Benedict Sterling leaned against the wood-paneled wall in the corridor and watched his best friend rap on the locked door. On the other side was an anxious bride, one who had fallen into tears over some wedding-related matter. Benedict hadn’t really been paying attention, but whatever was happening would delay the ceremony if it wasn’t promptly resolved.
Aubrey Drake, the groom, knocked a second time and heaved a sigh. His hands shook and his brow furrowed over dark, hooded eyes. He was the epitome of style in his wedding ensemble, ready to enter the carriage waiting outside. However, he had professed his intention to linger until he was certain the bride would follow.
A distressed lady’s maid had come to inform them that the bride had received an upsetting message and was now in tears.
“Aubrey?” said Lady Lucinda Bowery from the other side. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on your way to the church.”
Aubrey huffed a laugh, though Benedict could hear the strain in it.
“I could hardly leave without ensuring I wouldn’t be left at the altar with no bride.”
“Oh, Aubrey, surely you did not think I wouldn’t come?”
“If you aren’t having second thoughts, then what’s the matter?”
“It’s my parents,” Lucinda replied, her voice hitching with a sob. “They aren’t coming.”
Aubrey’s shoulders sagged, and he rested his forehead against the gleaming wood. “Oh, Lucy … I’m so sorry.”
Benedict glanced to the other men hovering farther down the corridor. Hugh and David cast anxious stares his way, and Benedict gave them a nod of reassurance. They might be a little late, but the ceremony would go on. He had confidence in Aubrey and Lucinda’s union, and knew this was merely a small delay, not some calamitous ending.
“I knew they disapproved of our engagement, but I thought once they came to London to meet you they’d come to love you as much as I do.”
“Or at least tolerate you,” Benedict muttered under his breath.
Aubrey’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. That Lucinda was in love with him meant little to her parents. She’d married for the first time at eighteen, going from life as a gentry chit in the country to a grand countess. Her earl had died, and no doubt her parents had aspired to another grand match. They had been clear in their disappointment that this second time around she’d chosen to marry a black linen-draper born in St. Giles. A university education and ownership of one of London’s most successful draperies could not change the fact that he was the descendant of slaves.
“I thought we’d made progress after our last dinner with them,” Lucinda went on. “I hoped they would at least attend the wedding, and my father would walk me down the aisle. Now …”
Benedict winced at the pain in her voice. He had some experience when it came to disappointment at the hands of one’s father.
He took hold of Aubrey’s arm, easing him back from the door. “Let me talk to her. Lucy, it’s Ben. Let me in.”
“Ben—”
He held up a hand before Aubrey could push past him. “Let me help. I have a solution. Besides, you are not allowed to see the bride before the ceremony.”
Aubrey ran a hand over his face and let out another exasperated sigh. He looked like he wanted to protest further but thought better of it.
“You do realize you’re the only man I’d trust alone with my betrothed,” he muttered.
Benedict chuckled. “A distinction I do not take lightly. Go away. Everything will be fine.”
Aubrey gave him a look that clearly said composure wouldn’t be possible until the deed was done, but obediently made his retreat.
Benedict tapped at the door.
“Lucy, he’s gone. Open the door, please.”
To his relief, she complied, swiftly shutting the door once he’d entered. He found her pressed against the panel, dressed in dove gray silk and silvery gauze, the cut of the gown a complement to her full figure and statuesque height. Honey-blonde hair was arranged in a soft coiffure dotted with white and blue flowers, and white gloves covered her hands. In sharp juxtaposition, her face was red and blotchy, tears welling in her bright blue eyes.
“You look beautiful,” he ventured, aware he stood on dangerous ground. When a woman was weeping, the wrong turn of phrase could only make matters worse.
With a sniffle, she accepted his proffered handkerchief. “I can see myself in the mirror behind you. My face looks a fright.”
“It’ll right itself once you’ve calmed. Though, your