Trapped at the Altar by Jane Feather Page A

“Beautiful, Miss Ari. What about the emerald pendant to set off your betrothal ring?”
    She had to wear the ring, of course, Ariadne remembered. Since her grandfather had watched Ivor put it on her finger, she had shut it away in the small box whereshe kept the very few pieces of jewelry her mother had given her, but tonight she must wear it. “Fetch the box, will you, Tilly?”
    Tilly clattered back up the stairs and came back with the japanned box. Ariadne opened it and looked at the contents. The emerald pendant would go beautifully with the gown and, of course, the ring, as Tilly had pointed out. There were also matching ear drops. She took them out, holding them on the palm of her hand, and then, with a grim little smile, she screwed them into her earlobes. In for a penny, in for a guinea.
    She fastened the pendant at her throat, watching the way the light caught it as it rested against the white skin above the cleft of her breasts, seeming to lead the eye down to what lay concealed beneath the lacy neckline. And good luck to the voyeur, she thought, before slipping the heavy ring on her finger.
    â€œWell, I’m ready.”
    â€œNot until you put some shoes on,” a voice said calmly from behind her. Ivor had opened the door without ceremony, just as if nothing were out of the ordinary. They had been running in and out of each other’s house for years, and his sudden appearance now seemed to imply that nothing had changed. He stepped into the room, still holding the door latch. “Do you know you have bare feet, Ari?”
    His voice sounded normal, none of the icy bitterness of earlier, and she felt a wash of relief at the lightly amused tone, even though she knew it was an act, one they had to put on for the evening. This was no time to show them-selvespublicly estranged. She turned on her stool, forcing herself to adopt the same tone, the easy familiarity of their usual discourse. “Actually, for the moment, I had forgotten. You look very splendid, Ivor.”
    It was true, he did. Instead of his usual leather britches, linen shirt, woolen jerkin, and riding boots, he wore black velvet britches, buttoned below the knee, plain black stockings, and a gold silk coat with flared skirts. His shoe buckles sparked silver, and his chestnut hair, usually tied at his nape, now curled in a shining fall on his collar.
    â€œLord, Miss Ari, you’ve got no stockings on, neither,” Tilly exclaimed, flinging up her hands. “What can I have been thinking?”
    â€œDon’t blame yourself, Tilly. I was the one getting dressed,” Ariadne replied with a shake of her head. “I’d better wear the silk pair, don’t you think?”
    â€œI’ll wait outside.” Ivor stepped back into the darkening evening, closing the door firmly. At least Ari had followed his cue. This evening was going to be difficult enough as it was without making their estrangement too obvious to the elders of the Council, or indeed to anyone in the village. Ari was about to have the ground cut from beneath her feet, and he dreaded to think how she was going to react, but he didn’t dare to prepare her ahead of time. The whole object of the exercise, distasteful though he found it, was to ensure that she couldn’t bolt.
    Ari hitched her skirts and petticoats up to her knees to draw on the silk stockings. She tied the garters just above her knee and then slipped her feet into red silk slippers.She stood up, shaking down her skirts. “How do I look, Tilly?”
    â€œPerfect, miss. Sir Ivor is a lucky man.” Tilly smoothed down a fold in the skirt and adjusted a ruff at Ari’s wrist as she spoke, adding wistfully, “Just think, miss, next week you’ll be a married lady. Aren’t you excited?”
    Ari contented herself with a vague smile and a muttered response that could have meant anything. She went to open the cottage door.
    Ivor looked her over with a