"Of course they'll notice, Theo," Clarissa stated. "You can't walk up the aisle with half your skirt above your ankles and the other half dragging on the ground."
"Don't exaggerate, Clarry."
"Now hold still, do, Lady Theo…"
"Your mother says you're being tiresome, my love." Sylvester lounged against the doorjamb, regarding the scene with an amused eye. Theo, her eyes mutinous, her mouth set, stood on a low stool, billowing white gauze clouding around her. A woman knelt in front of her, her fingers darting through the material like silverfish as she pinned and tucked.
"You're not supposed to see the wedding dress before the wedding, my lord," Clarissa squeaked in horror, holding a pincushion from which she was supplying the seamstress.
"Oh, I think we can forgo convention," Sylvester said, stepping into the room.
"This is just stupid," Theo announced. "I have a dozen perfectly good gowns that I could have worn. It's hardly some grand-Society occasion."
It was true that it was going to be a very small family ceremony in deference to the recent death of Theo's grandfather, but Lady Belmont was insisting that some traditions had to be observed.
His lordship came over to the stool, taking his bride-to-be around her slender waist. "Now, stand still. The more cooperative you are, the sooner it will be over."
His hands spanned her waist, and he felt the tension surge through her at his touch. She quivered like a fawn about to take flight before the hunter. Standing on the stool, her eyes were almost on a level with his, and the deep pansy-blue darkened almost to black, the mutinous glare fading.
His lips curved in a comprehending smile, and he tightened his grip on her waist. A smile trembled on her own mouth.
"That's better," he said. "Most young women take an interest in their wedding preparations… instead of fighting them at every turn."
"Most young women don't have as much to do," she responded a shade tartly, although she continued to keep still under his hands. "The farrier is due at the home farm this afternoon, and I have a bone to pick with him over his last account. He billed us for shoeing both shire horses, but Big Jack had a sprained tendon and has been out at grass for two months."
Sylvester frowned and the warm light died in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me about this? I am quite capable of conducting such business with the farrier."
"Oh, I can't remember to tell you every last detail," she said. "It's a relatively trivial matter… and anyway, you haven't met the farrier yet."
"And I assume you were going to rectify that this afternoon?" His eyebrows lifted in an ironic question mark.
Theo's flush was answer enough. "You're not yet familiar with the ledgers," she said stiffly.
"That is no excuse. Stand still," he snapped as she moved to jump off the stool despite his hold. He took a step closer to her, and his riding boot crushed a white lace flounce. The seamstress gave a little cry of distress, and he glanced down impatiently. With exaggerated caution he moved his boot, glaring at Theo.
Clarissa flinched unconsciously, her eyes fixed on the earl's large hands at her sister's waist. He seemed to fill the sewing room with his anger and his physical presence. She cleared her throat and said awkwardly, "I'm sure it just slipped Theo's mind, sir. But you'll be able to accompany her and meet Mr. Row this afternoon."
"I fully intend to meet Mr. Row this afternoon," the earl stated. "And I shall dispense with an introduction. My absentminded cousin will be far too busy making wedding preparations with her mother to perform it."
Clarissa could think of no more oil to pour on these troubled waters. The seamstress, apparently oblivious of the stinging atmosphere, knelt back with a sigh of satisfaction.
"There, Lady Theo. That's all pinned. If you'd like to slip out of the gown now, I'll have the stitching done in a trice."
The earl released Theo's waist. "I'll tell you the results of my discussion with the farrier later this afternoon, cousin." He turned to the door.
"No, wait!" Theo jumped off the stool, tripping over the yards of train in her haste. She seized his arm. "He's such a tricky son of a bitch that -"
"What did you say?" The earl interrupted this impassioned beginning in genuine shock.
"I don't know. What did I say?" She looked startled.
With astonishment he realized his blunt and unconventional fiancee genuinely didn't know what he was objecting to. " 'Son of a bitch,' my dear girl, is not appropriate language for the granddaughter of the Earl of Stoneridge, let alone for his wife."
Theo dismissed this objection with an impatient gesture. "Yes, but you don't understand. You're a newcomer and Johnny will think he can fool you. You don't know what a tricky bastard -"
"Theo!"
"Your pardon, sir." She tried to look contrite, but her eyes were now alight with mischief. "It keeps slipping out."
There was something wonderfully absurd about the contrast between the impish grin on Theo's brown face, the energy coursing through the slender frame, and the demure white lace and flounces of a gown that looked as if it had found its way onto the wrong back.
Sylvester tried and failed to look stern. "Try to put a curb on your tongue in future."
Theo merely shrugged and said, "Just give me a minute, and I'll be ready to come with you." Immediately, she began to pull her wedding dress over her head.
"Theo!" Clarissa squawked, staring at the earl, who still stood in the room. The seamstress, whose priorities were very straightforward, ignored the earl's presence and rushed to help before Theo's rough treatment tore the flimsy silk.
Sylvester chuckled. It was so typical of Theo. "I'll give you five minutes to join me in the stables," he said through his laughter, striding out of the sewing room before Clarissa's sense of the proprieties could be further outraged.
"Damnation!" Theo muttered through the yards of filmy gauze train as it was edged over her head. "Be quick, Biddy."
At last she was free of the confining material. She scrambled back into her riding habit, grabbed her whip, hat, and gloves from the table, and ran from the room.
"Always in a hurry, Lady Theo is," the seamstress observed comfortably, gathering up the gown and carrying it to the long sewing table.
Sylvester had his fob watch in his hand as Theo reached the stables, panting, cramming her hat on her head. Dulcie had been saddled and stood placidly beside the earl's black. The massive gelding was shifting on the cobbles, tossing his head and snorting. It was unusual behavior for the well-behaved Zeus, she thought, before her eye was caught by something much more important.
"Seven minutes," Sylvester observed. "Not too bad, considering."
Theo ignored this. She was staring at the sidesaddle on Dulcie's back. "What's that?" she demanded. "Where's my proper saddle?"
"Ah," Sylvester said. "Cousin, it's time you started riding like a lady. The Countess of Stoneridge can't go racketing around the countryside like an itinerant gypsy."
Theo glanced around the stableyard. Two grooms were busy soaping saddles in the shade of an oak tree. "You have no right to make such a decision for me," she said in a fierce undertone.
"If you won't make it for yourself, Theo, then I do have the right," he said as softly. "In two days you'll be my wife, and it doesn't suit my pride to wed a hoydenish romp."
" Your pride!" she exclaimed in a whisper. "If it didn't trouble my grandfather, and it doesn't bother my mother, what the hell right have you to complain? I don't give a fig for your pride." Even as she said it, she knew it was a silly challenge, and it was one that Sylvester ignored.