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“If you’re going to go, Diantha, you’d best do so.”

The footsteps came to a stop outside the door.

She catapulted herself into Simon’s arms.

He kissed her, so well and thoroughly that she was only vaguely aware of the door opening.

A shriek loud enough to break glass had her pulling back from the kiss, but Simon kept her wrapped in his arms.

“Good Heavens!”

It was Olive Morgan, wearing a look of astonishment Diantha would have thought genuine if she didn’t know better.

“Lord Marsden! What are you doing? Unhand the lady this instant! Oh, my nerves! I think I’m going to faint!”

It wasn’t long before a small crowd assembled. Someone produced smelling salts for Olive, who appeared magically refreshed but sniffed them anyway.

Lord Stonely pushed himself to the front of the crowd. “Marsden!” There was, Diantha thought, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Marsden!” Lord Harcourt appeared, and there was no amusement in his. “Have you lost your mind?”

This was it. Time to make her choice. But of course, it wasn’t a choice. Or perhaps it was the only choice. Perhaps Simon had always been Diantha’s only choice. Something in her must have known it all along, for why would she have made that reckless appearance in this same place two months ago?

She untangled herself from Simon and said, “It is all right, my lord. We are engaged to be married.”

Epilogue

The Groom was Resplendent in Yellow

Simon Courteney, Earl of Marsden, and Miss Diantha Brown request the honor of your presence at their wedding, to be held on the fifteenth day of November, 1823, at ten o’clock in the morning at Galecroft.

It was a rather unconventional wedding invitation, as these things went. There was no mention of the parents of either party.

It was a rather unconventional wedding, too. It was attended by only seven people. The bride was escorted by the groom’s best friend, who had easily forgiven her for almost accidentally ruining his family, and the groom walked off his nerves before the ceremony with the widow of his late brother.

The bride wore a new dress trimmed with lemon-yellow ribbon, and the groom wore a waistcoat to match. It was, he thought, a truly preposterous garment, but it made both his betrothed and his valet happy, and he was content to make himself ridiculous in service of such a cause.

In front of their friends and the vicar in the chapel at Galecroft where Simon used to hide away and read when he was a boy, they pledged themselves to each other. They signed the papers, and everyone cheered.

Then Simon spirited his bride away before they joined the wedding breakfast. He took her to the graves of his brothers.

“I would like to make this into a happier, softer tableau.” As it was, the stones stood alone, unadorned in the center of the garden. “I intend to plant some flowers in the spring.” He planned to pick some of the flowers and press them between the pages of books he would go on to lend to her. Not that they would replace those that her sister had sent, but perhaps she, like he, would feel the beauty of a fresh start. “I should like this to be a place I want to come. A place we want to come.”

“I can see it,” Diantha said. “Perhaps we can take a picnic lunch here from time to time.”

“Yes. And perhaps sometimes Frances can join us.”

“I intend to press your case with her at breakfast.”

“Yes, do try to make friends with her. I fear I am not enough to lure her to the dower house, but I wager you are.”

“Do you know,” Diantha said, “I think Frances was the only one who wasn’t weepy at the ceremony?”

“Yes, one expects an excess of sentiment from Effie, but wasn’t Archie surprisingly overcome?”

“It’s hard to imagine he is the same gentleman who threatened my brother-in-law at knifepoint.”

“Indeed.” Simon and the boys had made a quick, ruthless trip to Barbury and extracted the damning letter. Probably Simon shouldn’t have dictated all the details to Diantha, but he wanted her to understand that she had nothing to worry about. That he—and his friends—would always protect her. That she was no longer alone.