tongue, and her maddening tendency to appear in the least likely places. He’d never imagined one small woman could wreak such havoc, but he’d hardly had a wink of sleep since she’d arrived. Every time his eyelids grew heavy, he’d imagine her creeping about, sticking her pert little nose into every private corner of his castle. Or worse, he’d recall how she’d looked in her night rail, the filmy white fabric swirling around her bare calves, a breathy cry on her lips—
“Lord Darlington! Hello, Lord Darlington!”
Gideon snapped to attention just in time to stop himself from slapping his hands over his ears. He drew the line at shouting a return greeting across the drive, but he managed a polite nod for the lady fluttering her hand at him from the open carriage window.
“Good Lord, Darlington.” Haslemere’s smile didn’t falter, but he glanced at Gideon from the corner of his eye. “Who the devil is that creature hanging out the carriage window, flapping her arms about and shrieking at you?”
Gideon sighed. Miss Honeywell was an ideal bride, but…well, a man couldn’t expect to have everything he wished for in his matrimonial affairs, could he? “That, Haslemere, is Mrs. Priscilla Honeywell. Miss Honeywell’s mother.”
Haslemere stared at her, speechless with horror.
“This is Darlington Castle?” Mrs. Honeywell sniffed, as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the entrance. “I confess I expected something a bit larger and grander. Something more like Windsor.”
Gideon exchanged a glance with Haslemere.
Windsor? Haslemere mouthed, raising an eyebrow.
“But a castle is still a castle, I suppose.” Mrs. Honeywell clambered down from the carriage in an avalanche of bright pink silk trimmed with a mountain of white ostrich feathers. “Even if it is terribly cramped.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen so much pink silk on one lady before, and such an unusual shade of pink, too. It’s as if the drapes in my mother’s bedchamber have come to life. I’m certain to have nightmares,” Haslemere whispered to Gideon with a shudder.
“Be quiet,” Gideon whispered back through gritted teeth. “She’ll hear you.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry if I were you, Darlington. I doubt she can hear anything over the sound of her own chatter.”
“For God’s sake, Haslemere, will you hush?”
“Miss Honeywell is perfection, Darlington. At least that’s some recompense for every second of misery the mother’s going to cause you.” Haslemere followed Gideon as he stepped forward to hand down the young lady just emerging from the carriage.
“Oh, good day, Lord Darlington!” Mrs. Honeywell bustled forward, her pink skirts dragging across the ground. “Come along, will you, Fanny? His lordship is waiting for you.”
“Mrs. Honeywell, and Miss Honeywell. How do you do?” Gideon bowed to Mrs. Honeywell, then took Fanny’s hand and drew it through his arm with a smile. “Welcome to Darlington Castle. I hope you had a pleasant journey from London?”
“Certainly not. It was perfectly wretched.” Mrs. Honeywell tossed her headful of stiff yellow curls, and the tiny pink hat smothered in pink ribbons perched atop her head wobbled precariously.
Gideon blinked. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry to hear—”
“It’s terribly trying to be obliged to hurry off to Kent when all the fashionable people are in London for the season! Why, my poor, dear Fanny will be desolate, moldering away in this dreary old castle! I daresay you might have seen your way to marrying at St. Paul’s, my lord, as all the best society people do.”
Gideon gave her a tight smile. “Alas, madam, I’m afraid hundreds of years of tradition demand I marry at Darlington Castle. Pity, but there it is.”
Mrs. Honeywell had wanted the wedding to take place at St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a grand wedding breakfast afterward so she could lord her daughter’s good fortune over anyone unwise enough to accept an invitation. She’d been dreadfully disappointed to find the nuptials would have to take place in fusty old Kent, but she’d consoled herself with assembling an extravagant trousseau of silks and laces for her daughter, as befitted a future marchioness.
Miss Honeywell darted a coy look at Gideon as she stepped daintily across the drive. “I think this is a lovely place for a wedding ceremony.”
“Well, I suppose it can’t be helped, but really, my lord, it’s excessively tiresome you should live so far from London. It took ages to get here, and it was so cold I fear poor Fanny has taken a chill. She suffers from a fragile constitution, as you know, Lord Darlington, but then the Honeywell ladies have always been unusually delicate.”
This