Chapter 12

"Ilike him."

Amanda would not be Amanda if she stooped to such banalities as, say, knocking before entering a room, so Emily was not at all surprised when her sister burst through her bedchamber door while Emily was still tending her morning toilette.

It was now two days until the wedding; the special license had been procured, and the church booked. There were approximately a thousand other things to do, however, and Emily struggled to care overmuch about any of them. All told, she would have preferred to stay in bed, instead.

Being the object of roiling gossip was, as it turned out, very tiring.

"Who, dear?" she asked absently as she jabbed a few extra hairpins into her simple coiffure. She had far too much to do today to be lackadaisical about controlling her curls.

"The Earl, Emmy. Do keep up."

Amanda was splayed flat on her back on Emily's bed. If Emily had tried such a thing after getting dressed for the day, she would lose every single hairpin she'd ever placed in her curls. Amanda popped up. Her hair looked fine.

Emily turned away from her dressing table to look at her sister head on.

"I'm not sure I've properly apologized to you, Amanda," she said, feeling her cheeks flush with the admission. "The Earl was your beau, and though I didn't approve?—"

"Oh, no!" Amanda exclaimed. "No, no! Ick. No." She shook her head wildly—and her dratted coiffure remained perfectly in place. "I admit, it isn't entirely flattering to be thrown over so easily—not because of you, specifically, Emmy, just in general," she added when Emily cringed.

This was kind of her sister, but Emily knew the truth. Amanda was a young, vivacious debutante who, yes, could be a bit too, ah, creative sometimes. But she was still a superior catch to old maid, too tall Emily. The Earl never would have chosen Emily if they'd not been caught in a compromising situation. She knew that.

Amanda kept talking. "No, I actually meant that I like him for you, sweet sister. He and I would not have suited, I don't think, and I am not yet ready to marry. But I think he will not be able to glower you into submission, and you shall not be able to manage him."

Emily again suspected that her sister was trying to be kind, but being characterized as a managing type stung.

"Anyway," Amanda went on, blithely unaware of her sister's discomfort, "it shall all work out, mark my words. The two of you will no doubt be very upright and accomplished together, and Rosie and I will try to behave ourselves even without you here to constantly nag us into submission."

This last bit was delivered as a joke, but in the context of facing all her manifold inadequacies, Emily struggled to find the humor.

"Right," she said, her smile more a wince.

Rose entered the room then—also not bothering to knock.

"Oh, hello," she said. "Em, Lady Frances is here to help with—" She made an expansive gesture. "—everything."

"Right," Emily said again, this time her tone considerably more decisive. "Wonderful. Let's go meet her and have some breakfast. We have much to do today."

The three sisters went downstairs and threw themselves into preparations. There was plenty to do, and the Dowager Countess had not shown any interest in aiding in the work of putting together a short-notice wedding worthy of an earl. Since Emily's mother was no longer with them, that left the bride in charge of most of her own preparations. Frances, of course, had been a wonder, organizing and planning with the utmost efficiency—she was splendid at that sort of thing as long as she wasn't asked to speak to any strangers. And even the twins had been surprisingly helpful. They'd remained on task for the past few days, even when endless opportunities for mischief presented themselves.

Diana, who was due to give birth any day now, was not able to join them, of course; in the days since Emily had shown her friends the letters (which she'd scarcely had time to even think about since), Diana had struggled to get out of bed, let alone the house, given the enormity of her stomach.

Their absent friend made her presence known, however, by sending little notes of encouragement and advice. At one point the day prior, she'd arranged to have cakes from Emily's favorite bakery delivered, designed, as her note indicated, to fortify them during their labors.

Emily thought this last one might have been a pun about childbirth. Her friend, she gathered, was very, very bored by her confinement.

The quartet of women had designated the Rutleys' front parlor as their main working location, and the four of them flitted in and out of the room as needed, chaperoned by their various maids and footmen whenever an errand popped up. Emily spent the day resolutely not looking at the settee where she'd recently been soundly kissed by her betrothed.

Emily was returning from one such errand—she'd confirmed with the florist that their order would be delivered, checking with her own eyes that the hothouse flowers were in decent condition—when she found her sisters sitting with their heads bent close together over a piece of paper, whispering furiously. Frances, who had left on her own errand at the same time as Emily, had not yet returned.

"What have you got there?" she asked, casting her bonnet and spencer to the side. There was no point taking it back to her room; she'd no doubt be hurrying out again in short order. Her maid seemed to feel the same, taking a seat in the corner of the room with a tired huff.

Amanda, never known for subtlety, snatched up the paper, folded it, and stuffed it underneath her rear. "Nothing," she said.

The corner of the paper was still sticking out from beneath her. Emily held out a hand.

"Give it to me, please," she said patiently. This was probably one of her sisters' misguided attempts at helping, but if a vendor had cancelled or some other such tragedy had befallen them, Emily needed to know so she could handle it.

Rose, however, shook her head. "No," she said firmly. "It's private."

Emily fixed them with a look. She had abundant practice with this look.

Amanda pursed her lips stubbornly. "Fine, if you must know, I've drawn a very unflattering picture of you. I made your hair massive. It will hurt your feelings. I am very repentant for what I've done. Kindly leave me to self-castigate in peace."

"You would think," Emily observed mildly, "that with all the times you two have attempted to lie to me, you might have gotten better at it."

The twins exchanged a glance, and it was then that Emily began to worry that whatever they were concealing was really bad, indeed.

"Give me the paper," she said seriously.

Moving very slowly, as if Emily might forget what was happening if only she moved slowly enough, Amanda stood just enough to remove the paper from beneath her person and handed it over to her sister.

It was one of the gossip pages, that day's edition.

Emily's stomach sank as she started to read.

To the shock of every reasonable member of the ton, the marriage between the Earl of M— and Miss E— R— is scheduled to take place later this week. Let me assure you: nobody is more shocked than I, dear readers! To think that someone like Miss R— (who was not known even to my well-informed self prior to her shocking intrusion into the scene last week when she was found in a most compromising positions) has managed to snare the illustrious Earl. For indeed, a snare it must be. How else could a wallflower giantess trap herself one of the most eligible bachelors of the Season? But remember this: a hasty marriage is only sweeping things under the rug, my dear Miss R—, and some stains can never come out.

Perhaps we cannot blame Miss R— entirely. After all, she and her pair of younger sisters have had no mother to teach them how to behave themselves properly. (Though I was once uninformed about the so-called lady in question, my dear readers know I never stay uninformed on matters of gossip. I have found out all that is worthy of being told.) Of course, I can think of scores of lovely, decorous ladies who have lost their beloved mamas and did not turn out to be—well, I am far too polite to commit to print a word such as that.

And while we could praise the gentleman for his sense of honor, I am not so entirely convinced that we should. For there is gentlemanly behavior, and then there is this…

Emily wished she had just believed Amanda when she'd said it was a nasty drawing. For this was so, so much worse.

It was one of the crueler bits of gossip she'd ever seen printed. Forget the personal insults though those were bad enough. The author had all but called her a harlot outright, and though the piece technically did not reveal her identity, there was no doubt as to the "wallflower giantess" might reference.

No, that was all quite enough, but the part that chilled her was the reference to her sisters. This had been her greatest fear, that somehow her behavior would damage their prospects. If that happened, she'd never forgive herself…

And then there was the implication that, if the Earl threw her over, Society would not blame him. If that happened, Emily would be doomed—a scandalous spinster for all her days.

The frisson of worry that coursed through her at that thought gave her pause. Since when did the idea of being a spinster bother her?

She shook her head at herself. Clearly it was just the ‘scandalous' part that bothered her. She was worried for her sisters' prospects, naturally.

Those same sisters were peering at her with anxious expressions on their faces.

"I don't think it's the least bit accurate," Rose said loyally.

"Me neither," Amanda agreed promptly. She instantly ruined it by adding, "You are not sneaky, Emmy. You could never scheme to trap a gentleman."

"Um, thank you," Emily said, her voice shaky, both from what she'd just read and from that astonishingly backhanded compliment.

"Besides," Amanda went on, her tone suggesting that she really thought she was being helpful, "who needs a mother when we've got you to natter all the time about proper behavior and all that."

If one squinted, Emily supposed this was almost kind.

Rose took in Emily's pinched expression and kicked her twin in the ankle.

"Ow!" Amanda exclaimed, giving Rose a reproachful look. "Why?—"

"Stop talking," Rose commanded out of the side of her mouth.

Amanda glanced at Emily, and whatever she saw in her elder sister's face caused her to clasp her hands behind her in what, Emily could only assume, was meant to be a gesture of innocence.

"Don't pay it any mind," Amanda said, and this actually was helpful. "Rosie, the Earl, and I all know the truth—and that's all that matters."

As they continued their preparations, Emily hoped fervently that this proved to be the case.

There was a crowd outside the church.

Benedict did not understand.

His wedding was not, by his understanding, an elaborate, flashy affair. True, he'd left most of the preparations to his bride—planning weddings was the kind of frivolity that women loved to concern themselves with—but surely, he'd have noticed if Emily had planned an affair so large that the crowd spilled out onto the street.

Furthermore, he'd gotten the distinct impression that Emily had a small, close-knit circle of friends, and he knew that his own social sphere was really more of a social dot, given that he had no close associates aside from Evan Miller.

Perhaps Emily had a great number of cousins she'd failed to mention?

He disembarked from his carriage, feeling decidedly baffled.

That was, he felt baffled until one of the gathered dandies glanced in his direction and let loose a dramatic gasp. "It's him! He actually came!"

Benedict did not like the sound of that at all.

This was cemented when another man, his accent far too broad and uncultured to suggest he was likely to be found outside a Society wedding, asked, "Yer really plannin' on goin' through with it, are ye, M'Lord? Any chance of changin' yer mind? I've a guinea against it."

These people, he realized in a flash of hot rage, weren't here to see the wedding—they were here to see if the wedding was even going to happen.

"Get away from me," Benedict snarled at the man in front of him, wishing he could instead slap the smarmy grin off the man's face. It would not do, however, to get into fisticuffs on the morning of his nuptials. He raised his voice, "All of you, get away from here. Unless you're attending the ceremony, I expect you to be gone in the next two minutes."

He did not need to add "or else." His tone said it for him.

He shoved his way none too gently through the assembled spectators, heading for the front doors of the church. Christ, there were even women here. What was wrong with people?

He could only hope that Emily had gotten safely inside before the hideous crowd of vultures had gathered.

He'd seen, of course, that hideous article in the gossip pages. His mother never would have let him get away with missing it. She'd thrust the paper under his nose then sniffed that at least someone was seeing sense and that there was still time to make the right choice. Then she'd scampered off before he could either read the paper or shout at her for her unwelcome comments about his impending marriage.

When he'd actually read the damned thing, he'd forgotten all his ire at his mother, having none to spare for anyone aside from that wretched gossip columnist.

He'd fumed, read the thing again, then fumed some more. He'd considered various legal channels he could use to ruin the hideous creature who had felt it appropriate to write such things about his Emily—his future wife. He could think of none—the whole purpose of using initials was to protect against accusations of libel—but he did enjoy a brief, savage fantasy of having the writer declared a lunatic by the Court of Chancery.

But writing in the gossip pages was one thing. Showing up at his actual wedding was another thing entirely.

Inside the vestibule of the church, he found Lady Frances Johnson pacing back and forth, wringing her hands anxiously. She startled when he entered.

"Are they still out there?" she asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper. He was reasonably certain he'd never heard Lady Frances speak before; now, she sounded enormously reluctant to do so. He felt a flash of appreciation for the act, which was clearly done out of loyalty to Emily.

"I sent them away," he said.

She nodded in relief. Then she darted a quick glance up at him, making eye contact for only a moment.

"We can never tell Emily about this," she said, her voice slightly more confident than it had been.

"Agreed," he said.

Normally, he'd have thought it a poor idea to enter into a conspiracy against one's wife on the first day of one's marriage, but sometimes silence really was for the best.

Lady Frances shot him a small smile, and Benedict felt oddly encouraged.

"She's here, then?" he asked, hoping it didn't make him sound pathetic. Not that he had any reason to doubt that she'd come—her reputation was at stake, and Emily did not strike him as flighty—but perhaps the crowd outside had rattled him, too.

Lady Frances' smiled widened for a split second before disappearing.

"She is," she told him simply.

Good. That was good.

He nodded, took a slow breath, and entered the main portion of the building so that he could wait for the reverend to show him where to stand. There was nothing to be nervous about. After all, he was not a nervous man.

Curiously enough, he found himself able to shed his last traces of nerves only when Emily entered the back of the church and walked down the aisle towards him looking beautiful, of course, but also tremendously nervous herself. There was something about the way she held her mouth— that plush lower lip looked as though it wanted to puff out into a worried pout and was being held back only by sheer force of will—that made all his concerns seem timid by comparison.

If she was nervous, he would be steady for both of them. Wasn't that what a husband did, after all?

That was why—it must have been why—when she arrived at his side, he reached out and clasped her hand in his, holding on firmly.

Her eyes flew to his, her expression evened out, and she nodded. Just once.

But it was enough. It felt…right.

He did not release her hand, not when the reverend pronounced them man and wife nor when a polite smattering of applause broke out across the church, just loud enough that it wasn't insulting.

He didn't release her hand, and she did not drop her gaze from his.

Not until it was time for them to leave together. And even then, when he offered her his arm, he held her a bit more closely to his side than was perhaps strictly necessary.

It felt necessary, however. This was his role, now, to provide her the support she needed.

They walked past the gathered guests, a few of whom eyed the newly wed pair a bit more speculatively than Benedict liked. He would remember their names, that was for sure. When they reached the foyer where he'd spoken to Lady Frances—had it truly been less than an hour before?—Emily let out a long breath that was almost a laugh. Tension leeched out of her shoulders.

"You did well," he said, the words springing, unbidden, to his lips.

He was immediately glad they had, however, for Emily gave him a smile, one that even hinted at the fire he knew lurked just beneath any proper veneer she placed upon herself. Good. He liked to see that, too.

"Thank you," she said politely. But he knew now that politeness was just a game—especially when it was aimed at him. The other side of her mouth quirked up, and she nodded at the door in front of them. "Shall we?"

Inside the main church, rustling indicated that the assembled guests were getting to their feet, gathering their things. He wanted to be gone before any of them—by which he of course meant his mother, who had sat in the front row looking sour throughout the ceremony—caught up with him and his new wife.

"Let's," he agreed. He pushed open the door with his free hand, leading them, blinking slightly, into the weak spring sunlight.

Benedict let out a breath of relief when he saw that the crowd had, per his snapped instructions, departed. Perhaps they'd taken him seriously, or perhaps once he'd arrived, they had considered the marriage a fait accopmli and left, seeking other entertainments. He didn't much care as long as they were gone, and Emily never saw them.

"Oi!"

Benedict stiffened at the cry. He considered for a wild moment simply tugging Emily along, using his grip on her arm to pull her away before anything more could be said.

But it was too late. She was already looking towards the sound, her brow furrowing in confusion.

It was the man who had spoken to Benedict earlier about his bet. He was now, unlike before, quite profoundly drunk.

"You!" he called, waving a flask in their direction. If it had any liquor left, Benedict would be astounded. "Y'owe me a guinea, mate."

"What's going on?" Emily asked him worriedly.

"It's nothing," he said. His carriage was only a few paces away. He tried to lead her in that direction, but her feet weren't moving.

The drunk man kept talking. "Shoulda been a sure thing, weren't it? But y'had t'go an' ruin it." His words were so slurred as to be nearly unintelligible—though unfortunately not unintelligible enough. The man leered at Emily up and down. "Though p'rhaps I can't blame ye, man. Papers di'n't say she were a looker, for all she's tall."

Benedict tugged more firmly on Emily's arm. Where was a fucking constable when you needed one?

"If I'd'a known she looked like that, maybe I'd'a wagered on ye marryin' ‘er after all," he hiccupped.

Benedict saw the moment Emily put it all together. Her eyes flashed wide, her mouth dropped open, and though she quickly shoved her reaction beneath her mask of propriety, he saw the hurt.

He felt it as if it were his own. Not five minutes married, and he'd already failed in his role as husband. If that hadn't ensured that the drunk man was going to receive Benedict's fist to his face, his next words would have done so.

"Whaddya say ye let me ‘ave a go a' ‘er, and we'll call it even for the guinea, eh?"

Emily gasped. Benedict lunged.

And, he allowed, even if his hand ended up being broken, it would be worth it just to see the lout collapse into a puddle in the street.