But she did come out.
Not first. That was her brother, his new wife on his arm.
Then came an older man—her uncle, most probably—and that ancient woman Gregory had met at his sister’s ball.
And then…
Lucy.
In a wedding dress.
“Dear God,” he whispered.
She was walking freely. No one was forcing her.
Hermione said something to her, whispered in her ear.
And Lucy smiled.
She smiled.
Gregory began to gasp.
The pain was palpable. Real. It shot through his gut, squeezed at his organs until he could no longer move.
He could only stare.
And think.
“Did she tell you she wasn’t going to go through with it?” Colin whispered.
Gregory tried to say yes, but the word strangled him. He tried to recall their last conversation, every last word of it. She had said she must behave with honor. She had said she must do what was right. She had said that she loved him.
But she had never said that she would not marry Haselby.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
His brother laid his hand over his own. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Gregory watched as Lucy stepped up into the open carriage. The servants were still cheering. Hermione was fussing with her hair, adjusting the veil, then laughing when the wind lifted the gauzy fabric in the air.
This could not be happening.
There had to be an explanation.
“No,” Gregory said, because it was the only word he could think to say. “No.”
Then he remembered. The hand signal. The wave. She would do it. She would signal to him. Whatever had transpired in the house, she had not been able to halt the proceedings. But now, out in the open, where he could see, she would signal.
She had to. She knew he could see her.
She knew he was out there.
Watching her.
He swallowed convulsively, never taking his eyes off her right hand.
“Is everyone here?” he heard Lucy’s brother call out.