𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

Epilogue

LADY MARAGRET SEYMOUR PURSED her lips tightly as she took a seat in the pew beside her eldest son, Adam Seymour, who, in stark contrast— bore an expression of the utmost amusement on his round features.

"For goodness' sake, Adam," The Lady chastised. "Wipe that grin off your face."

Lord Adam Seymour shrugged.

"And why must I do that?" He grinned some more, "My younger brother is getting married to the woman you have never approved of. I mean, you tried to saddle her off with Victor Colston of all middle aged widowers! And by god, Oscar used to avoid her like the plague on every Sunday at church. So forgive me, mother, if I find this situation amusing."

Lady Margaret Seymour's jaw slackened, as she fought for a reprieve. But none came so she turned her face away and bit her lip.

People walked into the church, their dresses rustling against the hardwood floor, their voices a mixture of happy declarations and hushed greetings.

Lady Margaret Seymour turned her head back, just in time to watch two of her sisters slide into the pew behind her.

"Goodness, Margaret," Lady Hyacinth Kirkpatrick mused, revelling much in her elder sister's disdain. "Quite a morning for a wedding is it not?"

"Quite a wedding for it too," Lady Ruth Beaumont winked, sitting and touching her bonnet with a careful gloved hand.

Lady Margaret huffed, not trusting herself to say anything, before turning away from her sisters to glance at her son who had quickly become the very source of her displeasure.

Lord Oscar Seymour stood beside the rector of their small parish of Southampton. He was polished to perfection. His smile etched onto him, and his physique radiating all sorts of confidence and manner of happiness that puzzled his mother immensely.

She had tried to wreck her brain so many times, every manner of self interrogation had failed.

How had this happened?

It wasn't until the fall tea party at Lady Beckley's that Lady Seymour had realized that the question she sought the answer to so desperately was not just on her lips. The poor Lady had sat through the tea party tossing and turning, sipping heavenly tea that made her feel quite the opposite.

And now, fighting against her youngest son's ridiculous inclinations and trying to get him to change his mind, Lady Margaret had gotten herself place at the front pew— in full view of the rector's toothy grin that she had promised herself to ignore.

"Oh god," The Lady Seymour murmered, wishing once more, for the almighty to do something. Anything.

"Where are Rebecca and her husband?" She asked her oldest son, nudging him with her elbow.

"At the back," Adam shrugged, his eyes darting back and forth from his younger brother to the rector.

Lady Margaret turned and indeed found the heads of her daughter and son-in-law in one of the back pews over what seemed like dozens of heads full of features and top hats.

"Is the entire parish here?" She shrieked quietly at Adam, her voice a furious whisper. "Why are they all here?"

"Mother," Adam turned to look at his shaking parent, "Nobody wants to miss this."

"And I mean," He shrugged letting out a laugh, "Nobody deserves to miss this."

Lady Margaret's hands fisted, the need for violence on her son tempting, excruciatingly desirable. She turned her head away from him, glancing back once more to look at the entering guests.