Tobias knew immediately when Maggie had left his side. His Pocket Princess may be small in stature, but her presence was impossible to disregard. How had he missed her before? She was constantly watching, fidgeting designs on her arms and skirt, and thinking about all that she observed. He worried their life in London would bore her ever-moving mind.
He would be working, hunting for a partner, finding silk weavers, hiring designers. Perhaps he could set Maggie to sketching designs. That would give her something to do.
“Gray?”
Grayson turned from his cake to his friend, his mouth full and chewing. “Hm?”
“I’m off to look for my wife.”
Grayson patted Tobias on the back with one hand and dug into his cake for another bite with the other.
Tobias stood and rounded the table, scanning the room and searching for his wife’s dark-brown mop of curls, so artfully arranged for the wedding. Where had his bride disappeared to? His gaze snagged on a familiar face not belonging to his wife. This was a more haunting countenance. Celia. What the hell was she doing here? He flicked his gaze around the room, looking for—ah, there he was. Mr. Weatherby, his father’s business partner of over a decade, his one and only friend, and Celia’s father. Of course he’d been invited to the wedding. But why the hell had Celia come? He let his gaze return to her.
When their eyes met, she sliced through the crowd until she stood close enough to touch. “Hello, Tobias.” A hesitant smile trembled on her lips.
He bowed. “Miss Weatherby.”
“Oh. You’ve not heard, then. I’m Miss Weatherby no longer.”
“Married? What man has the honor?”
“Mr. Piedmont, the hotelier.”
“Mr. Piedmont!” A man so serious he hadfacial hair, the kind one smoothed and shaped into a ridiculous line over one’s lip. Tobias shivered. He liked whimsy, but he drew the line firmly at mustaches that looked like delicate, curly bows.
“Yes. He owns two hotels in Manchester and one in London. He’s working on expanding into France.”
Tobias searched for the disappointment and pain that should accompany finding out one’s previous lady love has married another man. Nothing. Interesting. “Congratulations, Mrs. Piedmont. You have everything you’ve ever longed for.”
“Oh, Toby, have you nothing more to say? It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, and to finally do so under such circumstances …” She shrugged in a gesture that said not only did she not know quite what to say but that finding the right words did not rate high on her list of priorities. He used to adore that gesture. Her apathy had delighted him. Now he found it tiresome, condescending even.
Maggie would never make anyone feel as if they weren’t worth her effort. Not even a second-rate novelist. Not even a peacock-clad layabout like himself. “There are just so many words, Mrs. Piedmont, that I find I am having difficulty choosing which ones to apply to this situation. First, I could, of course, thank you for coming to my wedding. I could inquire as to your husband’s health. That’s always an option. Perhaps I could ask a very simple single word question.” His jaw tightened. “Why?”
She laughed. “Oh, Toby! I see you’re still so …” She waved her hand in the air, dropped it in defeat, and gave him the type of smile that said,Oh, you know what I mean.
“I do not know what you mean, Mrs. Piedmont.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion.
Irritation skittered across his limbs. “That’s what your look meant, wasn’t it? That I must know what you mean when you do not have the words to describe what you mean to begin with.”
She laughed nervously.
“You still have not answered my question, Mrs. Piedmont.”
“What was it again?”
“I was merely curious as to whyyouwould show up tomyweddinguninvited.”
“Oh, Mama felt unwell, so I came in her stead.” She nodded once and looked up at him through her eyelashes when her chin almost rested against her chest.
He groaned. He’d done this to himself. He’d considered, briefly, asking his mother about the guest list, requesting that the Weatherbys not be included. He’d decided against it because he’d have to explain why, and that would mean explaining about Celia, and that was a secret he’d told no one. “You didn’t have to come. You really should not have. Why did you come?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I supposeyouknow.”
“No. I do not know,” he ground out.
Those nearby looked at him in wonderment. They had likely never heard him so upset or so serious. He should maintain his composure, but he was finding it difficult to do so, impossible to access his usual flippant self he showed the world. What the hell had Celia been thinking? The last thing he wanted to consider on his wedding day was the face of the women who had rejected his first marriage proposal ever, the face of the woman who had dissected all joy from his chest.
