‘Oh!’ she shrieked, darting to the edge of the portico. ‘He has gone! I must find him!’
Her uncle, surprisingly swift for such a portly man, darted after her, grabbed her arm and pulled her back as she would have run down the steps.
‘Oh, no, you don’t! We have a church full of guests waiting!’
Viscount Mildenhall strode across to the top of the steps, where she was still struggling with her uncle. ‘Midge,’ he said firmly. ‘Your uncle is right.’ For a second, a look of utter loathing blazed across her face. He gritted his teeth and went on, ‘You cannot go running all over town, today of all days. Let Rick find him for you. Captain Bredon!’ he barked.
To his relief, years of military discipline had Rick snapping instantly to attention. ‘Sir!’
‘Find out where the fellow went, and see if you can make some sense out of all this.’
‘Right away, sir!’
Imogen’s eyes widened as Rick ran obediently down the steps, crossed the street and approached a group of people who had been avidly watching the altercation on the church steps. One of them raised his arm and pointed. Rick promptly trotted off in that direction, and was soon lost to sight.
‘Rick will get to the bottom of this,’ he vowed. ‘You know you can trust him.’
He saw the fight go out of her.
‘Y-yes,’ she said in a muted voice, hanging her head. Viscount Mildenhall looked pointedly at where her uncle’s hand still held her arm in a vice-like grip and Lord Callandar finally released her, but she just stood there, looking so lost and alone that the viscount could not help himself. He drew her into his arms and held her close, rubbing his hands up and down her back. After an initial start of surprise, she leaned into him. He felt a flare of triumph at the way she was drawing comfort from him, even if it was only because nobody else was offering it.
Her uncle made a disparaging noise at the back of his throat and stalked off towards a knot of people who’d had the temerity to creep up the steps at the far end of the portico.
‘Better now?’ said Viscount Mildenhall presently, slackening his hold.
She nodded, stepping back and glancing around her guiltily, as though just becoming aware of their breach of etiquette.
Until her eyes snagged on the pillar where the man who claimed to be her brother had been standing. And gasped.
Lying on the ground was a small brown-paper packet.
She swooped on it like a hawk to the prey.
‘Imogen! Put that down this instant!’ her uncle bellowed.
She rounded on him, cheeks flushed, the gift clasped between both her hands as though she would fight anyone who attempted to take it from her. Then, without taking her eyes off her uncle, she began to sidle towards Viscount Mildenhall as though seeking sanctuary.
Viscount Mildenhall’s heart missed a beat. There was a damp patch on her gown where she had knelt on the flags to pick up the packet she was convinced came from her brother. Her glove had a green smear of moss on it, and petals from her bouquet were scattered all over the flagstones. Her bonnet had been knocked askew in the tussle with her uncle and her curls were falling into her eyes.
Now she looked like Midge! The girl who was more at home climbing trees after birds nests than flitting about drawing rooms. Midge, who had written such amazingly warm and witty letters to Rick, though he was not even her real brother. Who had cast her mantle of goodwill over him, too, congratulating him on his promotions, commiserating with him on his injuries and convincing him that somewhere out there, away from the hellish brutality of the battlefields that comprised his life, warmth and decency still existed.
He did not think he had ever seen a woman look more appealing. He felt a strong rush of affection for the impulsive, honest, direct woman he was about to take to wife.
Swiftly followed by a vision of spending a lifetime pulling her out of the scrapes her impulsive nature was bound to catapult her into.
‘I’d better take that,’ he said firmly, stepping in between her and her uncle. He placed his hands over hers, and lowered his voice, so that only she could hear him. ‘I will keep it safe for you. No need to provoke your uncle any further.’
She looked deep into his eyes, and though he could see a brief struggle taking place there, eventually she relented, relaxing her hold on the package and letting him take it from her.
‘We must have a long talk about all of this, later,’ he continued, slipping the package into an inside pocket, ‘and decide what is to be done. But for now…’ He held out his arm, and jerked his head in the direction of the church.
‘I…’ She straightened up, pushed her hair off her face and gripped her battered bouquet with renewed resolve. ‘I…’ She looked over her shoulder one more time, in the direction the Gypsy and then Rick had gone, and he saw a brief look of anguish flash across her face.
But then she took his arm. She did not merely lay her hand upon it, but linked her own arm through it, as though she needed something solid to cling to as he steered her away from her uncle, who had begun to harangue the crowd. He could feel tremors running through her whole body, but she kept her head held high even when the buzz of conversation within the church hushed into an expectant silence the moment they stepped over the threshold.
He bit back an oath. Everyone was looking at them as though he owed them an account of what had just taken place in the portico. Well, he was certainly not going to dither about in the doorway, answering a lot of questions about a business that was nobody’s concern but Midge’s! The best thing to do would be to get on with the ceremony as though nothing untoward had occurred.
Squaring his shoulders, he marched briskly down the aisle. So briskly in fact, that Midge had almost to trot to keep up with him.
Then he barked, ‘You may commence!’ to the rather startled clergyman.
Shocked gasps rippled through the congregation, which doubled when Lord Callandar came striding down the aisle on his own and took up his position behind the bridal couple, audibly muttering imprecations.
‘Are you sure you wish to proceed?’ the minister asked Midge, pointedly ignoring Viscount Mildenhall.
Her cheeks went pink, but her voice was firm as she declared, ‘I am!’ The minister looked at the way she was clinging to Viscount Mildenhall’s arm, appeared satisfied, and after clearing his throat loudly, opened his prayer book and intoned the opening words.
All went well until he asked who was giving the woman away. Lord Callandar prized Midge’s fingers from Monty’s arm and practically flung her hand into Monty’s extended palm. Then strode away, still muttering under his breath to take his place beside his own wife, who had such a frozen expression on her face she might have been modelling to be a waxwork dummy.
And from somewhere behind him Viscount Mildenhall heard a sound a bit like muffled coughing. A grin began to tug at his lips. It sounded suspiciously like that ne’er-do-well Hal Carlow trying desperately not to fall about laughing.
His stance eased. He would not mind letting just Hal know what had sparked off the whole episode. He didn’t think Midge would object, since Hal was a close friend of her brother, too. Actually, he reflected, she had not seemed to care if the world knew her brother was a Gypsy. She would have had him in the church, and probably introduced him to all and sundry, had he not slunk off into whatever back alley he had crawled from.
Lord, he grinned, that would have set the