bridesmaids to lay it out straight.
‘You look beautiful,’ Millie whispered. Even through her veil she could see her friend’s eyes shining with joy.
‘I’m so nervous,’ she confessed, as the organ music swelled majestically in Wagner’s “Wedding Chorus”. ‘My hands are shaking so much I can’t hold my flowers still.’
‘No one will notice,’ Millie assured her. ‘They’ll all be too busy looking at me tripping over your train.’
But she didn’t. For once she managed to get through the occasion with no trips, slips or stumbles. She saw her grandmother watching her almost with approval as she filed out of the church after the bride, where a Guard of Honour stood waiting on the steps.
The wedding party was held at the Claremonts’ London residence, Claremont House, overlooking St James’ Park. Here too, the Duchess had spared no expense. The wedding breakfast was a lavish affair, and afterwards everyone danced to a band in the ballroom, which glittered under the light of the magnificent chandeliers. Millie danced with the best man, who showed no interest in her beyond his duty dance. She was much happier to partner her father, who looked very handsome in his morning dress and didn’t mind at all that she tripped over her own feet several times.
‘You do realise every eligible woman is watching you?’ Millie teased him, as they circled elegantly around the dance floor.
‘I dare say they’re wondering how an old crock like me can remember the steps!’ he joked.
‘I wonder if Granny is enjoying herself.’
‘I don’t know if your grandmother ever enjoys herself unless she’s running the show.’
Millie glanced over his shoulder to where Lady Rettingham was sitting with her old friend and bitter rival, the Dowager Duchess of Claremont. She could imagine what they were talking about. The other dowager would most certainly not have missed the opportunity to be smug about her granddaughter’s successful marriage, while expressing all kinds of sympathy that Millie was not similarly blessed.
Poor Granny. Millie wished she could give her something to crow about.
After several more dances, each less successful than the last, Millie excused herself to watch from the sidelines instead. In the middle of the dance floor, Sophia and her new husband David danced every dance in each other’s arms, hardly noticing the party going on around them.
‘Don’t they look happy?’ Seb joined Millie, handing her a glass of champagne.
‘Not as happy as your mother.’
‘Ah, yes. She does seem rather satisfied with herself.’
‘Like the cat that got the cream.’
Lady Claremont was holding court at the far end of the room, while the guests gathered like satellites around her, admiring and praising her.
‘And why not?’ Seb said. ‘She has her only daughter safely married off, and to a Marquess, no less. It must be such a relief for her. Now she only has her sons to worry about.’
‘I thought you had high hopes of Miss Farsley?’ Millie could already see Georgina out of the corner of her eye, circling them, ready to pounce. ‘You’ve been dancing with her all evening.’
‘Miss Farsley has very high hopes of me. Not the other way around, I assure you.’
‘She’s very beautiful.’
‘And even more snobbish than my mother.’ Seb shuddered. ‘If I were to marry her, I would be paraded endlessly in front of her wealthy American friends whenever they came over to visit. I would become just another tourist attraction, like the Tower of London.’
Millie laughed, but Seb’s expression was serious. ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘I’m nearly twenty-two. After this summer I will be at a loose end. Either I get married or I become a playboy.’
‘I can’t imagine you as a playboy!’
‘Neither can I,’ Seb agreed with a heavy sigh. ‘I’m far too sensible, I’m afraid.’
‘Seriously, what are you going to do when you leave Oxford?’ Millie asked.
‘I was thinking of becoming a journalist,’ he said. ‘I’ve always liked writing, and my father says he’ll use his connections to find me a job. Although to be honest I’d rather start somewhere more humble and work my way up. I don’t want everyone thinking I’ve got the job because of who I am.’
Millie understood only too well how he felt. Having a title and a life of privilege was wonderful, but it could make it difficult to make your own way in the world.
‘I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful journalist, Seb,’ she said.
‘Do you think so? I can’t really think of anything else I’d like to do. And I do so want to be useful.’
‘Good for you,’ she said warmly.
‘You’ve inspired me,’