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“And so you gained a sister-in-law,” Stephanie said.

“I did indeed,” Maria said. “It was your brother who got married in Bath just before Christmas, was it not?”

“Yes,” Stephanie said. “Nicholas. It was a lovely wedding. Do you know Bath Abbey?”

Everyone else about them was chatting amicably. They all seemed happy to be here. Stephanie found herself gradually relaxing. If Bertrand had some agenda, then it was up to him to press forward with it, or not.

Will you allow me to persuade you if I can that merely settling for what is safe is not a good enough basis for a happy marriage? Will you let me try to convince you to save me from being compelled to make such a marriage myself?…You have my word, however, that I will never make you my prisoner, Stephanie. I want to set you free so you can freely give yourself to me.

Oh dear. At the time her mind had only really registered his plea to be allowed to convince her that there was nothing superior about him and nothing inferior about her. She had not dwelled upon the references to marriage until Owen had pointed out what he believed must be Bertrand’s motive in having her invited here.

How foolish of her to have forgotten those words of his.

…so you can freely give yourself to me.

Chapter Fourteen

“I do wish the weather would be a bit kinder,” the marchioness said at breakfast the following morning, looking toward the window and the cloud-laden sky beyond. “It has been like this for days now.”

“Did I not tell you, Viola?” the marquess said as he accepted a second cup of coffee. “I ordered blue skies and sunshine for this afternoon. The clouds will be gone by noon.”

She stared across the table at him with a look of deep skepticism. “Is that a promise?” she said.

“Certainly.” He smiled at her, all teeth. “Have I ever lied to you?”

“I shall refrain from answering that question,” she said. “I hope at least it does not rain.”

She had arranged a garden party for the afternoon. The whole neighborhood had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of guests at Redcliffe, she had explained, and it made sense to invite a large number of them to come all together right at the start.

Now if the weather would only cooperate.

There were contingency plans to move everything indoors if necessary, of course. There always had to be when one lived in a country where the weather was notoriously unpredictable. But the marquess hoped he would prove to be a prophet indeed and the sun would make an appearance by noon and shine benevolently down upon them for the rest of the day. And the marchioness decided that for once she would welcome his boasts that he had told her so.

In the meantime, the marquess and Bertrand took their houseguests who had never been to Redcliffe before on a tour of the house. It included a large reception room, the music room, the billiard room, and the glass conservatory, in which the air was always warm and humid and heavy with the aromas of the greenery with which it was filled. There were several cushioned wrought iron seats there and plush leather window seats. It had always been Bertrand’s favorite room in the house. He had spent many hours there as a boy, reading or merely breathing in the peace the conservatory never failed to impose upon him if he came there with an unquiet heart.

“A garden for the winter and for rainy days,” the dowager Countess of Stratton said. “How lovely it is, Marcel. Should we build one onto our cottage, do you think, Matthew?”

He laughed. “I think the view out over the river from our parlor is lovely enough,” he said.

“You are right, of course,” she said.

“This would be my favorite room if I lived here,” Stephanie said. “It so perfectly melds the outdoors and the indoors.”

They moved on to the ballroom, with its highly polished wood floor and two large crystal chandeliers overhead and mirrors along one wall to give the illusion of extra size.

“How I would love to waltz here,” Maria said, gazing all about in wonder.

“At your service, my lady,” Owen said, bowing before her with a flourish and extending one hand to lead her out onto the floor. He twirled her off into the steps of a waltz as he hummed an appropriate tune and she was convulsed with helpless laughter.

Adrian Sawyer drew Stephanie onto the floor to dance with them. Peter Wayne and Matthew Taylor clapped out the rhythm.

Bertrand smiled. This was all very pleasant. In particular, Stephanie seemed to be relaxed and enjoying herself. The anxiety he had felt for the past weeks began to evaporate. He was not going to rush anything. At the same time, he was not going to hold back until the very end, as he had done last summer at Ravenswood—with disastrous results. He was not going to allow her to forget all about Vauxhall or suppress the memory of the passion that had flared between them for a few brief minutes.

They went to the portrait gallery next, though it was nothing to compare in size or grandeur to the long gallery at Ravenswood. Bertrand listened as his father identified each of the ancestors pictured there and explained that unfortunately, he knew little more than their names and approximate dates.

“Though I fancy I look a bit like the dashing Cavalier, who probably lost his head to the forces of Oliver Cromwell during the civil war,” he said of one of the paintings. “Do you not think I would look splendid sporting one of those pointed beards and wearing one of those feathered hats, worn just so, Stephanie?”

“Absolutely to swoon over,” she said.