Talia, you will make certain that it is the social event of the season,” he said, overriding her soft plea and glancing over his shoulder to offer a warning glower. “Or you will pack your bags and join your Aunt Penelope in Yorkshire.”
Talia’s stomach clenched at her father’s stark threat.
Penelope Dobson was her father’s eldest sister. A bitter spinster who devoted her life to her incessant prayers and causing others misery.
After her mother’s death, Talia had spent nearly a year in her aunt’s decrepit cottage, treated little better than an unpaid servant and rarely allowed to leave her cramped rooms. That might have been bearable if the horrid woman had not taken pleasure in striking Talia with a horsewhip for the tiniest infraction of her rigid rules.
Her father was well aware that she would toss herself in the Thames before she would once again be imprisoned in Yorkshire.
Heaven help her.
CHAPTER TWO
MUCH TO TALIA’S astonishment, her wedding day dawned with a glorious sunrise that painted the cloudless sky in shades of pink and gold. It promised to be a perfect summer day. She had expected a gray, dismal morning that would have matched the impending sense of doom that had haunted her for weeks.
Even more astonishing, she appeared almost pretty in her ivory silk gown overlaid with silver gauze and sprinkled with diamonds along the low-cut bodice and the hem that stopped just above her ivory satin slippers. Her dark curls were carefully arranged in a complicated knot on top of her head and held in place by a large diamond tiara that matched the heavy necklace draped around her neck and shimmering earrings.
Gifts from her father, of course.
He was determined that her wedding would be the talk of the season, impervious to Talia’s pleas that a lavish wedding would be in poor taste considering that all of society knew that the bridegroom had been purchased with Talia’s vast dowry.
So far as Silas Dobson was concerned, discretion was for those who could not afford to toss about their money in gaudy displays of extravagance.
Reluctantly accepting that the earth was not going to open up and swallow her whole, Talia silently entered the glossy black carriage and allowed herself to be driven to the small church where the private ceremony was to take place. After the ceremony they were scheduled to return to Sloane Square for an elegant wedding breakfast with two hundred guests.
It was only when she was standing at the altar that the disaster she had been anticipating the entire day at last struck.
The rector was attired in his finest robes with a somber expression on his round face. Talia’s father was standing at her side wearing his finest black jacket and silver waistcoat. And on the other side was Talia’s only friend, Hannah Lansing, the daughter of a baronet who shared Talia’s miserable fate as a wallflower.
But there was one notable absence.
Mr. Harry Richardson was nowhere to be found.
For nearly two hours they waited for the missing bridegroom to make his appearance, while the increasingly bleak silence that had filled the church echoed in Talia’s heart.
She felt…numb. As if the humiliation of being abandoned at the altar was happening to some other unfortunate lady.
It was a sensation that refused to be dismissed even when her father had stormed from the church, swearing that the bastard would suffer for having made a fool of Silas Dobson. And when she had been forced to return to the house and announce to the two hundred avid, twittering guests that the wedding had been regrettably postponed.
Or now, as she sat in her private sitting room decorated in soothing shades of lavender and ivory.
Perched on the edge of the window seat that overlooked the rose garden filled with guests still reveling at being in attendance at the greatest scandal of the season, Talia understood she should feel something.
Anger, humiliation, heartbreak…
Anything but the awful emptiness.
Absently she watched as Hannah paced across the Persian carpet, the swish of her rose satin gown the only sound to break the thick silence. The poor girl was clearly at a loss as to how to handle the awkward situation.
“I am certain there must have been an accident,” Hannah at last muttered, her round face flushed and her frizz of brown curls escaping from silver combs.
Talia shrugged, unable to stir an interest in why Harry had failed to appear at his own wedding.
“Are you?” she asked, her voice dull.
“Yes, indeed.” Hannah’s dark eyes held a sympathy she couldn’t entirely disguise. “No doubt the carriage overturned and Mr. Richardson and his family were knocked unconscious.”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh.” Hannah pressed a hand to her plump breasts. “Not that I would wish for the passengers to be injured.”
“No. Of course not.”
“But it would explain…”
“Explain why I was left at the altar?”
Hannah grimaced in embarrassment. “Yes.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the sitting room, and with an effort, Talia searched her mind for a means to be rid of her companion.
It was not that she didn’t appreciate Hannah’s attempts to offer comfort, but for the moment she desperately wished to be alone.
Clearing her throat, she glanced toward the door. “Has my father returned?”
“Do you wish me to discover if he is here?”
“If it is no trouble.”
Hannah gratefully latched onto the small task, obviously pleased to be of service.
“Not at all. And I shall bring you a tea tray.”
Talia shuddered at the mere thought of food. “I am not hungry.”
“Perhaps not, but you are very pale.” Hannah’s soft brown gaze lingered on Talia’s face with obvious concern. “You should try to eat something.”
“If you insist.” Talia managed a smile. “You’re very kind.”
“Nonsense. I am your friend.”
Hannah left the room and softly closed the door behind her. Talia heaved a sigh of relief. Later she would appreciate Hannah’s staunch loyalty. After all, the young lady could easily have used her position in the center of the brewing scandal to elevate her status among the gossipmongers still cluttering the rose garden.
Instead she had stayed at Talia’s side, anxious to provide comfort.
It was not her fault that Talia was incapable of weeping and wailing and wringing her hands like a proper bride who had
