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Stephanie missed Bertrand dreadfully during all the busy weeks. She recognized the irony when she had spent eight years carefully avoiding him as though he carried the plague. Now she thought the middle of September would never come and envied Maria, who was getting married to Mr. Cobb at Everleigh Park two weeks before her. Fourteen whole days. And nights.

Secretly, she longed for the nights as much as the days. It was not a comfortable thing to be twenty-six years old and still a virgin. There were needs and longings that she had ruthlessly ignored until this past summer, when she had discovered that they sometimes came with passion too and did not respond well to any disciplined attempt to quell them. She still did not know if she would have stopped him that night at the lake if he had not stopped himself.

She hoped she would have.

She suspected she might not.

She wanted all of it, the whole experience of love and intimacy and passion.

She wanted him.

And finally—finally—she believed herself to be beautiful and desirable and worthy of him. Worthy of herself.

It was a relief when it came to the final week and she was able to start counting down days instead of weeks.

—

Bertrand found some busy things to fill the weeks before his wedding and hoped they would help the time pass faster.

For the first couple of weeks, while Estelle and Justin and Maria remained at Redcliffe, busy with wedding plans of their own, and Ann Cobb was a daily visitor to the house, Bertrand concentrated his attention upon choosing a suite of rooms that could, with a few modifications, be made into a separate apartment for Stephanie and himself. Viola offered some invaluable help and advice.

He knew that she and his father enjoyed their quiet life together, sociable though they were when they chose to entertain others. They liked to sit side by side on a sofa, his arm about her shoulders or her hand in his, reading or talking or simply being. Bertrand did not want to intrude upon that harmony. Besides, he and Stephanie were going to be newlyweds. They would need their own separate space in which to learn how to live together, to enjoy each other’s company, to establish their own routines and circle of friends. And, of course, they would need their own intimate time in which to make love.

Fortunately, Redcliffe was more than large enough to accommodate both couples without their forever being forced into company together. Yet it would provide that sense of family Bertrand had long craved, the continuity that had become so important to him. It might be impossible to delve too deeply into the past history of the Lamarr family, but there were the portraits in the gallery to bring his ancestors closer, and he would do his part, as would his father, to keep records of the history of the present and of as much of the past as there were memories among the older villagers. He was going to suggest that his father and Viola have their portrait painted and thus begin a tradition in the gallery of showing both the Marquesses and the Marchionesses of Dorchester. The women of their family history were every bit as important as the men, after all. It was the women who produced the heirs to keep the family line going.

Oh, he so looked forward to moving back home permanently and bringing his wife here to begin their own family.

His wife! He missed Stephanie every hour.

After Estelle and Justin had returned with David and Maria to Everleigh to prepare for the upcoming wedding, Bertrand spent a few weeks at Elm Court, settling his affairs there, supervising the packing up of his belongings, conferring with the steward, who would assume the day-to-day running of the estate, and taking his leave of neighbors and friends, most of whom he had known all his life. It had happened once before, of course, when he was a boy and had been taken with Estelle to live at Redcliffe after his father inherited the estate and the title. But this time the goodbyes seemed more final as he doubted they would ever come back to stay, he and Stephanie. Redcliffe would be their marital home from the start and for the rest of their lives. Both duty and inclination dictated it. Their apartment there was spacious and comfortable and ready, a home within a home.

He was surprised and delighted when his father had chosen to go to Elm Court with him, leaving Viola at Redcliffe to enjoy the uninterrupted company of Abby and Gil and their family. The close bond between father and son that had established itself over the summer deepened during their weeks together at Elm Court.

Shortly after their return to Redcliffe, it was time to leave for Everleigh Park for Maria’s wedding to Geoffrey Cobb. Bertrand was terribly envious of Cobb, though his own wedding was not far off. Two weeks was not really an eternity, after all. And he left Everleigh with his head buzzing with the news Estelle and Justin had confided just before the carriage drove away. They were expecting another child within the next seven months.

Bertrand’s father was very quiet during the first few miles of the journey, his hand holding Viola’s, his eyes closed.

“What have I done to deserve such blessings?” he said at last, opening his eyes and looking directly across at Bertrand. “My daughter married to a good man and preparing to give birth for a second time, my son about to marry a woman in a million, me meeting Viola when we both found ourselves stranded at an undistinguished country inn thirteen years ago and ending up in a marriage with her that has brought me nothing but joy.”

No answer was needed.

Sometimes, Bertrand thought, happiness did not have to be deserved. Only appreciated and cherished and nurtured when it offered itself—all of which his father had done. He was a good man. He had lost his way for all of sixteen years and had done immeasurable harm both to himself and to others, most notably his children, during that time. But he had found his way again and made amends as far as he could, though he could never go back to erase the harm he had caused.

It was all anyone could do. For not a single person was perfect or even close to perfection. And no one had the power to go back and change the past, with all its mistakes and hurts.

He smiled at his father a moment before Viola pointed out something trivial beyond the carriage window, and the moment passed.

A woman in a million.

Yes, that described Stephanie perfectly. She was beautiful in every imaginable way. But though she now believed it herself, she would always be modest about her own charms. She was loved by all who knew her, though she seemed unaware of the fact. And now, at last, she loved him. Or rather, now at last she allowed herself to love him and to be loved in return.

A lifetime was not going to be long enough to love her in all the ways she deserved to be loved. Why, then, did there have to be almost two more weeks apart to be endured? Even in his own mind it was a rhetorical question.

Dash it all, but he wanted her.

“And your turn next, Bertrand,” Viola said.

“As an expectant father?” his father said. “Should we get them respectably married first, Viola?”