The marriage was to have taken place six months ago, but the death of Alex’s brother and heir to the duchy had made it necessary to move it forward so a year of mourning could be observed.
Lung fever had taken Alex’s brother Charles in a matter of weeks. But now things appeared to be better. Alex was slowly healing from the loss with Charlotte’s unwavering love and support. If any two people deserved happiness, those two certainly did.
Elizabeth and Derek’s own wedding had been held at St. George’s and was well attended by ton’s standards. No blood had been spilled when his brother and her sister saw each other for the first time in over six years. And he and her parents had buried the past upon Derek’s apology.
Elizabeth could happily say, it had been one of the most memorable and wonderful days in her life. And in six months, they would welcome the birth of their own child.
“If they are even half as happy as we are, they will be truly blessed.” She leaned down and placed a feather of a kiss on his lips, pulling back when he tried to take it deeper, hunger evident in his eyes.
He smiled, chagrined and then oh so tenderly ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “I count my blessings every day.”
Prologue
London, 1859
A hushed silence greeted Alex Cartwright’s arrival into an antechamber in St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Attired in navy frock coats, precisely knotted neckties, and light blue trousers, the Viscount Armstrong and Rutherford, the Earl of Windmere, were certainly suited up well enough for the occasion. At least in dress if not demeanor, for their faces held the grayish cast of men bound for the gallows. And Rutherford’s hair appeared as if it had been plowed more times than a seasoned whore.
Pausing just inside the threshold, Alex let out a dry laugh. “Come now gentlemen, it can’t be as bad as that,” he teased. “The occasion does not call for black dress or armbands. This isn’t a funeral you’re attending, but my wedding.”
Such a comment would have customarily elicited a wry smile, at the very least. Neither man blinked, and another silence the weight of a ship’s anchor descended upon the room, blanketing him in air as cold as London’s fog was thick.
Determined that whatever their affliction, it would not spoil the most important day thus far in his twenty-eight years, Alex quelled the sense of unease beginning to unfurl in his gut.
Under a domed celestial frieze of cherubs and angels, Alex advanced toward the pair standing motionless in front of a large marble-topped table, his footfall muffled by the carpeted floor. He would have welcomed more noise, some sort of distraction from the somberness surrounding him, be it in human form or décor.
Located in the south transept of the church, the chamber boasted dark burgundy drapes of some thick, expensive fabric, and surrounding the black marble fireplace were three chairs crafted with enough gild, scrollwork, and velvet to satisfy royalty. But then, with the sudden death of his brother—the much beloved son and heir to the Hastings dukedom—wasn’t Alex now regarded as such? Despite his mother’s vehement opposition to the marriage, when Alex had made it clear he’d marry Charlotte with or without her approval, she thrown her considerable ducal weight into ensuring his wedding would be the most celebrated event in Society for at least the next decade to come.
Halting in front of his friends, he quirked a brow. “Surely you’re not commiserating over my nuptials?” Alex found light sarcasm served as a wonderful vehicle to lift a dour mood. “I would think not, as you both have walked—” He executed a mock bow. “I stand corrected gentlemen—vanquished this course years ago.”
And most assuredly they had, both men happily married with nary a complaint regarding the oft-bemoaned rigors of the institution. Indeed, each had been passionate in its recommendation.
Armstrong shot Rutherford a look, one Alex instantly recognized. He’d seen it often enough over the course of an acquaintance numbering twenty-six years. In that instant, he knew something was terribly, perhaps tragically, wrong.
Panic bloomed and anxiety burned like acid in his throat. Alex’s gaze flew to Rutherford. “It’s Charlotte isn’t it? Something has happened to Charlotte.”
The earl averted his gaze.
In an abrupt move that brought the two men practically nose to nose, Alex grabbed Rutherford forcibly by the arms. Even if his friend’s delay had been infinitesimal, it measured what felt like an eternity too long.
Holding the other man in a vise grip, Alex gave him a teeth-jarring shake. “Tell me damn it. What’s happened to Charlotte? Is she hurt? Where is she?”
Bending his imprisoned arm at the elbow, Rutherford offered up an envelope. “She sent this for you,” he said hoarsely.
Dropping his hands to his sides, Alex took a cautious step back. At first, he could only stare at the innocuous rectangular paper, uncomprehending, a little dazed. Slowly, the fog released its hold on his senses.
His gaze darted to the sheaf of paper crushed in Rutherford’s other hand. He then recalled the footman hurrying down the hall. In that instant, he knew the man he’d passed with so little regard, so consumed with his own happiness, had been the bearer of the news that had sent his friends into this morbid melancholy. News that would assuredly send him someplace far worse.
Charlotte wasn’t hurt. The evidence stood before him in the form of her brother. Had she been injured or taken ill, a stable full of horses wouldn’t have been able to drag Rutherford from her side. But too swiftly on the heels of staggering relief nipped a growing fear. For penned in her signature slopes and curls was his name emblazoned across the front of the envelope. A letter from her on the day of their wedding could signify only one thing.
“She’s not coming is she?” His cravat—silk mulberry that his valet had fussed into an elaborate knot—felt as if it had a stranglehold on his words.
“Cartwright—”
Alex’s head jerked violently in the direction of his friend, the set of his countenance effectively cutting Armstrong off at the utterance of his name.
With a hefty sigh, Armstrong ran his hand through his thatch of golden hair, regarding him with eyes filled with the kind of compassion no man should have to countenance on his wedding day. Sympathy was bad enough, but pity, intolerable.
Directing his attention back to Rutherford, Alex stared at the envelope unclaimed in his friend’s hand knowing its contents promised to deliver him the felling blow.
“What does she say?” he asked, his voice a hollow imitation of his former self.
“I didn’t read it,” Rutherford muttered gruffly, extending his arm so the tan paper touched the bare flesh exposed at Alex’s wrist.
Alex jerked back at the contact and retreated several steps, surveying it with abhorrence, like something truly reprehensible.
“What did she tell you?” he asked quietly, dragging his gaze up to Rutherford’s.
Six months ago when his friend had paced the halls outside his wife’s bedchamber awaiting the birth of their third child, he’d worn the same expression he did at present, a helpless sort of fright.
“What does she say!” Alex’s voice exploded like a cannon blast in graveyard silence. “Isn’t it in the letter she sent to you?”
Isn’t it in the letter she sent to you? The echo transcended the room to storm the corridors of the prestigious church.
Rutherford appeared to have to rally his courage, swallowing, and then drawing in a ragged breath before he said, “The footman brought the letters only moments before your arrival. I was coming—”
“God dammit man, quit all your blasted blathering. Just tell me what she wrote!”