Improperly Wed. Anna DePalo
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in different Manhattan neighborhoods, and were busy pursuing different careers—Tamara’s being in jewelry design while wedding planning had always been Pia’s dream—they had become fast friends.
Though Tamara was the daughter of a British viscount, Belinda had not met her as part of the aristocratic set in England because Tamara had grown up mostly in the United States, after her American-born mother had divorced her titled husband. Too bad—her free-thinking bohemian friend would have been a breath of fresh air in Belinda’s stilted, structured adolescence. Tamara had never met a trend that she didn’t want to buck—a trait that Belinda couldn’t help but admire. Pia was more like herself, though her friend came from a middle-class background in rural Pennsylvania.
“Don’t worry,” Belinda joked, guessing the reason for Pia’s call, “I’m still alive and kicking. I intend to be granted my freedom from the marquess if it’s the last thing that I do.”
“Oh, B-Belinda, I-I-I wish there was something I could do,” Pia said, her stutter making a rare appearance.
“Colin and I made this mess, and we’ll have to be the ones to clean it up.”
Belinda regretted the repercussions for Pia’s wedding-planning business from the nuptial disaster on Saturday. She’d thought only of helping her friend’s career when she’d asked Pia to be her wedding planner instead of her bridesmaid—despite knowing Pia was a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. Unfortunately, none of her plans for Saturday had worked out well.
Damn, Colin.
Since she’d had a three-way phone conversation with Pia and Tamara only yesterday, and Pia had just arrived in Atlanta for business today, Belinda sensed there might be more reason for her friend’s call than an opportunity to chat.
Because she was not one to skirt an issue, unless it involved her husband—not to be confused with her groom—she went straight to the point. “I know you wouldn’t be calling without a reason.”
“W-well,” Pia said delicately, “I wish this conversation could take place at a later time, but there is the issue of what announcement to send, if any, with regard to Saturday’s, er, interrupted nuptials. And then, of course, the wedding gifts—”
“Send them all back,” Belinda cut in.
She was an optimist but also a realist. She didn’t know for sure how long it would take to bring the marquess to heel at least long enough to grant her an annulment or divorce.
“Okay.” Pia sounded relieved and uncertain at the same time. “Are you sure, because—”
“I’m sure,” Belinda interrupted. “And as far as a statement, I don’t think one is necessary. A wedding announcement would no longer be appropriate obviously, and anything else would be unnecessary. Thanks in part to Mrs. Hollings, I believe everyone is in the know about Saturday’s events.”
“What about you and Tod?” Pia asked. “Will you be able to, ah, patch things up?”
Belinda thought back to the events of Saturday.
Outside the church, Tod had caught up with her, apparently having exited the confrontation with Colin soon after she had. They’d had a short and uncomfortable conversation. While he had tried to maintain a stiff upper lip, Tod had still seemed flabbergasted, annoyed and embarrassed.
She’d handed his engagement ring back to him. It had seemed like the only decent thing to do. She’d just discovered she was still married to another man, after all.
Then she had ducked into the white Rolls Royce at the curb, relieved to have attained privacy at last. She had been quivering with emotion ever since Colin’s voice had rung out at the church.
Belinda sighed. “Tod is perplexed and angry, and under the circumstances, I can hardly blame him.”
She winced when she thought about her glaring omission—not telling him about her elopement. Her only excuse was that she could hardly bear to think about it herself. It was too painful.
She hadn’t been able to live down her uncharacteristic behavior, and then it had come barging in in the form of a tall, imposing aristocrat who aroused passionate reactions in her.
Pia cleared her throat. “So matters between you and Tod are …?”
“On hold. Indefinitely,” Belinda confirmed. “He’s waiting for me to resolve this situation, and then we’ll decide where we’ll go from there.”
Pia said nothing for a moment. “So you don’t want to issue any public statement…for clarification?”
“Are you volunteering to be my publicist?” Belinda joked.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I issued a public statement or a press release for a bride,” Pia responded. “Media relations is part of the job for society wedding planners these days.”
Belinda sighed. “What could I say, besides confirming that I am in fact still married to Easterbridge?”
“I see your point,” Pia conceded, “and I don’t disagree. But I thought I’d give you the opportunity to respond to Mrs. Hollings if you want to.”
“No, thanks.”
The last thing Belinda wanted was for this scandal to play out in the media. After all, a public statement by her might just invite Easterbridge to issue his own clarifications.
She would try to deal with Colin privately and discreetly—even if she had to go beard the lion in his den. She wanted to avoid further scandal, if possible. She knew it was a slippery slope from retaining lawyers to sending threatening letters and ultimately going through an ugly and public divorce.
“What the devil has gotten into you, Belinda?” Uncle Hugh said, coming around his desk as Belinda stepped into the library of his town house in London’s Mayfair neighborhood.
The mark of disapproval was stamped all over her uncle’s face.
She was being called to account. She, Belinda Wentworth, had done what none of her ancestors had—betrayed her heritage by marrying a Granville.
Belinda knew when she’d gone to London on business that she’d be compelled to pay a visit at the Mayfair town house. She had been able to escape in-depth conversations—and explanations—with her relatives directly after the wedding by departing the church forthwith and having Pia run interference for her at the show-must-go-on reception afterward. Her family had also been preoccupied with trying to save face with the assembled guests—to the extent such a thing was possible.
She glanced above the mantel at the Gainsborough painting of Sir Jonas Wentworth. The poor man was probably turning in his grave.
The London house had been in the Wentworth clan for generations. Like many other highborn families, the Wentworths had fought tooth and nail to hang on to a fashionable Mayfair address that carried a certain cache, if no longer necessarily signifying generations of quality breeding due to the growing number of new money.
Though the Wentworths were not titled, they descended from a younger branch of the Dukes of Pelham and had intermarried with many other aristocratic families over the years—save, of course, for the despised Granvilles. Thus, they considered themselves as blue-blooded as anybody.
“This is quite a tangle that you’ve created,” her uncle went on as a servant rolled in a cart bearing the preparations for afternoon tea.
Belinda worried her bottom lip. “I know.”
“It must be resolved forthwith.”
“Of course.”
As the servant left the room, Uncle Hugh gestured for Belinda to sit down.
“Well, what are you going to do to fix this mess?” he asked as they both sat, she on the sofa and he in a nearby armchair.
By force of habit, Belinda leaned forward to fix tea. It gave