Chapter 26

Marcus checks his watch again. Lydia subscribes to the idea of being "fashionably late," a concept that Marcus personally cannot stand. His mother does it, too, and it drives him up the wall.

In Marcus's view, a dinner reservation is for seven, you should arrive at the restaurant by seven at least, if not a few minutes before. To do otherwise is disrespectful to the establishment and the workers' time.

However, he can't seem to get the rest of his upper-class society fellows to agree with him. Marcus sighs and tries not to glance at his watch again. He swirls his whisky and tries to focus on the chatter in the living room where he's sitting.

Lydia's mother is sitting on the settee across from him, chatting amiably to the man on her right. He's a doctor, Marcus believes, and is there to pick up Lydia's younger sister for their date. The doctor seems to be in no hurry to get their evening moving along; in fact, he seems more than happy to drink fine whisky and engage in this mindless nattering.

A shrill laugh rings across the room, and Marcus does his best not to wince. Werewolves have exceptionally keen hearing, even in their human form, and Lydia's mother could cut glass with her voice after she's had a few drinks.

A few drinks, indeed. Marcus tries not to judge, but honestly. It's quarter past seven in the evening, and he has a feeling that Lydia's father will be guiding her mother to bed before supper at this rate.

"And what about you, Marcus?"

Marcus blinks and looks up from his whisky, both irritated and sheepish that he's been caught out in not paying attention. He's being rude, he knows that, but god damn it. Where the hell is Lydia, and why can't they get going?

"I'm so sorry, ma'am, I missed what you said," Marcus says, giving his most charming grin to Lydia's mother. Luckily, she seems too tipsy to be bothered by his inattention.

"I said, which do you prefer? A summer wedding, or a winter one? Oh, I just think that Lydia would look so darling during a winter wedding. She has the coloring for it, you know, all that dark hair against the white snowy backdrop. We could do a ballet theme – The Snow Queen, perhaps."

"I myself said I'd prefer a summer wedding," the doctor cuts in jovially. "Annette would look stunning in a forest wedding, you know, if we decided to go traditional. A spring maiden against the newly green leaves and all that. Get back to our roots."

Marcus just barely manages to refrain from snorting. He's unsurprised that the doctor is so keen to nail down a match with Annette; her family is exceedingly wealthy, while the doctor comes from a good family that squandered all their money at least two generations ago.

"A winter wedding, certainly," Marcus says. His response is mere politeness at the offset, but then he finds himself considering the matter more seriously.

"Yes, a winter wedding – the ballet theme is a lovely idea," he muses. "Backdrops of snowfall and icicles, a long, fur-lined cape to match the bride's gown. Rosy cheeks and a champagne fountain."

Lydia's mother looks eager, like the cat who swallowed the canary.

"Indeed!" she says, gushing as she turns to face Marcus more directly. "Lydia would look so darling coming down the aisle, a string orchestra surely, and that fur cape is just a wonderful idea, Marcus. I had no idea you were so interested in fashion. What a delightful quality in a man."

Marcus internally jolts, feeling unsettled. Because it wasn't Lydia whom he was picturing in that winter wedding scene – it was Nicole. Her dark hair curling softly around her face, pale skin offset by that ice-blue cape.

God damn it. He needs to get a grip; he can't go on like this. He's promised to make a fair go of it with Lydia, and he needs to at least try. Instead, he's sitting here in her mother's living room, daydreaming about getting married to another woman while he waits for Lydia to finish dressing.

Marcus wonders if Nicole believes in making dinner reservations on time. Something tells him that she does.

"Marcus, darling!" Lydia finally comes swanning down the staircase, draped in a navy-blue evening gown and fastening a strand of pearls around her neck. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, dear, but you know how we girls are with our outfits. Every piece must be in place!"

"Of course," Marcus says, knocking back the rest of his whisky and setting it on the silver tray placed on the coffee table.

"And speaking of that, Mother, I do need you to do something about Jessie," Lydia says, fussing with the hem of her gown. "The first gown I took out to wear hadn't been steamed properly. If that girl can't do her job properly, I need you to find me someone who can."

"Good heavens," her mother says, tutting as she pours herself another generous whisky from the decanter. "I do say, Marcus, I had no idea how hard it would be to find decent help around here when we moved over from Europe. I'll have to ask your mother if she has any recommendations."

"I'm sure Mother would be happy to complain about disappointing help with you any time," Marcus says drily. He can't abide this nonsense – firing people over a few wrinkles in a dress. For goodness' sake, what does it matter? The dress will get creased just on the car ride to the restaurant, anyway.

"Well, I suppose we best be going," Marcus says, offering an arm to Lydia and biting back a remark about how they're going to be almost an hour late at this point. Rude, rude, rude. He's quite good friends with Roberto, the restaurant owner, and he's going to have to make a personal apology about this.

"Oh, yes, do have a wonderful time, you two," her mother titters from the couch, pink-cheeked and scheming. "Don't worry about getting her home at a certain time, Marcus; I know you're a gentleman who can be trusted."

Marcus gives a slight bow but says nothing else as he escorts Lydia to the door. For god's sake, this is the 21st century, but so many people in his social set insist on behaving as though they all live in a Jane Austen novel.

Aside from the complaint about her maid, Lydia is on her best date behavior. She chatters charmingly with Marcus in the car, she apologizes graciously to the hostess at the restaurant, she talks fluently about the wine with the sommelier. She's the perfect woman…or at least, she should be.

But she isn't. She isn't Nicole, and Marcus feels nothing when he's with her. He feels like a shadow of himself, or perhaps a false projection of himself. He's an image of who he's supposed to be, who he was raised to be – he's not truly him.

Still, he's polite and charming himself throughout the whole evening, and he sees Lydia in and accepts another whisky before he's able to pry free and get back into his car. He slumps in the backseat as he's driven home, feeling dejected.

Where in god's name is Nicole? And why does Evelyn, the new doctor he ran into briefly in the corridor last week, remind him so much of her?