“Despite his appearance,” Gabe said blandly, “I have it on good authority he is not one of our footmen.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ned. “He’s not wearing a wig, is he?”
“Mother,” Lydia tried again, “this is Arthur. The Earl of Strathrannoch, and my… husband.”
Mrs. Hope-Wallace had one small hand pressed to her breastbone. She dropped it, stepped forward, and, to Arthur’s absolute stupefaction, threw her arms about his waist. And hugged him.
“My dear boy,” she said, “welcome to the family. You must call me Mother.”
There was an instantaneous and vociferous round of heckling from the brothers.
And Arthur felt—
As though he were on precipice, balanced a thousand feet in the air. He did not know where to turn. He was afraid to take a step. Everywhere he looked seemed to augur a long and breathless fall.
How many times had he told himself that he did not want this very thing?
Family. Home. Love in all its forms, burdensome and overwhelming, generous and kind.
He had almost stopped wanting Davis back in his life. He had almost stopped wishing for things that were never to be. He had Strathrannoch Castle and his tenants and his barbican, and he had told himself it was enough.
But would it be enough for Lydia?
It seemed impossible, fantastical—she who had grown up in this wealthy, loving, boisterous family, the youngest, the most cherished. How could he ever give her anything like this?
How could he stop himself from wanting it too?
They lingered in the sitting room for quite a while, but Jasper did not arrive. Eventually Mrs. Hope-Wallace seemed to surrender, and they made their way into the dining room. Perfect identical footmen served perfect identical courses, one after another after another. Arthur scarcely knew what to make of them.
The brothers traded more and less clever remarks, Mrs. Hope-Wallace presided with affectionate absurdity, and no one ran too roughshod over Lydia. He had been prepared to pull her aside if she grew pale or anxious, as he had done at Kilbride House, but here, in the circle of her family, she did not need him.
Except once.
In the middle of a conversational odyssey between Gabe and Ned—which had meandered from gooseberry cream to something about Catullus that made Theo grow even more poker-stiff over his stewed celery—Mrs. Hope-Wallace broke in.
“Lydia, my love, won’t you tell us about your wedding? My first child to marry—and I missed it. You did not even wear my lace shawl.” She appeared to bravely fight back another round of tears. “Were you at least in blue? You know how fetching you look in blue. Tell me you didn’t wear primrose. And, oh, my dear, did you have flowers? Did you have a bridal attendant?” A faint look of alarm crossed her face. “Are you… a Papist now?”
“This,” muttered Gabe, “is why the rest of us are unmarried.”
“Ah,” said Lydia. She’d begun to blink furiously. “It was nice. Lovely. It was… in Scotland.”
“That’s specific,” said Ned.
“In… October,” Lydia managed. She was staring down at her stewed celery as if for inspiration. Every single inch of skin Arthur could see above the top of her bodice was carnation-pink.
“We were married at Strathrannoch Castle,” he heard himself say.
The five Hope-Wallaces turned to look at him.
“In Scotland,” he said, “there’s no requirement of banns or license, only a bit of plaid and two witnesses. We had everything we needed.”
He had not realized how clearly he’d pictured this—Lydia’s hand in his, her elegant fingers and his scarred ones, wrapped together in a strip of his blue-and-green tartan.
“We stood on the ramparts under the sun,” he said, “and Lydia wore a crown of meadowsweet in her hair.”
He had seen her there. He had taken her to the top of the castle and wanted her—wanted it all—even then.
“Her dress was white”—it had been, that day on the ramparts; he remembered everything—“and her wee spangled slippers caught the reflection of the sun. She looked—she looked as though—”
