like a feeble old woman.
He kept his head back, rather than gaze out the window at the London streets as they rolled along. Not because he didn’t care, but because he missed it terribly. London wasn’t his world anymore. His reign had ended.
For the hundredth time, he found himself thinking about Daphne. He supposed her guardian had packed her off to London by now. Was she enjoying her stay with the duke’s cousin?
A smile flitted on his lips. She must be having a fine time. How could anyone fail to be impressed by London’s breadth and opportunities? Especially Daphne. Whatever charity work she could accomplish from Kent, she could do here sevenfold. Perhaps she would fall in love with the city and wish to stay. His heart warmed.
The landau pulled up at the church a half an hour early. As much as Bartholomew had dreaded these few hours, arriving early was the lesser evil to arriving late and making a further spectacle of himself.
If he was lucky, perhaps he could find an unobtrusive seat in the back before any other guests arrived and enquired about his prosthesis or its quaint little clacking sound.
As luck would have it, he was not the first inside the church. He cringed. No matter how softly he tried to walk, he could not hide the telltale clicking. He rolled his shoulders back and pretended not to care.
Oliver, the groom, was pacing beneath a stained-glass window. Another friend, Xavier Grey, was the sole occupant of the furthest pew. No sign of the bride or the clergyman.
Bartholomew made his way to Oliver first.
Delight lit the earl’s warm brown eyes. “You came!”
“Of course I came,” Bartholomew grumbled. “That’ll teach you to invite me. Congratulations on your new countess.”
Oliver beamed at him. “I can’t wait for you to meet Grace. You’ll love her.”
“I’m sure I will.” Bartholomew lifted his chin toward the rear of the church where Xavier sat. “Is he…”
“Xavier again?” Oliver’s grin faltered. “He’s mobile. And verbal. But I don’t know if we’ll ever truly get him back. Some days are better than others.”
Bartholomew nodded his understanding. The war had changed Xavier. Had marked them all. He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your pacing.”
Oliver flashed an embarrassed smile. “Thank you. This section of the floor was far too clean. I was… giving it some character.”
Bartholomew’s lips quirked. Oliver looked positively terrified. The poor sod. Marriage must be terrifying. Thank God Bartholomew’s betrothal was a sham. And a secret. His friends would never let him live down the infamy.
He made his way to the back of the church and slid into the pew next to Xavier.
Once seated, he arranged his false leg with stiff precision. Just because everyone knew it was fake didn’t mean he wanted it sticking out at all angles. He hated that Xavier was witnessing even this much of his endless, fruitless struggle to appear normal.
Captain Xavier Grey had returned from war whole… in body only. The rest of him had been trapped deep inside his mind, somewhere even his best friends couldn’t rescue him. Slowly, he’d become more aware of the world around him. Bartholomew hoped he’d stay.
He didn’t share this thought with Xavier, of course. It wasn’t done. The same way Oliver hadn’t asked after Bartholomew’s missing leg, or whether the grieving process was coming along. The same way Bartholomew had refrained from enquiring what the devil Oliver had been thinking to kiss a young lady in a library that was not his own.
Oliver was usually the hero, not the villain. For him to succumb to passion in such a way meant the lady was very important indeed. And for him to be so charmingly nervous at his own wedding meant he had fallen in love at last.
Good for Oliver. He deserved to find happiness.
Bartholomew ignored a pang of envy. He was pleased to see Xavier alert and present. He, too, deserved happiness. Xavier might not be
He kept his head back, rather than gaze out the window at the London streets as they rolled along. Not because he didn’t care, but because he missed it terribly. London wasn’t his world anymore. His reign had ended.
For the hundredth time, he found himself thinking about Daphne. He supposed her guardian had packed her off to London by now. Was she enjoying her stay with the duke’s cousin?
A smile flitted on his lips. She must be having a fine time. How could anyone fail to be impressed by London’s breadth and opportunities? Especially Daphne. Whatever charity work she could accomplish from Kent, she could do here sevenfold. Perhaps she would fall in love with the city and wish to stay. His heart warmed.
The landau pulled up at the church a half an hour early. As much as Bartholomew had dreaded these few hours, arriving early was the lesser evil to arriving late and making a further spectacle of himself.
If he was lucky, perhaps he could find an unobtrusive seat in the back before any other guests arrived and enquired about his prosthesis or its quaint little clacking sound.
As luck would have it, he was not the first inside the church. He cringed. No matter how softly he tried to walk, he could not hide the telltale clicking. He rolled his shoulders back and pretended not to care.
Oliver, the groom, was pacing beneath a stained-glass window. Another friend, Xavier Grey, was the sole occupant of the furthest pew. No sign of the bride or the clergyman.
Bartholomew made his way to Oliver first.
Delight lit the earl’s warm brown eyes. “You came!”
“Of course I came,” Bartholomew grumbled. “That’ll teach you to invite me. Congratulations on your new countess.”
Oliver beamed at him. “I can’t wait for you to meet Grace. You’ll love her.”
“I’m sure I will.” Bartholomew lifted his chin toward the rear of the church where Xavier sat. “Is he…”
“Xavier again?” Oliver’s grin faltered. “He’s mobile. And verbal. But I don’t know if we’ll ever truly get him back. Some days are better than others.”
Bartholomew nodded his understanding. The war had changed Xavier. Had marked them all. He clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your pacing.”
Oliver flashed an embarrassed smile. “Thank you. This section of the floor was far too clean. I was… giving it some character.”
Bartholomew’s lips quirked. Oliver looked positively terrified. The poor sod. Marriage must be terrifying. Thank God Bartholomew’s betrothal was a sham. And a secret. His friends would never let him live down the infamy.
He made his way to the back of the church and slid into the pew next to Xavier.
Once seated, he arranged his false leg with stiff precision. Just because everyone knew it was fake didn’t mean he wanted it sticking out at all angles. He hated that Xavier was witnessing even this much of his endless, fruitless struggle to appear normal.
Captain Xavier Grey had returned from war whole… in body only. The rest of him had been trapped deep inside his mind, somewhere even his best friends couldn’t rescue him. Slowly, he’d become more aware of the world around him. Bartholomew hoped he’d stay.
He didn’t share this thought with Xavier, of course. It wasn’t done. The same way Oliver hadn’t asked after Bartholomew’s missing leg, or whether the grieving process was coming along. The same way Bartholomew had refrained from enquiring what the devil Oliver had been thinking to kiss a young lady in a library that was not his own.
Oliver was usually the hero, not the villain. For him to succumb to passion in such a way meant the lady was very important indeed. And for him to be so charmingly nervous at his own wedding meant he had fallen in love at last.
Good for Oliver. He deserved to find happiness.
Bartholomew ignored a pang of envy. He was pleased to see Xavier alert and present. He, too, deserved happiness. Xavier might not be
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