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She really was a hopeless romantic—about other people, anyway.

The Westcotts, the family of which Winifred was a part, were seated on the other side of the aisle. There were far more of them than there were Wares, almost all of them strangers to Stephanie, except the Cunninghams. And, presumably, Viscount Watley. She had not turned her head to look at any of them. She would deal with that later, though on the whole she was looking forward to meeting them all—the family into which her brother was marrying. She wished it did not include him. Though perhaps he was not here. There was little hope of that, however. She could almost feel him.

A greater hush fell upon the gathered families.

“Dearly beloved,” the clergyman began.

Stephanie could never get through a wedding service without having to contend with tears. This one was no exception. She blinked furiously and sank her teeth into her upper lip as Nicholas spoke his vows in a firm, clear voice. And then she noticed that her sister beside her was doing the identical things. Without looking at her, Pippa reached across and squeezed her hand, and they both dabbed surreptitiously at their eyes again a few moments later when their brother smiled at his bride and slid the ring Owen handed him onto her finger.

How absolutely lovely it must be…

“Owen did not even pretend to drop the ring,” Pippa whispered, and now it was not tears Stephanie had to suppress but a snort of laughter. Oh, how closely linked tears and laughter were on occasions like this. Pippa squeezed her hand harder.

There was an honor guard of mounted cavalry waiting outside the abbey doors for the bride and groom to emerge, though by the time Stephanie arrived there with her sister and brother-in-law, the riders had raised their lances and moved their horses back a few paces to allow guests to pass between them. By then the newlywed couple were fleeing across the cobbles of the abbey yard, past the Roman Baths and the Pump Room and on out to the street where their carriage awaited them. The yard behind them was strewn with flower petals various young relatives had showered over them, though where they had found the blooms at this time of the year Stephanie could not imagine. And then, before the pursuers were more than halfway across the yard, there came the deafening sound of old pots and pans clashing together as the carriage drew away from the curb to make its way up the steep hill to the Upper Assembly Rooms for the wedding breakfast.

Members of both families pressed their hands over their ears as they hurried to catch a glimpse of the carriage before it disappeared. It was decked out with winter greenery, Stephanie could see.

—

Nicholas and Winifred were greeting their guests inside the famed Upper Rooms by the time Stephanie arrived there with her mother and Matthew. She hugged them as tears swam in her eyes again. They looked so happy! She moved about the room with her mother and Matthew as they introduced themselves to the Westcott family, of which Alexander Westcott, Earl of Riverdale, was the head. He was a tall, handsome man. His wife was very beautiful despite a large strawberry birthmark on one side of her face. It was brave of her not to try to disguise it with cosmetics or clusters of curls. And wise of her too, for after the first shocked moment one scarcely noticed it. They were a charming couple.

Stephanie took particular note of the Duke of Netherby and his wife, Winifred’s beloved Aunt Anna. He was somehow a formidable-looking gentleman despite the fact that he was rather small and slender. But he did not bluster, as many small men tended to do in Stephanie’s experience. Instead, he was dressed quite exquisitely and had a somewhat distant air that discouraged overfamiliarity or impudence. His duchess seemed just the opposite. She was warm and smiling and hugged Stephanie after shaking hands with her mother and Matthew.

“Sister of the groom,” the duchess said. “And Winifred’s particular friend, or so she tells me. I am delighted. Winifred has been dear to me ever since I taught her at the orphanage school in Bath, an overearnest little girl who tried too hard to be liked.”

“I do believe, Anna,” the Duke of Netherby said, his voice coming on something of a sigh, “that was back in the days when you wore those abominable shoes.”

“I was very proud of those shoes, Avery,” she said, laughing. “They were smart and serviceable and expensive. I saved for months before I could afford to buy them.”

He regarded her with a languid boredom that somehow failed to hide something more hot and intimate, Stephanie thought with a jolt of interest.

They met Lord and Lady Hodges. Lady Hodges introduced herself as Elizabeth, sister of the Earl of Riverdale, and her husband as Colin, brother of the countess.

“If I were you,” Lord Hodges said, smiling at each of them, “I would not try to remember all the names by which we various members of the Westcott family are known. There are more than enough of us, heaven knows. There are fewer of you. We are delighted to make your acquaintance.”

They met Mr. Harry Westcott and Mr. Gilbert Bennington and their wives. Mr. Bennington had a nasty scar slashing right across his face—a war wound, Stephanie guessed. He was a large man and had an upright military bearing. Mr. Westcott and Mrs. Bennington were Mrs. Cunningham’s brother and sister, Mrs. Bennington explained.

“And now I believe we have met all the Wares,” she said. “Let me see if I remember correctly. Mrs. Ellis, the lady in the wheelchair, is the sister of the Duke of Wilby, who married your daughter, Lady Stratton.”

“Correct,” Stephanie’s mother said.

“And Mr. Clarence Ware is your nephew, not your son?” she said.

“Correct again,” Mama said. “He is the son of Charles and Marian Ware, my late husband’s brother and sister-in-law. They are over there, talking with the duke and duchess.”

“I still think you will have a harder time remembering all of us,” Mr. Westcott said. “And good luck with the children. I would not even bother trying if I were you.”

The children, who had been quiet and on their best behavior as well as stiff in their best clothes, were beginning to find one another and move into groups and grow bolder and noisier. Stephanie smiled indulgently at them. How she had loved social gatherings at which children were permitted when she was a child.

But she was brought jolting back to the present when the Marquess and Marchioness of Dorchester came to introduce themselves. They were a handsome couple, Stephanie thought as the women hugged and the men exchanged handshakes.

“What a happy occasion this is,” the marchioness said. “Can you imagine a more glorious setting for a wedding than Bath Abbey or a more impressive venue for a wedding breakfast than the Upper Assembly Rooms?”

“And with the whole of Bath for a backdrop,” Mama said.

The marchioness was Mrs. Cunningham’s mother, Stephanie thought. And the marquess, still ruggedly handsome though he must surely be in his fifties, was—

“This is my daughter, Estelle,” the marquess was saying, “and Justin, Earl of Brandon, her husband. I believe you already have an acquaintance with my son, Bertrand.”