"Good, good." Mr. Alsworthy patted her absently on the shoulder. "A splendid illustration of the human comedy, isn't it, my little Letty?"
"More farce than comedy," said Letty, taking refuge in another sip of champagne. Any drama of seduction and discovery that featured her in a leading role had to be farce. All that was needed was a jealous older husband and a comic serving wench hiding in a wardrobe.
"We have all the seven sins displayed before us in fine array," Mr. Alsworthy continued cheerfully, as though Letty hadn't spoken. He waved a hand at the groups of chattering people, the dripping champagne, and the young fop who had collapsed in a corner of the room and was being discreetly hauled by his feet through the double doors by a pair of liveried footmen. "Gluttony, sloth, vainglory, even a spot of lust."
"I think you missed a few," said Letty. "That was only four."
"I did miss out envy, didn't I? Your mother is quite outdone. I saw at least three ensembles sillier than hers in the music room alone." Mr. Alsworthy rubbed his thin hands together in contemplation of it.
As always, Letty marveled at her father's ability to be so easily diverted. Why couldn't she do that? Her predicament would be far easier if she could step back and view the chattering wedding guests from the lofty height of condescension, scorning their petty gossip and pitying their small-mindedness.
Of course, her father wasn't the one being invited by elderly rouйs to participate in the reproduction of salacious French prints.
"I would find it all more amusing if I weren't the object of it," said Letty bluntly.
Mr. Alsworthy patted her reassuringly on the arm. "Buck up, my girl. There will be a new scandal next week, and you will be all but forgotten."
"But I will still be married," pointed out Letty, lifting her glass again to her lips. The bubbles didn't hurt quite so much, and the sour liquid was beginning to spread a comforting warmth from her cheekbones straight back to her ears.
"Alas, so go we all eventually. It is an unenviable but inevitable part of the human condition." Mr. Alsworthy's eyes lit upon a portly gentleman who was dipping his cup directly into the punch. "Ah, that's where Marchmain got to! His recent letter in the Thinking Man's Monthly on the implications of that man Smith's theories was entirely misguided."
"Was it?" muttered Letty.
She should have known better than to seek reassurance from her father. After all, this was the man whose idea of comforting a child afraid of the dark was to explain Plato's allegory of shadows on the wall of the cave. As a strategy, it had worked better than one might have expected. The story had put her straight to sleep, mooting the entire question of monsters in the closet.
Unfortunately, she didn't think a misconceived marriage could be similarly bored away with an explanation of the wealth of nations, not unless she slept for a very long time, indeed.
Some of the strain in Letty's tone must have penetrated her father's philosophical fervor. Mr. Alsworthy paused a moment in his pursuit of greater truths to comfort his daughter in her time of need.
"In navigating the shoals of matrimony, my best advice to you, my dear," he said briskly, "is to invest in a subscription to the circulating library and a stout pair of earplugs."
"Your very best advice is earplugs?"
"Yes, earplugs. I favor wax, although a bit of wadded cloth will do, as well." His duty discharged, Mr. Alsworthy beamed at his daughter, set his spectacles more firmly on the bridge of his nose, and said, "Pardon me, my dear. I'm off to set Marchmain straight. The man doesn't know the first thing about the principles of political economy."
With a gleam in his eye not unknown to Roman Caesars and the more bloodthirsty sort of pugilist, Mr. Alsworthy set off for the punchbowl and his prey, leaving his daughter prey to another sort of emotion entirely.
Earplugs. Letty shook her head, a crooked little smile curving her frozen lips. She didn't think they would do very much good in her situation.
Taking a fresh glass from a footman's tray, Letty scanned the crowd for her errant husband. He was standing with one arm braced against the plinth of a statue of Daphne, deep in conversation with Miles Dorrington and his wife, Lady Henrietta. As Letty looked on, he arched an eyebrow and said something to Lady Henrietta that caused her to swat him with her fan, and Dorrington to fold his arms across his chest in a gesture of mock menace. Lord Pinchingdale's lips curved fondly, and he shook his head at Lady Henrietta's retaliatory rejoinder. Watching them, Letty wanted, painfully, to be part of that charmed circle of easy camaraderie. She wanted Lord Pinchingdale to bend his head attentively toward her, as he was toward Lady Henrietta, to lift a dark eyebrow at her, with a hint of a smile lurking about his lips to take the sting from the gesture.
Letty looked dubiously down into the trickle of liquid left in her glass. Goodness, the stuff must be stronger than she had realized, to make her go all mawkish over her husband's inattention.
Husband. How absurd that a flimsy web of words, hastily gabbled by a sleepy cleric, could transform a stranger into the closest sort of relation. Wasn't there supposed to be something more to it? Affection, understanding…Letty sighed, wrapping her gloved hands around the coolness of a fresh glass of champagne, wishing she could press it against her burning cheeks instead. At this point, she would have abandoned any hopes of undying devotion and settled for a simple, "Hello, how are you?" Even a friendly smile would do.
She didn't even know if he expected there to be a wedding night. A proper wedding night, that was, involving one bed and two bodies. One wasn't raised in the country without a fairly good notion of what that entailed.
Letty firmly squelched the memory of the interior of a dark carriage, of gloved hands in her hair and warm breath against her lips and a strong arm across her back, pressing her to him as though she could never possibly be close enough. Those moments hadn't been hers. They had been borrowed from Mary under false pretenses.
But that didn't mean they couldn't come to some sort of amiable understanding, did it? Now that they were bound till death did them part, under pain of thunderbolts, the only sensible thing was to accept what couldn't be changed and make the best of it. From what Letty had seen back in Hertfordshire, one didn't need grand passion and undying devotion to make a marriage, just a certain amount of goodwill and forbearance. And earplugs. Perhaps her father was more sagacious than she had given him credit for.
She would just walk up, pause next to them, and say, "Good evening, my lord." Just a simple little Good evening, my lord. How difficult could it be?
"Good evening, my lord," Letty muttered under her breath, taking a tentative step forward. She worked at arranging her stiff lips into a suitable sort of smile. Curve the lips, bend the head slightly, try not to break the stem of the champagne glass. "Good evening, my lord."
Still yards away, Lord Pinchingdale turned his head to say something to Lady Henrietta. His eyes caught on Letty's. The genial smile froze on his face. His spine straightened and his shoulders stiffened, leaving a cold stranger in the place of the smiling man who had stood there a moment before. There was more warmth in the marble statue behind him. Letty felt an answering chill settle across her own face, and she hastily looked away, her greeting turned to ashes on her tongue. Turning her back defiantly on the little grouping in the alcove, she pretended to be fascinated by the scrapings of the musicians on their plinth on the far side of the room.
"Poor girl," said Lady Henrietta Dorrington, a small furrow forming between her hazel eyes as she watched the transparent pantomime. "How dreadful for her this all is."