A Groom of One's Own

by Maya Rodale

“That’s my girl.” And then she was gone in a flurry of violet satin, and Clarissa felt a lump in her throat as she realized that might be the last time they saw each other. She was a hard woman, but she only wanted what was best, and she only wanted to be a success at the one thing life had asked of her.

  But she could not back out now. Too much depended on her today.

  Clarissa moved quickly to her desk and, from a secret drawer, recovered the stash of writing things that had escaped confiscation. She and Sophie had agreed upon the two things that it must say: she was leaving him, and he was to stay and wait for Sophie. After the first line, the ink ran dry.

  “Lady Clarissa, His Grace is ready for you now,” a maid said, interrupting.

  The hallway clock chimed loud and long. It was time to go.

  And then her gaze fell upon a bottle of the Tonic for the Cure of Unsuitable Affections. Her mother had included it on her dinner tray from the other night. The tonic was a strange shade of blue—to cool the overheated blood, the label said. Clarissa thought it might also do as ink. She quickly scrawled the second line, and then she quickly descended the stairs and climbed into the carriage that had been provided by the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, her soon-to-be former fiancé.

  24 Bloomsbury Place

  “Oh, blast,” Sophie muttered to herself. This could not be happening. Of all the things to lose, and of all the times to lose it!

  Her voucher was missing. Her ticket to the wedding was gone. The ceremony was due to start in thirty minutes. It took twenty-five minutes to travel from her home to St. George’s. She would never be admitted to the church without it!

  Was this a sign?

  Since when had she become superstitious?

  It wasn’t on her desk. It wasn’t in any of her desk drawers, either—but she found her silver bracelet that she had misplaced last month. The voucher was not on her bedside table, or inside the wardrobe. Nor was it on the bed, with its rumpled bedsheets and pillows bearing the imprint of two heads.

  Brandon. Last night. Heat suffused her cheeks, her limbs, everywhere, as she indulged in a fleeting recollection of their lovemaking. To be so intimate with him was beyond anything she’d ever dreamed of. She was sorry to wake up alone, but it was for the best. Hopefully, he would be at the church, as she asked him to do, because she needed to ensure that the passionate lovemaking of last night happened again and again, and thus, she needed that damned voucher.

  “Oh, blast” was not sufficient language for a moment like this. “Oh, bloody hell and damnation!” she cried.

  The wedding was due to start in twenty-eight minutes. There was no way that she’d be admitted without that damned voucher. Which meant that Brandon would be left at the altar. She could not allow that to happen.

  “Julianna!” she hollered.

  “What is it?” her friend answered, coming into Sophie’s room. “Oh, lovely dress! Where did you get it?”

  “I can’t find my voucher for the wedding,” Sophie said, now utterly panicked.

  “It looks very expensive,” Julianna said, still marveling at the dress. It really was lovely and spectacular and flattered her perfectly. Presently, that was irrelevant.

  “Voucher, Julianna,” Sophie said. “Urgent. Problem.”

  “Have you looked for it? Oh, yes, I see that you have,” Julianna murmured, surveying the damage. Drawers were upturned, and the wardrobe doors were flung open, and there was a pile of random things upon the carpet.

  “What do I do?” Sophie cried.

  “Where was the last place you saw it?” Julianna asked calmly. They’d gone through this routine together a thousand times before.

  “I don’t know! If I knew I’d look there, and it wouldn’t be lost and—” Sophie couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with heat and thus, massively uncomfortable. And panicked. Had she mentioned panicked? Her future happiness was at stake!

  “Calm down,” Julianna said calmly. “A hysterical fit will not help.”

  “Can I have yours?” Sophie asked.

  “You are desperate to go to this wedding,” Julianna remarked.

  “Yes. Please.”

  “You are desperate and pleading to attend the wedding of the man you love to another woman,” her friend said slowly. It was not making sense to Julianna, and that was understandable. It wouldn’t make sense to anyone, unless they knew the truth.

  “It might be my wedding.”

  “The dress . . .”

  “I have a plan.”

  “Does Brandon know about your plan?” Julianna asked.

  “No. I didn’t get a chance to explain it to him.” She had been too busy kissing him, and loving him, and offering herself completely to him. Talking hadn’t really happened.

  “What about Clarissa? And what about Lord Brandon’s wishes?” Julianna challenged.

  It dawned on Sophie at this moment how far apart they’d grown. Because Clarissa was in on the plan, and Sophie was very sure of Brandon’s wishes. She hadn’t told her best friend any of it, really, because she had been met with such censure every time. And now, she needed a favor and there was no time to explain.

  “Please, Julianna?”

  St. George’s, Hanover Square

  At the Altar . . .

  It was a queer feeling standing here, at the altar, looking out at all the guests. His wedding guests. Brandon hadn’t given much thought to this moment. In fact, he had avoided thinking about it entirely. Now it was here, he was here, and . . .

  His heart ached for Sophie.

  She was his now, and he would not surrender her. Or himself. So it was strange that he was standing here, at the altar of St. George’s at his wedding to another woman.

  What he wouldn’t give to see Sophie at the far end of the aisle, walking toward him with a smile on her face. It would be a nervous smile, he knew that. And he would smile at her in encouragement, as if to tell her that all was fine, everything would be well, that they would live happily ever after.

  But not today.

  His stomach ached, too. Nerves. Regret. Very well—he could admit it—terror. Sophie had asked him to be here—by what madness he knew not. A gentleman always obeys the wishes of a lady, even if it destroys him to do so.

  St. George’s, Hanover Square

  The Carriage, Just Outside

  The carriage carrying Clarissa and Lord Richmond pulled up in front of St. George’s. Throngs of people had gathered to see the arrival of the wedding party, the guests, and most of all her, Clarissa, the bride.

  This was the moment where Clarissa chose her fate. This was her very last chance. Once she exited the carriage there would be no returning to it until after the wedding . . . to Brandon.

  Duty or true love? Respectability or scandal? The duke or the prince?

  “Father, before I come in, I need you to give this note directly to Lord Brandon.”

  “Eh?”

  “Oh, please, Father.”

  And then she feared that he would insist she come in with him. But he merely looked at her oddly for a moment and acquiesced. Maybe it was because he had begged her to marry this man, and he thought she would, and he felt indebted to her. Or maybe he couldn’t resist the pleas of a girl he believed to be his natural daughter, and his child.

  He pocketed the note and exited the carriage.

  And if only for him, she hoped that Frederick would marry her and provide for her parents. She hoped that no one ever discovered her secret.

  Her father walked toward the church. And then the carriage of a most distinguished guest arrived, pulled by six gorgeous, gleaming, and matching carriage horses.

  “Oh, no,” Clarissa muttered.

  Her father stopped to engage the driver in conversation about the blasted horses. Minutes passed. Her anxiet
y was approaching a fever pitch when she saw Nancy coming out, most likely to assist Clarissa out of the carriage.

  And then her father concluded his conversation and disappeared into the church. Before the maid could get any closer, Clarissa banged on the roof of the carriage.

  “To the docks!” she called out.

  The driver, in the employ of the duchess of Hamilton and Brandon, followed Clarissa’s directions as he had been instructed to do.

  St. George’s, Hanover Square

  At the Altar . . .

  There was a delay. Brandon hated delays. He especially hated delays when he was standing in front of two hundred people who were starting to wonder. And whisper.

  Brandon held a particular loathing for this one. If he knew what he was waiting for, perhaps he’d be better able to endure it. But he did not, and people were staring, and there was nothing he could do but wait and have faith that all would go according to plan.

  Exactly whose plan, he knew not. He certainly had one of his own, and had doubts as to its success.

  “Where is she?” Brandon’s best man muttered.

  “I don’t know,” he replied to von Vennigan’s question.

  “She should be here by now,” von Vennigan said quietly, through clenched teeth.

  “She’ll be here,” Brandon said with a confidence that he feigned. Clarissa was the most dutiful creature in the world. Their plan—hatched late last night (or was it early this morning?)—absolutely depended upon Clarissa walking down the aisle.

  At the very last possible moment, Brandon and von Vennigan would switch places. Clarissa would get her wedding to the man she loved.

  And Brandon would find Sophie, and marry her.

  He didn’t see Sophie in the crowd, so he kept looking. She didn’t know about this plan, and he did not even know if she would be in attendance this morning. All he knew is that the brides were not where he required them to be. He frowned, and set off a flurry of whispers.

  St. George’s, Hanover Square

  Outside, in the Crush

  Sophie arrived in a hired hack, alone. It was not how one traditionally planned to arrive at one’s own wedding. In her gloved hands, she clutched the prized voucher that Julianna had relinquished to her.

  She had taken the time to explain, and her heart had clenched at the sadness she saw in Julianna’s eyes, because she had been the last to know about all of this and she should have been the first. Sophie, then, understood that her disapproval of the Brandon affair was not simply due to moral objections but because she was afraid of losing her friend.

  Things would change; it was inevitable. They had survived so much together: Julianna’s marriage and then widowhood; Sophie and Matthew and all of that; living together in London, taking the town and the newspaper world by storm; being christened the Writing Girls and, until Annabelle and Eliza joined, having only each other.

  Sophie hoped that Brandon was waiting for her at the altar, but she also prayed that her friendship would survive with an equal fervency. And with that, she paid the hackney driver, quit the carriage, walked through the crowds, and stepped into the church.

  She’d been here hundreds of times before, for hundreds of other weddings. Now, she was here for her own. It being a wedding of hers, it was not complete without some unexpected, unnecessary, and most unwelcome drama.

  St. George’s, Hanover Square

  Interior

  Lord Roxbury did not attend the wedding with either Lady Derby or Lady Belmont, thanks to an item in The London Weekly’s gossip column “Fashionable Intelligence.” Its author, A Lady of Distinction, had betrayed his secret—that he was simultaneously carrying on affairs with both ladies. Neither of them was pleased.

  As they were entering the church, coincidentally at the same time, Lady Derby took the opportunity to step upon the other lady’s hem, resulting in a tear. Lady Belmont responded by stopping suddenly, and swiftly jabbing her elbow backward into the abdomen of Lady Derby, who had not foreseen this maneuver.

  It descended into an incredibly rare occurrence: a female bout of fisticuffs.

  These sworn enemies battled each other, until the man that divided them arrived, giving them cause to unite against a common foe.

  They expressed their great displeasure upon his person as he stepped into the aisle of the church.

  This petite brawl had some unintended and unsuspected consequences: it temporarily prevented His Grace, the Duke of Richmond, from walking down the aisle to hand a very important missive to the groom. And thus, it allowed Clarissa’s carriage to unsuspectingly make great headway toward the docks.

  St. George’s, Hanover Square

  At the Altar . . .

  “What’s the old man doing?” von Vennigan asked, after the two brawling ladies and unfortunate gentleman had been escorted out. Brandon had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who the actors were in that drama.

  “It appears that he is walking up the aisle to us,” Brandon replied, stating the obvious.

  “Good morning, Lord Brandon. Your Highness,” the Duke of Richmond said. “Lovely day for a wedding, eh?”

  Brandon and von Vennigan muttered their agreement.

  “Quite shocking to see those two lasses fighting as such. Jostling for the position of broodmare, it seems,” the duke said with a knowing wink. It was doubtful that either lady wished to breed, but his point was taken. “Well, I have a little message for you from the bride. She’s just outside in the carriage,” Richmond said, handing over a small, folded sheet of paper.

  “Thank you.” Brandon opened the paper. Behind him, he heard his best man exhale with relief.

  He read it once. He read it twice. It couldn’t possibly say what he thought it did.

  “Scheisse!” von Vennigan swore under his breath, having rudely but understandably, read the note over Brandon’s shoulder.

  He read it again.

  I’m sorry, Lord Brandon, but I cannot marry you when I love another.

  Each word was lighter than the last, suggesting she had run out of ink. There was a second line, but it had faded so that it was illegible. He hoped it wasn’t important.

  But one thing was clear: He was a free man.

  Brandon lifted his gaze from the paper to the crowds. Two hundred very curious expressions peered back at him.

  “But where is she?” von Vennigan demanded.

  Brandon shrugged and stepped away from the altar. Von Vennigan shoved him aside and sprinted down the aisle.

  The sound of a woman wailing silenced the crowd and echoed throughout the church. It was a sound so gut-wrenching and ghastly that one had to stop and look.

  It was Lady Richmond, staring him down murderously and stalking toward him. Her intentions were clear: she meant to stop him.

  And then Charlotte, who had been standing next to Lady Richmond, began to sway. She wavered on her feet. A moan escaped her lips. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her hand went to her forehead. Brandon saw her lips move but could not hear what she said. He’d wager it was something along the lines of “I feel faint” because at the perfect moment, Charlotte fainted into the arms of Lady Richmond.

  Catching her was instinct. Immediately, however, Lady Richmond tried to pass her off to someone else. Had the best of the ton not been present, she surely would have dropped her.

  Penelope and Amelia were there and refused to take the unconscious body of their younger sister.

  Brandon took this opportunity to flee, but unfortunately, was not able to travel far, for his path was blocked by a gaggle of females—four, he counted—that he could not recall becoming acquainted with. His heart sank as he realized that they were most likely dear, dear friends of Lady Richmond.

  “Excuse me, ladies.” He raised himself up to his full height and looked down upon them in all senses o
f the term. They were not impressed, though one of them did bat her eyelashes and fan herself with a little more speed. On the whole, they stood their ground and blocked his passage to Sophie, to true love, to happily-ever-after.

  It seemed that Lady Richmond did, in fact, have some dear, dear friends in truth. He looked behind him, at her, and saw that she was smirking while still holding a faint, but similarly smirking, Charlotte.

  Brandon sighed. He could push through, and knock over a peeress or two. He could bully his way through one of the pews, but would likely be severely slowed, if not stopped, by all the guests. Or he could take another path.

  He grinned. And then, he turned and ran.

  St. George’s, Hanover Square

  In the Vestibule

  First, there had been the commotion with Lord Roxbury and his women. And then, Sophie had glanced into the church to see the duke giving the note to Brandon (he was here!) and von Vennigan (he was not supposed to be here!).

  The plan had gone awry. Curses!

  She heard that awful wail, and knew it was Lady Richmond. She saw von Vennigan racing toward her. He skidded on the stone floor, stopping inches from her person.

  “Where is Clarissa” he panted.

  “Off to meet you at the docks!” she exclaimed, and he dashed off.

  “Sophie!” she turned at the sound of a familiar voice to see Julianna.

  “I found your voucher,” she explained. “It was under the . . . oh, never mind. Have I missed it?”

  “No. It’s a catastrophic commotion, again!” Sophie said, her voice wavering. Though she hadn’t much time to imagine this, she certainly had not anticipated this devolving so quickly into chaos.

  Julianna understood, and took Sophie’s hand in hers. She’d stood by her during one disastrous wedding and would do so for another, and that meant the world to her.

  “Why are you standing in the vestibule?” Julianna asked.

  Because she was terrified to go in there alone. She couldn’t even say it aloud.

  Sophie peeked into the church again. She saw an uproar, and Brandon running away. He was supposed to stay put—Clarissa was to include those instructions in her note, which they had decided should say: “I’m sorry, Lord Brandon, but I cannot marry you when I love another. Wait here for the woman you love.”