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Bertrand opened the window in the small living area of the carpenter’s rooms above the smithy to let in the fresh morning air. It was a beautiful September day.

It was very early and he fully expected there to be no activity yet about the village green. But he could hear the faint sound of the organ playing inside the church. Sir Ifor Rhys was practicing already. A wagon laden with flowers rumbled past the smithy toward the church, and Eluned Rhys, Sir Ifor’s daughter-in-law, and another lady, who might be Colonel Wexford’s sister, stepped out of the church to meet it. Bertrand watched them and the two men who had come with the cart—gardeners from Ravenswood, perhaps—carry all the flowers inside.

For his wedding.

He waited for nerves to grab at him. He had expected hardly to sleep last night but had slept soundly. He expected now to have a queasy stomach and a mind that raced with the fear of getting things wrong today, like turning up late at the church or muddling his vows or dropping the ring. He expected emotions that screamed irrational doubts at him, making him want to make a dash for home and safety.

He must be a quite unnatural bridegroom. He felt none of those things. The thought that had been foremost in his mind since he opened his eyes and saw that it was morning was Thank God the day has finally come.

His wedding day.

And by the miracle of that chance meeting at Vauxhall, his bride was Stephanie Ware.

He had arrived here yesterday with his father and Viola. Ravenswood had already been teeming with guests, mainly Wares and Westcotts. They had all come, bag and baggage and children.

Bertrand had seen Stephanie, of course, and spoken to her, but there had been no opportunity to be alone with her or even to have much of a private exchange with her. She was always the center of an adoring group, mainly female, and he was always the center of a different group, primarily male, and definitely not adoring. Indeed, whenever they were well beyond the reach of female ears, gatherings with his male friends and family had a tendency to become downright bawdy.

Today would be different—after the wedding and the wedding breakfast, that was. They would retire here, he and Stephanie, and not leave again until tomorrow morning, when they would set out for Penallen and a week of honeymooning before he took her home to Redcliffe.

Meanwhile, his valet would be here soon, bringing breakfast from the inn close by. Bertrand’s cousin Oliver Morrow would arrive from the house soon after that. Oliver had been something of an idol to the younger Bertrand when he was growing up. He was now the steward at Redcliffe, and an excellent one too, according to his father. Bertrand had asked him to be his best man.

His wedding day had arrived, and the action was already beginning. He could see his valet leaving the inn, a tray covered with a white cloth in his hands.

He wondered if Stephanie was up yet. He would wager she was. She was perhaps gazing from her window at the September morning just as he was.

He hoped his appetite would not desert him when he saw and smelled his breakfast. He was hungry. How shameful. He should be pale and languishing.

He went to open the door.

—

The village green was dotted with people and the perimeter surrounded by carriages when Stephanie arrived for her wedding. As her carriage drew to a halt outside the church, she could hear the organ playing and both the adult and the children’s choir singing. She blinked back tears. How lovely they sounded and how little she would hear them after today. She would be living far away and they would continue without her.

But this was absolutely no time for sorrowful thoughts, however. She would be beginning a new life in a new home with the man she loved. With the man who loved her.

The footman who had been riding up on the box beside the coachman opened the door and set down the steps, and Devlin got out first and turned to hand his sister down. She set her hand in his and descended carefully. It seemed strange to be driving to church when she had walked the distance a thousand times and more. There was a swell of sound from the green and some applause and a slight cheer. Stephanie turned her head to smile and raise a hand in greeting. She felt a welling of affection for Boscombe and these people, most of whom she had known all her life.

She would have straightened her dress, but Joy hurried down the steps of the carriage unassisted to do it for her with eager hands and bright smiles. Her dress was rose pink, a deeper shade than the one she had worn as a girl. Stephanie had chosen white for herself. The dress was high-necked and long-sleeved. The skirt hung straight from a high waist, skimming her generous curves, though it had been designed in such a way that it flowed about her when she moved. The only adornment was a wide band of white embroidery about the hem.

Joy reached inside the carriage and handed her the spray of pink roses and white baby’s breath that had been lying on the seat. Devlin, who had been patiently waiting, offered his arm.

They paused inside the church doors for Joy to make a few more last-minute, quite unnecessary adjustments to Stephanie’s dress while the choir finished the hymn they had been singing and the organ fell silent for a few moments until, at a signal from the Reverend Danver, who stood before the altar rail, Sir Ifor began to play a majestic, full-throated anthem. There was the rustle of clothing as a church full of people got to their feet. Heads turned toward the entrance at the back. Most people were smiling in anticipation of their first glimpse of the bride.

Devlin patted Stephanie’s hand on his arm reassuringly, and they began their slow walk along the nave. Stephanie was aware that the church was packed with relatives and friends, but she did not look to either side to identify individuals. She looked only at the man who was standing at the end of the front pew and slightly outside it so he would have a good view of his bride proceeding toward him.

Bertrand.

He was perfection itself, of course, in a formal black tailed coat with a silver embroidered waistcoat, white shirt with crisply starched collar points framing his chin and jaws, and elaborately tied neckcloth. His silk breeches were silver, his stockings a vivid white, the silver buckles on his black shoes gleaming.

But truth to tell, it was not until later that she noticed the details of his wedding clothes and the perfection of his tailoring. She saw only Bertrand, the man she had loved since she was a girl and was now about to marry. She felt happiness welling inside her, for he was gazing back as though the whole world had become her.

The organ soared and then faded away to silence as she reached the front of the church and stood facing her groom. She was half aware of the renewed rustle of the congregation sitting again and of the Reverend Danver, smiling his familiar, comfortable smile, looking unhurriedly between bride and groom and preparing to speak.

“Dearly beloved,” he said in the warm voice that was never raised but never failed to reach the farthest corner of the church.

This was her wedding.