Free The Memory of Your Kiss by Wilma Counts Page B

Sydney poked her head out the window for one last good-bye, she caught sight of Zachary standing behind the crowd. He leaned against one of the columns of the portico on the Hall, arms crossed over his chest staring at the ground. Her heart wrenched at the bereft expression on his face.
    It was the last she would see of him for nearly four years.

CHAPTER 8
    D etermined that she would be a good wife to Henry, Sydney had few reservations about her coming wedding night. She knew essentially what to expect—had she not assured her father that she knew about “the birds and the bees”? Still, she was nervous; she did know the basics, but there were glaring gaps in this part of her education.
    Maisie, who had helped her into and out of the wedding gown, then into her travel clothes, now helped her remove those and don a sheer silk and lace concoction that was intended as a nightgown. Sydney felt suddenly shy in front of the maid and tried to cover her embarrassment with small talk.
    “I must say, Maisie, I do appreciate your help. Dressing is far more complicated for a countess that it ever was for a vicar’s daughter.”
    “Aye, my lady. Fancier dress has more pins and tapes.”
    “You’d think people who could invent steam engines and construct huge bridges could devise simple closings for women’s dresses.” She knew she was babbling, for, now that the moment was upon her, she was increasingly apprehensive.
    “Yes, ma’am.” Maisie hung the traveling dress in the armoire, folded the other garments, put them away, then turned to dealing with her mistress’s hair.
    Sydney sat on a stool in front of the dressing table as Maisie combed out the upswept hairdo. “And that’s another thing. It would seem I must now spend much more time on my appearance every day.”
    Maisie, who was only two years older than her mistress, smiled and said, “Married ladies of the ton generally do, I think.” She finished brushing out the light-brown tresses which now hung below Sydney’s shoulders and ended in soft curls. “Will that be all, my lady?”
    “Yes. Thank you, Maisie.” It occurred to Sydney that Maisie delighted in saying “my lady.” After all, Maisie had, in an instant, gone from being a vicar’s general purpose maid—doing whatever needed to be done in that understaffed busy household—to being a lady’s personal maid in a great house.
    As Maisie left, Sydney moved to a comfortable couch near the fireplace to wait for Henry. She reviewed what had surely been one of the most eventful days of her life, but she refused to dwell on Zachary’s having been there. Should they ever meet again, it would be as mere acquaintances. She gazed about her, aware of the movement and muffled voices of her husband and his valet on the other side of the door to the adjoining room.
    Her husband.
    She looked about the room to avoid going where that thought was leading. It was an attractive room with pale blue and silver silk bed draperies and dark blue velvet drapes at the windows. The light gray marble fireplace and oyster-colored furniture showed the previous generation’s obsession with Egyptian decoration. The colors here reflected those of the countess’s bedchamber and sitting room at the Hall.
    She was startled out of these musings by a knock at the connecting door to Henry’s room. He entered dressed in a dark maroon robe, awkwardly carrying a decanter and two glasses which he set on a low table in front of her before settling himself next to her.
    “I thought a bit of cognac would be in order,” he said, splashing the liquid into the glasses. “Helps one relax.” He handed a glass to her, then touched his glass to hers. “Here’s to us, my dear.”
    She gave him a tentative smile, drank, and promptly coughed at the burning sensation in her throat. She felt her eyes watering at the fumes. “I—I’m not used to—”
    He grinned. “Just sip it slowly.”
    She did so and felt warmth spread through