The True Love Wedding Dress by Catherine Anderson

neckcloth, and what was filling them to perfection. She could feel warmth come to her own cheeks. “Are you feeling quite the thing, my lord? We met the day before yesterday, you know.”
    “I do know that. I mean before. For a moment I thought—”
    “Impossible,” Katie replied before the viscount could say anything else. “Unless you have traveled through Brookville in the past. I have not been out of Devon since before Susannah’s birth.”
    Forde’s brows were lowered, as if he were trying to dredge forth a distant memory. “No, I have never—”
    “And here is Susannah now,” Katie quickly said, pulling her daughter over to be introduced to her prospective uncle-by-marriage.
    The girl was not what Forde had been expecting, although Gerald would never have fallen for the painted doxy he’d been picturing. Well, he might have fallen, but he was wise enough despite his years to know one did not marry a light skirt. Miss Cole was a pretty young chit with blond curls and blue eyes, a pale complexion, and her mother’s determined chin. She had some of her mother’s poise, too, not simpering or blushing shyly as so many of the debutantes did. There was no mistaking her rosebud innocence, however, in sprigged muslin with ribbons in her hair. She was a bit shorter than Mrs. Cole, and daintier, like a china shepherdess.
    Gerald had said she liked long walks, and the girl must help with the livestock and the gardens and the cottage if the family was as hard-pressed as it appeared, with so few servants. So Miss Susannah Cole was no hothouse bloom, either. He could see where the combination of delicacy and vigor might fascinate a man, especially a young, idealistic, untried fellow like Gerald.
    “Susannah,” Mrs. Cole was saying, “why do you not take his lordship to meet the other guests while I see about dinner?”
    The girl made the introductions as properly as any miss fresh from finishing school. He doubted his nieces could do as well, for all their years of governesses and expensive lessons. She offered him a glass of Madeira before leaving him with the squire while she went to pour one for Lady Martindale.
    Squire Doddsworth was older than Forde, hefty, hearty, and hunt-mad. He would chase down anything furred, feathered, or finned, it seemed, and expound at length on the challenges of each. His eldest son, the only one ready for polite company, was a rangy youth dressed in yellow pantaloons and shirt collars so high they almost, but not quite, hid his protuberant ears. He stared at Forde’s neckcloth with such intensity, trying to memorize the folds, that the viscount took pity. He offered to let his valet teach Roland how to tie the knot, which earned him a fervent prayer of gratitude.
    “Lud, I hope he outgrows it soon,” the squire muttered after the young man hurried off to boast to Miss Louisa Carlson, the vicar’s daughter, of his promised treat.
    “What, the lad’s propensity toward dandyism, or his obvious attraction to Miss Carlson?”
    “Oh, the nonsense about becoming a man-milliner. My eldest son ought to be studying agriculture, not how to be a fashionable fribble.”
    Forde cleared his throat, not due to the congestion.
    “Gads, I’m not implying any insult to yourself, needless to say, or your valet’s skill. That neckcloth of yours is a work of art the likes of which are seldom seen in our corner of the world. My fool of a son would have the cows laughing at him if he dressed so fine. As for Louisa, they’ve known each other since the cradle. Never looked at anyone else, either of them. A June wedding it’ll be.”
    Now that was a match made in heaven, Forde thought. The two youngsters had everything in common, including a long-standing friendship, as opposed to Gerald and Miss Cole, who came from different social classes, different upbringings, and a handful of months’ association. Here, too, both families seemed to approve wholeheartedly. The vicar and his wife were smiling