He grimaced. “It’s my fault.”
No. She couldn’t have him blaming himself. “I wanted to help you with your duties.” Her shoulders straightened. This was part of being the future marchioness. Learning to be in the spotlight, when necessary, and be comfortable delegating to other more capable hands. Like his mother’s. Even if that meant her wedding had turned into a social affair that the gossip columns couldn’t stop discussing.
“We can tell her that she has to cut the list,” Max said.
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Please allow me to attend that conversation.”
But Marigold shook her head. “It’s all right. Max is correct. I can do this. But…” An idea sprang into her thoughts, wonderful and warm. “I do have a bit of an idea.”
“What?” Both Max and Sarah leaned closer.
“We’re going to have our own ceremony. Just us, and our dearest friends and family. Before society’s gala event.”
Sarah drew in a breath. “Oh, it’s a lovely idea. Is it even legal?”
But Max returned her warm grin. “It doesn’t have to be legal, just symbolic. It’s for us, after all. A private declaration of our feelings, the way we intended for it to be.”
Sarah clapped her hands, just as the soon-to-be dowager marchioness entered the room that was rapidly filling with wooden boxes.
“I agree,” the marchioness looked up at her daughter. “All of these preparations are terribly exciting”
“It was supposed to be small, Mother,” Max rumbled.
“It’s just a few close friends,” the marchioness called back, waving her hand with a breezy smile. “You’ll be pleased when it’s all done.”
“Are you going to tell her about the other ceremony?” Sarah whispered.
Max gave a stiff jerk of his head to the negative. “Not until the absolute last moment. We don’t want her interfering in that one, too.”
Sarah covered her mouth with her hand to hold back the giggle.
“Sarah, dear,” the marchioness called. “Did you see what I managed to obtain?”
Sarah rolled her eyes and gave Marigold a wink. Marigold smiled at her future sister-in-law. She couldn’t imagine loving Sarah more than she did.
“No Mother. I missed it in all the freight.” Sarah waved her hands at the large volume of boxes.
“Do you remember that champagne you loved so dearly that we could only get from Mr. Stallworth?”
Sarah’s hands dropped. “Mr. Stallworth?”
“Yes. he’s finally back from his trip to Asia and he stopped in France before docking in London. He was able to personally deliver several crates of champagne. Isn’t that wonderful news?”
“He’s here?” Sarah croaked, her face going very pale.
Marigold crinkled her eyes, studying her sister-in-law. What was going on?
“What’s that, dear?” The marchioness called, not looking up. She was inspecting several boxes.
“Mr. Stallworth is here? Now?” Sarah’s voice held a barely disguised tremble and Marigold reached out a hand, laying it on the other woman’s arm.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Sarah gave a quick jerk of her chin. “Fine.”
“Yes, he’s down in the kitchen settling the account now.” The marchioness waved her hand.
“Sarah?” Marigold asked as Sarah stumbled back a half step.
“I’ll explain later,” Sarah whispered and then whirled about, nearly sprinting down the steps.
“What was that?” Marigold asked, turning to Max.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure. But…” He turned his face from his sister, his eyes resting on Marigold again. “We’ve got a second wedding to plan, don’t we?”
She shook her head. “No plans. My friends arrive this afternoon. We’ll hold it tonight. Can you ask the vicar if we may use the chapel? He doesn’t even have to attend. I just want it to be a simple ribbon ceremony.”
“With vows?” Max asked, a brow lifting.
“Just a line or two?” she asked, reaching for his hands. “No pressure.”
He chuckled. “With what my mother is putting you through, I think you deserve a few lines, my love.”
With his mother completely occupied, Marigold leaned up on tiptoe and placed a soft kiss on his lips. “Thank you for this.”
He lightly stroked her cheek, his eyes soft as his gaze melted into hers. “I should be thanking you for consenting to be my wife.”
They kissed again but split apart when more voices filled the hall. Looking down, Marigold’s face split into a wide smile. Her friends had arrived.
“Daisy, Lily,” she called, waving her hand. “I have the most wonderful news.”
Six hours later, Max and Marigold stood at the front of the church as candlelight cast the room in a soft glow.
In the front pews their closest friends and family stood watching the couple.
In the end, they’d asked Max’s old school chum, the Earl of Everly to perform the Handfasting ceremony. It would be a joining of their hearts and Marigold glowed with happiness as she looked into Max’s eyes.
The real marriage was all well and good but this tiny ceremony would be the one that they looked back on with love and joy forever.
Gently Everly placed three ribbons over their joined hands.
The ribbons were braided together, white for purity, red for passion, and blue for fidelity.
“Maxwell,” she breathed, squeezing his hands tighter. “You are the foundation for which I wish to build my life and myself. I am born again because of you. I can’t wait to start our life together.”
Max gave her a soft smile. “In my mind, we’ve already begun. You are the half I’ve been missing for so long. You fill in my gaps, lessen my worries, complete my life. I’ve loved you since the very first moment I met you and I shall love you forever.”
A mist formed in the corners of her eyes as he leaned down and softly kissed her in front of their guests.
Everly placed his hands over the couples. “If we were in Scotland, this would be all the ceremony you’d need to be officially wed.”
“Thank the Lord we’re not,” the marchioness mumbled but she had a warm smile on her face.
Everly quirked a brow. “But still, I’d like to add that with this ribbon tying, you are bound together, committed from this day forward to one another.”
He slowly unwound the ribbon but Marigold didn’t let go of Max’s hands. She’d hold them forever.
He was right. They were each half of one whole and by his side was where she belonged.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you, too,” he replied, and finally let go of one of her hands to pull her close to his body.
Marigold had finally found her heart.
Want to read the next book in the A Wallflower’s Wish series? Curious to know where Lady Sarah went in such a rush? Order the next book in this wallflower series…
Tis the Season of Lady Sarah
A Hero for Lady Abigail
Maggie Dallen
Katherine Ann Madison
The Earl of Havercrest’s ballroom teemed with a sea of crinoline and lace, the sound of laughter and music echoing off the walls. The first event of the season was well underway and Lady Abigail watched it all with a keen eye and a tight knot in her belly.
“This is your last chance, dear.”
The cool voice beside her made the knot tighten painfully but Abigail's smile broadened and her response came through gritted teeth. “Thank you for the reminder, Mother.”
Her fan opened with a snick as she turned to face an older, but no less beautiful version of herself. She and her mother shared the same chestnut-colored hair, the same high cheekbones and full lips. The face of an angel, her father had always said.
Abigail was certain her father was the first and last member of the ton to liken her to an angel. Unless, of course, the angel in question was Lucifer.
“I can’t imagine
why you’re hiding over here like a wallflower,” her mother continued. “You are not getting any younger, you know.”
Still younger than you. Abigail bit back the words before they could escape. She would not take her mother’s bait. Now was hardly the time or the place to enter into another verbal sparring match.
“I overheard Lady Harlow talking to her husband about you just now.” Her mother tsked in a poor imitation of concern. “It seems all your friends are worried that you’ve missed your chance at marriage and will end up on the shelf.”
Abigail stilled at the mention of her friend—though ‘friend’ was rather a misleading term. Abigail didn’t have friends. She had allies and she had connections. She’d ceased having true friends her first season when it became apparent that ‘friends’ was just another word for competition.
Her mother leaned forward slightly, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of Abigail’s face behind the fan to see if her barb had hit its mark. But Abigail had learned long ago that a fan was never merely a fan. It was a weapon. One that could be used to play coy, to flirt, to playfully tap a young lord on the shoulder, to hide from lecherous eyes when one of her father’s cronies tried to seek her out for a dance...
Oh yes, a fan was a most useful weapon indeed.
At this particular moment, Abigail wielded it as a shield. She held it in front of her as though she could deflect her mother’s barbs with the thin slip of ivory.
“I hardly think it will come to that.” She kept her voice even, refusing to let her mother see how her taunts rattled her. She’d never give her mother that satisfaction.
“Besides, Lady Harlow is merely jealous.” She sought out the newly married viscountess, who was standing with her husband and several of Abigail’s acquaintances on the far side of the room.
“Jealous?” her mother said with a humorless laugh. “Of you?”
“Indeed. The gentleman I choose to marry will be a far cry less rotund than Lord Harlow, I can assure you,” she said with a sniff. “And he’ll still have his hair.”
“Oh my. We’re very sure of ourselves, aren’t we?” Her mother’s laughter sailed right over the fan’s edge and grated against her nerves.
“Of course I’m confident,” she said with a cool smile. “We both know that I’m still considered a diamond of the first water. I can have my pick.”
“Yes, but the pickings are slim, wouldn’t you say?” Her mother looked toward an elderly earl who her father approved of but whose breath made Abigail’s stomach turn when he stood too close.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mother,” she said in a lighthearted tone meant to annoy. “It is not as though I need many options, just one.”
Just one. One gentleman whom she’d somehow managed to overlook over the past three seasons but who was intelligent, kind, and respectful enough to consider. One man who wasn’t repulsive to look at or whose breath reeked of rotten meat. One who was younger than her father, hopefully. Preferably titled. Oh yes...and wealthy.
She only needed one option. But that one option was starting to seem like a fantastical myth. She might as well be searching this ballroom for a unicorn. That knot in her chest began to swell and grow. She drew in a quick inhale as a panicky sensation threatened to swallow her whole.
“Tick tock, my dear,” her mother sang.
Not surprisingly, her mother was enjoying Abigail’s plight far too much. The Duchess of Gorem was many things—but maternal was not one of them. Her relationship to her one and only daughter had been based more on rivalry and jealousy rather than nurture and guidance.
It was hardly Abigail’s fault that she was still in the prime of her youth, but try explaining that to her mother. She seemed to take it personally.
“Well?” Her mother glanced meaningfully toward a group of eligible gentlemen who were laughing loudly amongst themselves as they pretended not to notice the attention they’d snared from every marriage-minded mama in a ten-mile radius.
Abigail huffed. Preening peacocks, the lot of them.
Perhaps she’d inherited a bit of her mother’s resentful temperament in addition to her cheekbones, because at this particular moment she wanted nothing more than to thumb her nose at the wealthy, titled lords who held all the power in the world.
Well, the power to choose their own spouse, at the very least. But with Abigail’s current predicament, that seemed like everything one could ever hope for.
Abigail turned back to find her mother openly gloating. “So, Abigail, whom will you choose, hmm?” Her eyes widened with feigned concern. “Or are you perhaps ready to concede?”
Concede. She might as well have said surrender. The topic of Abigail and her marriage prospects had become nothing less than a war at home and there was nothing her mother wished more than to win this final battle.
Once upon a time when Abigail was in her first season, it had been understood that Abigail would have a say in the matter of whom she would marry. As that season passed without a wedding, and then another, and then still another—that understanding had disappeared right in front of her eyes. Both her parents were growing impatient, and her mother had declared it was time she took matters into her own hands.
As if her mother hadn’t been attempting to manage Abigail and her prospects for years now.
But now her mother meant to choose her husband for her, taking no account of Abigail’s preference or opinion. Abigail narrowed her eyes in the face of her mother’s expectant, smug smile. Would she concede?
Never.
In an effort to placate his determined wife and his admittedly stubborn daughter, her father had given Abigail one last chance at choosing for herself. If she could not find an eligible suitor to ask for her hand by the end of this season, she would be forced to marry the gentleman her mother chose for her.
Experience told her that her mother’s choice would be whomever would make Abigail most miserable.
“There is no shame in admitting defeat, dear,” her mother said, her words so sugarcoated that a passerby would never know they were actually salt being rubbed into a wound.
The wound was metaphorical, of course, It was only her pride that suffered after watching each and every one of the young ladies she’d made her debut with marry, leaving her with increasingly bad prospects as she hovered near the brink of spinsterhood.
Abigail straightened her shoulders and held her fan up higher as she shoved that tight knot right back down again before it could rise up and choke her. It was not as though she hadn’t had prospects over the years. Her situation was of her own making. It was by choice.
And now she had one last choice to make, and there was no way on earth she’d hand that over to her mother. “I feel quite optimistic about my options.”
Her mother’s huff of disbelief couldn’t hide her irritation. Abigail was spoiling her fun by not playing the part of the desperate young lady. But what else did she expect? After all, it was Abigail’s mother who’d taught her that showing one’s weakness was what made a woman pathetic. Pitiable, even.
Abigail had learned her lessons well.
She tilted her chin up higher and turned her gaze back to the crush of lords and ladies before them. Her mother was right on one point, at least. She couldn’t afford to waste the first prime husband hunting event of the season by standing here alone on the outskirts.
Her gaze flickered left and right, dismissing every gentleman she saw as either married, unsuitable, or irredeemably unlikeable. She couldn’t afford to be too choosy, of course, but she had her standards.
“See there?” Her mother leaned in close, following her gaze like a hawk. “Lord Tennent is looking this way. Everyone knows he needs a hefty dowry to keep his estate in order.” Her mother’s fan did nothing to hide her smirk. “I’m sure he’d take pity on you.”
Abigail’s cheeks ached with the effort to keep her smile in place, her voice light and sweet. “But Mother, Lord Tennent is nearly as old you are, which means he’s…” She gave a deli
cate shudder. “Positively ancient.”
Her mother’s smirk fell flat but Abigail’s triumph was short-lived. She’d eyed the entire room and not one decent prospect to be found. She tried to swallow down the growing panic but her mouth was dry and her last conversation with her father rang in her ears. He wasn’t nearly as harsh as her mother, but perhaps that was why his stern lecture had hurt so much more than anything her mother had said over the years. You’ve become an embarrassment, Abbie... You’re too much like your mother... It will take a miracle to find a man who can tolerate you... What on earth are you waiting for?
What was she waiting for? The question had been hounding her for days. Not love, nor romance, obviously. She wasn’t so foolish to believe in all that. So what then?
“Well, dear? Which one of these wonderful prospects will you pursue?” her mother asked.
Abigail pressed her lips together. Right. It was time to pick someone. Anyone would do just so long as it silenced her mother and gave her a chance to breathe.
The crowd to her right parted and her eye was caught by a flash of a tall gentleman she couldn’t immediately place. Could it be...someone new? More importantly, there was no wife at his side. Was it possible that there was a new eligible gentleman in town for the season?
Abigail’s heart gave a little kick in her chest at the sight of a full head of dark brown hair and broad shoulders. He certainly was not one of the usual crowd of bachelors she’d come to know so well. He turned and his profile became visible. Not ancient, so there was that. His nose was straight, his jaw nice and square. His full lips curved up in a smile and her heart did that thing again. A fierce thud. Excitement, that’s what it was. Excitement and...hope.
Perhaps he could be a viable option. He at least was someone different, someone attractive and young and not of her mother’s choosing. He was someone...He was someone she recognised. She blinked in surprise as he turned slightly giving her a clear view of his face. Yes, she definitely recognized him—Major something or other. He was a close friend of the Marquess of Arundel and she recalled meeting him briefly at the marquess’s house party this past spring and then again when the marquess married that shy little mouse.
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