Lady Sarah’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear. Whatever shall I do with a husband who swoons?”

Meredith barely refrained from looking toward the ceiling. Lady Sarah possessed many admirable qualities. Unfortunately, a sense of humor was not among them. “I was speaking figuratively, not literally, my dear. Of course Lord Greybourne is not prone to swooning. ”I hope. “Why, with all his traveling about and exploring, he is of course the most hale and hearty of men. ”I can only hope and pray.

When Lady Sarah still appeared concerned, Meredith grasped her hands-her icy cold hands, she noted. “There is nothing to worry about, dear heart. Feeling a bit anxious in the days before your wedding is completely natural and quite expected. Just remember this: You are going to be the most beautiful bride, your groom shall prove to be the most gallant and exciting of men, and your wedding shall be Society’s most talked-about event for years to come.” And will ensure my reputation and future.

Instantly her imagination took flight, and in her mind’s eye she saw herself in the future, ensconced in a modest cottage in Bath, or perhaps Cardiff, taking the waters, enjoying the sea air, basking in the admiration and respect of everyone she met… her squalid past so deeply buried that it could never again be resurrected. This match represented the culmination of her hard-fought battle to make a place-a respectable place-in the world for herself, but it was only the beginning. Her services as a matchmaker would be the most sought-after, her opinions the most respected, her financial future set, all the while providing a service that she felt compelled to provide. Every woman deserved the protection and care of a kind, decent husband. How different her life would have been if Mama had found such a man…

“Father received word that Lord Greybourne’s ship was scheduled to dock this morning,” Lady Sarah said, pulling Meredith from her reverie. “He sent ‘round an invitation for Lord Greybourne and his father to dine with us this evening.” A becoming blush suffused Lady Sarah’s satiny-smooth cheeks. “I am most anxious to meet the man who will be my husband.”

Meredith smiled at her. “And I am certain he cannot wait to meet you.” Of course, with the wedding only two days away, that did not afford Meredith much time to reacquaint Lord Greybourne with any rules of Society he may have forgotten during his travels, but she was comforted by the fact that he had spent his first twenty years among the ton. True, he was a bit of a diamond in the rough, but at least he wasn’t a lump of coal in a cave. She hoped.

But even if he were, she’d make him into a presentable groom. After the ceremony, well, then he would be Lady Sarah’s problem, er, project.

A loud commotion sounded from outside. “What do you suppose that is?” Lady Sarah asked, craning her neck to peek beyond the forest-green curtain separating the dressing area from the front of Madame Renee’s shop.

“I’ll see,” Meredith said. Walking into the front of the shop, she peered out the front picture window. A row of stopped carriages lined the street, and a crowd of pedestrians milled about, blocking her view. Rising onto her toes, she noted a lopsided bread cart at the front of the traffic snarl-clearly the source of the problem. She was about to turn away when she noticed a giant of a man standing near the overturned cart raise his ham-sized fist, which clutched a whip. Good lord, he meant to strike that man holding that puppy! Meredith’s hand flew to her lips, but before she could even emit a gasp, another man, whose back was turned toward her, executed a lightning-fast maneuver with his walking stick and fist, whereupon the giant went down like a tenpin. The savior then tossed what appeared to be a coin up to the man still standing upon the lopsided cart, then calmly tucked his silver-tipped walking stick under his arm and strode away, disappearing into the crowd.

Hoping to catch another glimpse of the brave man, Meredith craned her neck, but he was lost in the crowd. An odd flutter shivered through her, settling in her stomach. Heavens. What an extraordinary, brave man. And he moved like… like a swift, sleek, predatory animal. Graceful. Strong. Heroic. His knowledge of fighting marked him as a ruffian-completely unrespectable, but still… what did such a man look like? He’d used his walking stick like a weapon. Perhaps it was a weapon, as the silver tip bore some sort of unusual design unfamiliar to her. Another flutter quivered down her spine, and looking down, she realized her palms were pressed to her chest.

Shaking her hands as if to rid them of dirt, she frowned in annoyance at her fanciful thoughts. Botheration. It mattered not what he looked like. What mattered was Lady Sarah and the wedding. Weaving her way among the rows of bolts of colorful silks, satins, wools, and muslins, she pushed back the curtain leading to the dressing area. And discovered Lady Sarah on her hands and knees on the floor, struggling to rise.

Meredith rushed forward. “Lady Sarah! What happened?” She extended her hands to help the young woman gain her feet.

Lady Sarah’s beautiful face puckered into a rueful grimace. “I wanted to see what all the fuss outside was about, but when I attempted to step down from the dressmaker’s platform, I tripped on my hem and fell.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t believe so.” Lady Sarah gingerly shook both arms and legs, then her features relaxed. “Nothing’s damaged. Except my pride, of course.”

Before the relief at that statement could take hold of Meredith, Lady Sarah pressed one hand to her brow, and clutched at Meredith’s sleeve with the other. “Oh, dear. I fear I suddenly have the most dreadful headache.”

“Did you strike your head when you fell?”

“No… at least I do not recall doing so.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, my. I believe I need to he down.”

Meredith immediately led Lady Sarah toward the chintz-covered chaise in the far corner of the room, helping the young woman recline against the pillows.

“Mon Dieu,” came Madame Renee’s voice from the doorway. “What has happened?”

“Lady Sarah is feeling unwell,” Meredith reported, trying to keep her voice calm. She touched her hand to Lady Sarah’s brow, relieved when she discerned no signs of fever. “She’s suffering from the headache.”

“Ah, do not be concerned, Mademoiselle Meredith,” Madame said. “I see this always with zee nervous brides. I shall brew her my special tisane and she will feel très magnifique this quickly.” She snapped her fingers.

Meredith looked down at Lady Sarah’s waxy complexion, and prayed Madame’s assessment was correct. But at least the wedding was still two days away. Surely that would be more than sufficient time for Lady Sarah to recover.

Surely it would.

Two

Pacing the confines of the small private office off an alcove near the vestry at St. Paul’s, Philip Whitmore, Viscount Greybourne, prayed for all he was worth that his bride would not show up.

His stomach cramping with tension, he pulled his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted the time. Mere minutes remained before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Would Lady Sarah come? God help me if she does.

Damn it all, what an utterly impossible situation this was. Had he made Lady Sarah understand? He’d only had that one opportunity to speak privately with her, when he’d dined at her father’s townhouse the evening before last. Due to her suffering a fall earlier in the day and subsequently finding herself the victim of a vicious headache, she had not joined the party for dinner. He squeezed his eyes shut. First the fall and then the headache. Bloody hell, he’d feared it would come to this.

After dinner, however, Lady Sarah had made an appearance. Following several minutes of small talk, he’d suggested she show him the gallery, and she’d obliged. And he’d taken the opportunity to tell her… warn her. She’d listened to his tale with what appeared to be merely polite interest, and at the end of his recitation had murmured, “How… interesting. I shall think upon it,” then had excused herself, claiming the headache. When he’d called upon her yesterday he’d been informed by the butler that she still suffered the headache and was not receiving visitors. He’d tried to speak to her father, but the duke was not at home. Philip had left a note for his grace, but had not received a reply, indicating he’d obviously arrived home too late to respond. And Philip had spent the remainder of his time at the warehouse, searching through the numerous crates for the one item that could bring salvation. He’d been unsuccessful, which meant that one way or another, this day was about to take a very unpleasant turn.

Surely someone would send word to him soon, or Lady Sarah would herself arrive. Or not arrive. He raked his hands through his hair and tugged on his confining cravat. Either way, he was damned. Honor demanded that he marry Lady Sarah. But honor also demanded that he not. Her image rose in his mind’s eye. Such a lovely young woman. The thought of taking her for his wife should have pleased him enormously. Instead the very idea cramped his insides with dread.

A knock sounded, and he quickly strode to the door and opened it. His father entered the room, and Philip closed the door behind him with a soft click. Turning, he met his father’s gaze and waited for him to speak. The signs of Father’s illness were starkly visible in the ribbon of sunlight streaming through the window. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and his complexion was sallow and pale. He was considerably thinner than when Philip had left England, his face bordering on gaunt, the shadow of circles staining dark gray beneath his eyes.