“Did you strike your head when you fell?”

“No… at least I do not recall doing so.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, my. I believe I need to he down.”

Meredith immediately led Lady Sarah toward the chintz-covered chaise in the far corner of the room, helping the young woman recline against the pillows.

“Mon Dieu,” came Madame Renee’s voice from the doorway. “What has happened?”

“Lady Sarah is feeling unwell,” Meredith reported, trying to keep her voice calm. She touched her hand to Lady Sarah’s brow, relieved when she discerned no signs of fever. “She’s suffering from the headache.”

“Ah, do not be concerned, Mademoiselle Meredith,” Madame said. “I see this always with zee nervous brides. I shall brew her my special tisane and she will feel très magnifique this quickly.” She snapped her fingers.

Meredith looked down at Lady Sarah’s waxy complexion, and prayed Madame’s assessment was correct. But at least the wedding was still two days away. Surely that would be more than sufficient time for Lady Sarah to recover.

Surely it would.

Two

Pacing the confines of the small private office off an alcove near the vestry at St. Paul’s, Philip Whitmore, Viscount Greybourne, prayed for all he was worth that his bride would not show up.

His stomach cramping with tension, he pulled his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted the time. Mere minutes remained before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Would Lady Sarah come? God help me if she does.

Damn it all, what an utterly impossible situation this was. Had he made Lady Sarah understand? He’d only had that one opportunity to speak privately with her, when he’d dined at her father’s townhouse the evening before last. Due to her suffering a fall earlier in the day and subsequently finding herself the victim of a vicious headache, she had not joined the party for dinner. He squeezed his eyes shut. First the fall and then the headache. Bloody hell, he’d feared it would come to this.