Always the Rival (Never the Bride Book 7)

long enough. “Excited as you undoubtedly are for my marriage with Miss Frances Lloyd, do you not think it possible that she will want to choose her own gown?”
Was that a hint of embarrassment on his mother’s cheeks?
“Well, of course,” she said quietly. “’Tis only a suggestion, Charles, you do take on so.”
Regret, never far away when he spoke with his mother for any length of time, flooded into his veins. Of all her suggestions, did he have to criticize that one?
“I apologize, Mama,” he said. “I know you would have greatly enjoyed helping Mary to plan her own wedding.”
The pain on her features were mirrored in his own heart. How had it been more than ten years since his sister had died? The pain had dulled, but her absence was still keenly felt by them both.
The dowager swallowed, but did not appear to be able to speak. Charles reached out and took her hand. She loved him, fiercely, like a lioness loved her cub. Was it her fault if she did not know what his heart truly longed for?
“I miss her.” Her words were slightly strangled, and she squeezed his hand before dropping it and coughing.
Charles sighed heavily. Perhaps if Mary had lived, the pressure of the Orrinshire name and the wedding would not have been thrust so heavily upon his shoulders.
If he were not a duke, he could have chosen his own destiny, with none of the family responsibilities that plagued him.
His mother coughed again. “But while I miss my daughter, I have a wonderful son, one who will be wed within a month!”
“Have you considered I may not wish to marry?”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He looked at his mother, waiting for her refined anger – never adequately expressed in public, because they were a well-bred family and would not squabble before strangers. The wrinkling of her nose, the sniff before she spoke, the lofty language…
She laughed. “Not marry? My dear boy, what a joke. You are an Orrinshire!”
Charles forced himself to laugh. Anything to hide the mistake he had made in expressing his actual opinion.
“Orrinshires have depended on arranged marriages for generations,” she continued as a footman paused to offer them glasses of wine. “Each generation, fresh blood to better the family. You will do what is expected of you, and you will continue the family line.”
Despite himself, a rebellious streak rose in his heart, and Charles murmured, “And bring in a little fresh gold.”
“Charles!” Now she was glaring as only a mother could. “Not in public!”
Her hiss barely carried to his own ears, but the fading rebellious streak made him say, “No one is listening.”
“And no one will,” she barked in a most unladylike way. Her fan snapped open, and she fanned herself with a smile, in case anyone was attending to them.
But as Charles could see, everyone had much more important things to do than watch a mother and son bicker at the side of dancing at a wedding.
He sighed and wondered whether he could excuse himself and find some of his acquaintances. None of them had well-meaning mothers constantly nagging them, maneuvering them into alliances for a few more thousand in the family bank.
That thought was immediately followed by shame. No, his friends did not, but many of them would bite off his arm to have such a mother. Many of them would do anything to have their mothers still living.
Guilt washed through him, and his shoulders slumped. What was wrong with him?
“Oh, there she is!”
Charles attempted to plaster a smile across his face for Miss Lloyd – but it was not her who was approaching in a pale cream gown. It was Priscilla Seton.
His false smile was immediately replaced with a natural one. Priscilla, one of his oldest friends. The three of them against the world, that is how they had grown up. Even after they had lost Mary, it had been Priscilla who had steadied him, kept him focused on caring for his parents.
She was smiling as she curtseyed low to his mother. “Your Grace.”
The dowager nodded stiffly. “Miss Seton. How lovely to see you.”
Charles glanced at his mother. This was not the typical welcome Priscilla received, and he could see the surprise on her face – but she was ever gracious toward the older lady.
“And you, Your Grace. You look very well, if I may say so.”
His mother smiled. “You may. And you must excuse me, Miss Seton, for I have just spotted my old friend Lady Romeril, and I must speak with her. Charles, we leave in an hour.”
She swept away in a gown heavy with lace, and Charles felt his shoulders slump. “You must forgive my mother.”
“There is nothing to forgive, you know that,” Priscilla said easily, moving to his side. “Far be it from me to dictate how a dowager duchess should speak to me, a young lady of no rank.”
Charles laughed. “No rank? Goodness, yes, no title. You know, sometimes I forget that! You have been so much a part of my life. At the wedding, you must…”
His voice trailed away as discomfort rose between them. The wedding. His wedding. They had barely spoken about it, and now it was so close, there did not seem to be anything to say.
“I will see whether the bride requires anything more of my services,” Priscilla said lightly, dropping a quick curtsey and walking away.
Charles sighed. Even Priscilla, who was more like family than a friend, would not speak about this. Somehow this wedding had forced a wedge between them, a topic of conversation now forbidden between them. It was unheard of in the last twenty years, and yet…
And yet. Why was he just as restrained? It was not her engagement that they were avoiding.
He spent five minutes in miserable thought, eyes glazed to all around him, until a voice forced him from his reverie.
“Orrinshire!”
The bridegroom was striding toward him with a beaming smile.
“Donal! A fine day, a fine woman, and a damn fine piece