Page 8 of An Ill-Made Match

“At least,” said Eden perking up. “This is a betrothal and not a wedding feast. There will be some time afterward for both parties to recant.”

“True enough,” pondered Lady Montmayne. “And after the betrothal, they will be expected to associate more closely…”

“And familiarity may breed contempt on Lenora’s behalf,” finished off Eden hopefully. They exchanged a look.

“That is the most we can hope for,” said her grandmother at last. “Though it pains me to say it. And my son is strangely determined on this course.”

Eden looked up sharply. “My uncle could not have coerced Lenora,” said Eden with a frown. “She would have told me!”

“I did not mean that precisely. Perhaps he has heard some inside information,” she shrugged. “That young Vawdrey is to be granted a peerdom? And he feels he is stealing a march by snaring him now before it is common knowledge.”

“Do you really suppose that could be it?”

“Stranger things have happened, and I would not be at all surprised,” intoned her grandmother. “The King has promoted many a man for stupider reasons than being a good fighter.” Eden murmured in agreement. “And let us not forget that his brother is in a position of great power. Both his brothers,” she added. “The Vawdreys are not a family to be trifled with.” She shrugged. “Perhaps, after all, Leo knows what he is doing allying us with them.”

Eden eyed her doubtfully. In her opinion, Roland Vawdrey was nothing more than a well-muscled brute. He had an insensitive nature and a callous, shallow outlook on life. But what was the point in voicing that opinion now? Women married such men all the time. Very likely her opinions were out of step with general thought. She knew the King’s Champion to be much admired among the court ladies. She just wished to goodness he wasn’t marrying her cousin!

**

Three hours later, the betrothal feast, Hallam Hall

It was very strange, thought Roland frowning down at his plate. His head was swimming although the last course had not yet been cleared, and he held a half-full cup of wine in his hand. He was commonly known to have the constitution of an ox, and could drink into the early hours before he got addled. This stuff they were serving was damnably strong, though. He tried to reckon up how much he had consumed, but kept losing his train of thought. He knew he had something he urgently needed to impart to his brother Oswald, who was sat at his right, although it kept slipping sideways out of his mind. Catching sight of the ladies who were setting up their instruments for the entertainment, he remembered it again. “Oswald,” he said with urgent conviction, and reached across to catch hold of one of his brother’s silver buttons.

Oswald looked at him in politely enquiry. “Yes Roland,” he said, angling his face toward him.

“Can you hear me?” Roland asked, suddenly doubtful. His own ears felt very muffled.

“Perfectly,” his brother assured him, although he did inch closer. “What is it? You look troubled. Be at ease. You are among family and friends.”

Roland held up his finger. “Wrong one,” he said, forming his words carefully. “She’s the wrong one.”

“Well, well,” said Oswald looking amused. “Alcohol is generally held to muddle the senses, not clear them.”

Roland frowned at him. “What?” His gaze returned to where Eden Montmayne was in the act of strumming her harp with her slender, white fingers. He didn’t really like skinny wenches, but for some reason, she drew his eye like no other. He liked the way she moved too, so gracefully, and almost… sinuously. ‘Twas a pity she wasn’t dancing tonight instead of playing at her harp. The odd thing was, that he couldn’t hear any music, although all around him the other guests were tapping their feet, or nodding their heads as though in enjoyment. “Think I’m going deaf,” Roland said aloud.

“Try not to shout, brother,” Oswald murmured in reproof, as heads turned to look at them censoriously.

Roland looked up to find Eden’s annoyed face glaring at him across the rom. “Why do I want her so much, answer me that if you’re so clever,” he said thickly.

Oswald’s mouth twisted into a smile. “How refreshingly candid you’re being, Roland. Although you have left it a little late in the day.” He leaned forward to look at their other brother on Roland’s left. “Mason, can you hear him?”

“It’s too late for cold feet now, Roland,” said Mason bracingly.

Roland turned his head and nearly pitched forward onto the table.

“Steady,” warned Oswald, his hand suddenly at Roland’s neck, pinching him there.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Mason. “He can’t be sotted already.”

“Ah, but he is,“ murmured Oswald. “It must be nerves.”

But that couldn’t be right, thought Roland. He’d drunk no more than his companions, and everyone knew that Oswald had no head for drinking. He caught sight of Eden and Lenora side by side again, and felt frustrated. “Can’t do it,” he said shaking his head. “Wrong one, damn it. Need to call it off.”

“My dear Roland,” tutted Oswald indulgently. “You’ll be getting a reputation as a jilt at this rate. After all, this is not the first prospective wedding you’ve cried off.”

Mason’s head turned to spear Oswald with a vicious glare. “You’re speaking of my wife,” he scowled.

“I didn’t even know Linnet,” Roland objected unevenly, throwing out a hand which thudded oddly against the table leg. He felt like he had pins and needles all over.