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Bertrand and Oliver had walked the short distance from the smithy to the church, both on the same side of the village green, acknowledging the greetings of a few people who recognized Bertrand. They were early. Sir Ifor Rhys was still there, however, not playing the organ but settling the choir in the choir stalls and giving last-minute instructions. He turned his head and beamed at the two men and came to shake their hands.

Soon the pews would fill up, but Bertrand had wanted to arrive ahead of the guests. The clergyman, not yet clad in his vestments, had come bustling and smiling from the vestry to shake their hands and indicate seats in the front row of pews.

The church was bright and fragrant with floral decorations, white and deep pink and green.

“One would think there was to be a wedding here,” Oliver had said, and grinned at his cousin.

“I fervently hope you are right,” Bertrand had said. One occasionally heard horror stories of bridegrooms who did not turn up or brides who fled the altar when the vows were about to be spoken, or nuptial services during which that brief silence after the clergyman asked if anyone knew of any impediment to the marriage was broken by just such a person.

Guests had begun to arrive, and the pews behind them had begun to fill, and Bertrand had found it impossible to turn his head.

The organ had begun to play softly until, at a signal from Sir Ifor, the choir stood and began to sing.

Ah, the reminders. The last time Bertrand had heard them, in this very church during a summer fete, Stephanie had been with them. She had sung a solo part, sounding like an angel, and he had steeled his nerve to ask if he could escort her back to Ravenswood and if she would reserve a waltz for him during the evening.

And then, right on time, again according to Oliver, she arrived for their wedding. The Reverend Danver, dressed now in his vestments, came to stand before the altar rail. The choir finished their hymn, the organ fell silent, and the clergyman, who in what seemed to be his usual unhurried way, gazed toward the back, presumably to assure himself that the bride was ready.

He signaled again to Sir Ifor and to the congregation. The organ began the entry anthem and the congregation stood, Bertrand among them. For the first time he turned to look behind him. He was aware of the full church, but the family and friends he would greet with gladness later were of no importance to him now. He took a half step out of his pew so he would have a clear view down the nave of the Earl of Stratton leading his bride toward him.

His bride.

Stephanie looked breathtakingly gorgeous in a white gown that skimmed her curves and flowed about her long legs, her golden blond hair in a double braid like a halo about her head. Her cheeks glowed with color and her eyes sparkled, and Bertrand had the absurd thought that he wished he was not already in love with her so he could feel all the wonder of falling in love all over again. But he would do it anyway, he thought, now and every day for the rest of his life.

She was smiling at him.

And then, when they stood face to face, his heart ready to burst, the Reverend Danver spoke again.

“Dearly beloved,” he said in his kindly, resonant voice, and Bertrand thought there were not two lovelier words in the English language.

It went by so fast, the nuptial service, even as Bertrand tried to savor every moment of it. They spoke the vows he had heard numerous times before at the weddings of loved ones and friends. He had not understood before speaking those vows himself, however, and listening to Stephanie speak hers, the full solemnity of them. He slid onto her finger the gold ring Oliver handed him and felt the enormity of the moment.

And the whole world changed. They were man and wife, he and Stephanie, and her eyes were shining into his, and he rather thought his own might be shining right back. He was half aware of a swell of murmurs from the congregation. He felt a wave of love for them all, people who loved them and cared for them and had traveled long distances to celebrate with them.

He was so glad they had opted for the large family wedding, tedious as the wait had been. This was indeed a family occasion as well as an intensely personal one.

The organ played and the choir sang again a short while later as the Reverend Danver led the way to the vestry for the signing of the register, followed by Stephanie and Bertrand, Oliver, Stratton, and young Joy Ellis.

Joy beamed at Stephanie as she took her bouquet. Devlin hugged her tightly before turning to shake Bertrand by the hand.

“Welcome to our family,” he said.

Oliver shook his hand too and then hugged, or rather was hugged by, Stephanie.

“I am so pleased to have met you at last,” she said. “Bertrand has told me how you were his hero when he was growing up.”

Oliver looked a bit startled before grinning at her.

Joy came to hug Bertrand.

“And your old signature for the last time, Lady Stephanie,” the clergyman said as Stephanie seated herself before the register.

She looked up at Bertrand, almost as though she was finally realizing that she was no longer Stephanie Ware but Stephanie Lamarr, Viscountess Watley. His wife.

He savored the strangeness of the word in his head. No longer just bride, but wife.

Bertrand took his place after her to sign his own name.