. He heaved himself over and then stared wildly around. Nothing. No one.
Down below, the ceremony was in total chaos. Several rowdy bloods at the back of the church who did not know about the shooting thought the whole thing was some mad jest, and began leaping towards the gallery from the top of the pews, cheered on by wild hunting calls from their less agile friends. Every single female in the congregation, with the exception of Constance, seemed to find it an excellent opportunity to prove the aristocratic delicacy of their nerves to the stronger sex, and it seemed as one woman, fainted dead away.
Philip climbed back down the way he had gone up and dropped beside Constance who was being supported by Peter. He pushed roughly past them and knelt beside the fallen squire, opening his waistcoat and feeling for his heart.
Squire Benjamin slowly opened one blue eye and then cautiously opened the other. His broad hand scrabbled inside his coat, and then he began to laugh as he hauled himself to his feet.
“The ball must have bounced off the steel of my demned corset,” he said cheerfully. “And to think how I cursed when my wife insisted I wear the contraption!”
Constance began to giggle nervously, and Lord Philip’s head snapped round and he stared at her with some impatience.
“I really think, my lord,” came the gentle voice of the bishop, “that we should postpone the rest of the ceremony until another day.”
“Oh, get on with it,” said Philip rudely. He found he was very much shaken. “I don’t want to have to go through this curst ceremony again.” Like the shadow which fell on Constance’s face, a cloud covered the sun outside and the church grew dim.
Somehow, the bishop managed to bring order to his unruly flock, and the ceremony went on, Philip angry and worried and Constance white and miserable.
“He didn’t want to marry me!” said a nagging voice, over and over again in her brain.
The wedding feast was to be held at Lady Eleanor’s Kensington villa. The carriages made their stately way along the Chiswick Road under a now lowering sky. Great gusts of hot wind whirled the dust round in miniature tornados, and the old trees beside the road sighed like the sea as the wind swept through the thick summer foliage.
Constance sat awkwardly in her wedding finery and stole a look at her husband. He was leaning back, his head against the squabs, with his eyes half closed.
Suddenly he opened them and stared at her. “Who do you think would want to kill you?” he said in a very matter-of-fact voice.
“No one,” said Constance. “Surely it was some maniac, some radical.”
“Taking potshots at the aristocracy? No, I don’t think so,” said Lord Philip and fell silent again.
A sudden squall of rain streamed down the windows of the chariot through which the villas of Kensington danced and wavered as if underwater.
Constance felt the beginnings of anger. Someone had nearly killed her on her wedding day, and yet this brand-new husband of hers had never so much as held her hand or tried in any way to allay her fears.
She bit her lip as she thought of the night ahead. Would he? But of course he would. Memories of Amelia’s salacious conversation thudded in her ears and her face burned.
She knew, of course, that it was considered extremely vulgar of ladies and gentlemen of the
ton
to betray the slightest sign of emotion, neither anger, grief, or, it seemed, passion.
Constance reflected that she had been very naive. She had expected that the minute they were married, Lord Philip would
Scream after feminine scream rent the congregation as Philip nimbly sprang up the pulpit and leapt from the top of it so that his fingers grasped the brass rail of the gallery. He heaved himself over and then stared wildly around. Nothing. No one.
Down below, the ceremony was in total chaos. Several rowdy bloods at the back of the church who did not know about the shooting thought the whole thing was some mad jest, and began leaping towards the gallery from the top of the pews, cheered on by wild hunting calls from their less agile friends. Every single female in the congregation, with the exception of Constance, seemed to find it an excellent opportunity to prove the aristocratic delicacy of their nerves to the stronger sex, and it seemed as one woman, fainted dead away.
Philip climbed back down the way he had gone up and dropped beside Constance who was being supported by Peter. He pushed roughly past them and knelt beside the fallen squire, opening his waistcoat and feeling for his heart.
Squire Benjamin slowly opened one blue eye and then cautiously opened the other. His broad hand scrabbled inside his coat, and then he began to laugh as he hauled himself to his feet.
“The ball must have bounced off the steel of my demned corset,” he said cheerfully. “And to think how I cursed when my wife insisted I wear the contraption!”
Constance began to giggle nervously, and Lord Philip’s head snapped round and he stared at her with some impatience.
“I really think, my lord,” came the gentle voice of the bishop, “that we should postpone the rest of the ceremony until another day.”
“Oh, get on with it,” said Philip rudely. He found he was very much shaken. “I don’t want to have to go through this curst ceremony again.” Like the shadow which fell on Constance’s face, a cloud covered the sun outside and the church grew dim.
Somehow, the bishop managed to bring order to his unruly flock, and the ceremony went on, Philip angry and worried and Constance white and miserable.
“He didn’t want to marry me!” said a nagging voice, over and over again in her brain.
The wedding feast was to be held at Lady Eleanor’s Kensington villa. The carriages made their stately way along the Chiswick Road under a now lowering sky. Great gusts of hot wind whirled the dust round in miniature tornados, and the old trees beside the road sighed like the sea as the wind swept through the thick summer foliage.
Constance sat awkwardly in her wedding finery and stole a look at her husband. He was leaning back, his head against the squabs, with his eyes half closed.
Suddenly he opened them and stared at her. “Who do you think would want to kill you?” he said in a very matter-of-fact voice.
“No one,” said Constance. “Surely it was some maniac, some radical.”
“Taking potshots at the aristocracy? No, I don’t think so,” said Lord Philip and fell silent again.
A sudden squall of rain streamed down the windows of the chariot through which the villas of Kensington danced and wavered as if underwater.
Constance felt the beginnings of anger. Someone had nearly killed her on her wedding day, and yet this brand-new husband of hers had never so much as held her hand or tried in any way to allay her fears.
She bit her lip as she thought of the night ahead. Would he? But of course he would. Memories of Amelia’s salacious conversation thudded in her ears and her face burned.
She knew, of course, that it was considered extremely vulgar of ladies and gentlemen of the
ton
to betray the slightest sign of emotion, neither anger, grief, or, it seemed, passion.
Constance reflected that she had been very naive. She had expected that the minute they were married, Lord Philip would
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