Wren went straight up to her room upon her return, removed her bonnet and gloves, and sat on the chair by the window. Fortunately, Mrs. Westcott and Elizabeth had not yet returned from the garden party, and the earl had not stayed. He was, however, planning to return for dinner. She picked up her library book and opened it before closing it again and setting it aside no more than a minute later. She was certainly not going to be able to read for the next little while. Her mind was buzzing as though a whole hive of bees had been let loose in there.

She was betrothed. Tentatively.

Her dream was about to come true.

Or was it? She could not possibly be the Countess of Riverdale. He had brushed aside her misgivings by assuring her that she might be an eccentric recluse if she wished, but she did not quite believe it would be possible. Already she had met his mother and sister and cousin. Another cousin—the dispossessed former countess—had been invited to come here to stay with her daughter. If she was to be married, she would be here when they came—if they came—and she would remain here until the end of the parliamentary session. She would not be able to hide in her room all day every day. How long would it be before she was called upon to meet all the Westcotts—and the Radleys too, the relatives on his mother’s side? And then who after that?

But why not?

Perhaps her face was not so hideous after all. Not one of the people she had met had shrieked or stared at her in horror or called her a monster or wanted to keep her confined to a room with the key turned in the lock from the other side, with netting over the window, lest someone look up from below and see her peering out. No one had called her a punishment from hell. No one had suggested that she belonged in an insane asylum or had been on the brink of sending her there.

Wren spread shaking hands over her face and concentrated upon getting her breathing under control so that she would not faint. No, of course not. No one had said or done any of those things in twenty years. But there was a certain sort of memory that seeped into one’s very bones and tissues and sinews and into the deepest recesses of one’s mind and being. Would she ever see herself as others saw her? Would she ever believe what they saw?

She removed her hands from her face and rested them in her lap while she looked out at the garden, at flowers and shrubs and rows of vegetables off to one side and a sort of knot garden of herbs beyond them, and breathed in the sweet air and the myriad scents that came through the open window with the light breeze.

She was betrothed. She was going to be wed. All the dreams she had ever dared dream were going to come true. And it was not going to be just any old marriage, but marriage to him, the Earl of Riverdale, and she very much feared she was in love with him. But why had her mind chosen the word feared? Because she knew her feelings could never be returned? It did not matter. He had promised liking and respect and a hope of affection, and they were good enough. From him they were good enough, for if she had learned one thing about him during their brief acquaintance, it was that he was a man of honor to whom family was of paramount importance.

Wren closed her eyes and continued to breathe in the soothing smells of sweet peas and mint and sage. She feared—and yes, it was definitely fear this time—that she would not be able to change enough to arouse any real affection in him. It was not just her face that she had hidden from the world. It was the whole of herself. Her instinct was to hide behind veils within veils, and she had done it for so long that she did not know how to cast those veils aside.

She had met four people without her facial veil. She had even gone out without it this afternoon. But could she lift the heavier veil she wore over herself? She had only ever done it with her aunt and uncle. She was well aware that she was different. She was not warm or open in manner and never could be. She seemed incapable of showing her feelings. She was not … Oh, she was not a thousand and one things other people were without any effort.

What was she, then? She did not want to define herself for the rest of her life with negatives.

She was a businesswoman and a successful one. She had a good head on her shoulders, and she worked well, curiously enough, with other people. She was capable of love. She had loved her uncle and aunt with all her being. She had easily grown fond of Elizabeth and Mrs. Westcott. She apparently loved the Earl of Riverdale. She knew she would love their children—if, please God, they had any—with a passionate adoration no matter what.

Oh, God, oh dear God, she loved him. She spread her hands over her face again. But was it any wonder? He was the first eligible man she had ever met, apart from Mr. Sweeney and Mr. Richman, each of whom she had dismissed in less than half an hour. Perhaps what she felt was not love at all but merely gratitude.

Or maybe it was love. What difference did a word make anyway? She was going to marry him despite her misgivings about being the Countess of Riverdale. Her acceptance of his offer was still tentative, but surely his mother and Lizzie would not withhold their approval. They had persuaded her to stay here. They had said other things … Oh, she was going to marry him, and she did not believe she had ever been happier in her life.

To prove which point she shed a few tears before hurrying into her dressing room to wash her face.

She took extra care dressing for dinner that evening. She had stylish clothes, though she doubted she was ever in the first stare of fashion. She did not have a London modiste, but she did have one in Staffordshire who had long had the clothing of her and knew her well—her height, her size, her preferences, her personality. The pale turquoise dress she donned was fashionably high waisted and short sleeved and low necked, though not too low. Like most of her dresses, it had a narrow skirt, but flowed about her in a way that prevented her from looking like a flagpole without a flag. The hem was accentuated with embroidery in a slightly darker shade. She had Maude arrange her hair a little higher than usual even though she knew it would make her appear taller. She clasped about her neck the pearls her uncle and aunt had given her on her twenty-first birthday and looked approvingly at her image in the full-length mirror, then a bit regretfully at her face.

But it was time, she decided, squaring her shoulders and drawing herself up to a greater height, to forget about her face, at least with her conscious mind. If only it were that easy! She had almost died this afternoon when they had left behind the near seclusion of the wooded path and walked out onto the carriage drive by the park gates. There had been carriages and people everywhere. The veil on the brim of her bonnet had felt like a physical weight, and it had taken all her strength of will not to pull it down over her face. And they had certainly not gone unnoticed. Even if he had not been the Earl of Riverdale and no doubt a familiar figure to everyone in the beau monde, there were the triple facts of his height, perfect physique, and extraordinary good looks to draw attention.

But she had survived.

Now she was seated in the drawing room as the other ladies came down, dressed for dinner. Wren smiled at them. “Did you enjoy the garden party?” she asked. “The weather must have been perfect for it.”

“It was very pleasant,” Elizabeth said. “It was in Richmond at one of the grand houses by the river. Both Mama and I were invited to take a boat ride. I sat at my ease in my boat, looking decorative, while poor Mr. Doheny turned bright red in the face as he pulled on the oars. I was forced to deliver a monologue the whole time we were out, as all his breath was needed for his exertions. Mama was out for more than an hour with Lord Garand and he looked quite unwinded when they returned. Does that suggest I weigh a ton?”

“I believe it suggests, my love,” her mother said, “that Mr. Doheny does not know how to row a boat. Lord Garand remarked that he was dipping the oars too deep and trying to displace the whole of the River Thames with each stroke.”

They all laughed.

“And Lady Jessica?” Wren asked. “She sat in the summerhouse with Louise almost the whole time we were there,” Mrs. Westcott said, “while hordes of young men prowled in the vicinity just waiting for her to emerge so that they could fetch her food or drink or bear her off to explore the orangery or to ride in one of the boats. She actually looked quite happy even though she ignored them all. I think the visit here did her a great deal of good, as well as the hope that Abigail will come here with Viola. I must thank you for giving her so much of your attention, Miss Heyden, and for taking her with you this morning to see your glassware. She was enchanted.”

“I very much enjoyed her company,” Wren said. And perhaps she was not so totally lacking in warmth as she feared. Lady Jessica had actually seemed to like her.

“And how was your walk in Hyde Park?” Elizabeth asked.

“It was lovely,” Wren said. “We walked among the trees and I felt almost as though I were back in the country. You know that the Earl of Riverdale is returning here for dinner?”

“Yes, Lifford told us so,” Mrs. Westcott said. “I am glad we have no firm commitment for this evening. We will be able to enjoy his company for as long as he chooses to stay. And … well, and here he comes.”

The door had opened to admit the Earl of Riverdale, looking breathtakingly smart in black evening clothes with silver waistcoat and crisp white linen. He was also looking relaxed and good humored as he strode across the room to kiss his mother’s cheek and then Lizzie’s. He hesitated and then smiled at Wren.

“Do I take it,” he asked, “that nothing has been said?”

Wren closed her eyes briefly.

“About what?” Elizabeth asked. “About my betrothal,” he said, “and Miss Heyden’s. To each other. Our tentative betrothal.” Perhaps he was not so relaxed after all.

“What?” Elizabeth jumped to her feet.

“Tentative?” Mrs. Westcott said, her hand going to her bosom.

“Ah,” he said, grinning as he glanced at Wren. “Nothing has been said. I made Miss Heyden a marriage offer this afternoon, Mama—and yes, it was I who did the offering this time. She accepted. Tentatively.”

“Tentatively?” Both ladies spoke this time.

“I will marry Lord Riverdale only on the condition that both of you wholeheartedly approve,” Wren explained.

“But why would you think we might not?” Elizabeth asked.

“You want his happiness.” Wren could hear a slight quaver in her voice and swallowed.

“We thought it was clearly understood when you came to stay here,” Mrs. Westcott said, “that we were acknowledging the likelihood of a courtship and eventual marriage between you and Alex, Miss Heyden. And Miss Heyden no longer. You are Wren. I warned you that I was going to mother you. How much clearer could I have made myself?”

“Oh.” Wren swallowed again. This time she heard a distinct gurgle in her throat and had to blink a few times to clear her vision.

“I think, Miss Heyden,” the earl said, “we are betrothed.”

“Yes.” She clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap.

“Come.” Mrs. Westcott got to her feet and held out her arms, and Wren stood too and found herself caught up in a warm hug while Elizabeth was hugging her brother. They changed places after a few moments.

“I am very happy for you both,” Elizabeth said as she embraced Wren.

Was it possible? They had expected this? They approved it?

“And now we have something definite to talk about over dinner,” Mrs. Westcott said, looking in apparent satisfaction from one to the other of them. “We have a wedding to plan.”

Lord Riverdale exchanged a glance with Wren. “Our wedding needs no discussion, Mama,” he said. “I am going to purchase a special license tomorrow and make an appointment with a clergyman at some quiet church to be married the day after.”

“Just as Anna and Avery did last year,” Elizabeth said. “I was there as a witness, Wren, and it was one of the loveliest weddings I have ever attended. Yes, such a wedding will suit both of you. Alex would hate the fuss of a grand wedding, and I cannot imagine you would be able to bear it. But please, please may I come as a witness? I have experience in the role.” She chuckled.

“Am I allowed a say?” Mrs. Westcott asked. “I can see it was downright foolish of me to dream immediately of a grand ton wedding at St. George’s on Hanover Square. Poor Wren. We might as well cast you into the lions’ den and be done with it. And Lizzie is quite right. Alex would hate the fuss too.”

“I would,” he said. “I am sorry, Mama. You would love to plan a grand wedding, I know.”

“There is always Lizzie,” she said. She was frowning, apparently in thought. “I suppose over time you will inevitably meet our family, Wren, as you did us on Easter Sunday and Jessica yesterday. There are the Westcotts on the one side and the Radleys on the other. Almost everyone is here in town this spring. Would you be prepared to meet everyone at once—on your wedding day? It would still be a small wedding, just not quite as small as you intend. Or there is another possibility. You could have your private wedding and meet the family here afterward for a wedding breakfast. What do you think?”

What Wren thought as she felt pins and needles in her hands and flexed her fingers was that her life could easily spiral out of control if she was not very careful.

“Mama,” the earl said, “I have assured Miss Heyden that I will never pressure her to meet anyone she does not choose to meet or do anything she does not choose to do. She is afraid that marrying me will force her into an unwanted social role as Countess of Riverdale. I have assured her that I will have no such expectations.”

But Mrs. Westcott was right. It was absurd to think of marrying the Earl of Riverdale and never meeting any of his family apart from his mother and sister and one cousin. Wren closed her eyes briefly.

“The letter you wrote last evening has already been sent to Hinsford Manor, I suppose?” she said to Mrs. Westcott in an apparent non sequitur that had them all looking rather blankly at her.

“Yes,” Mrs. Westcott said. “It went out at noon.”

“Will you write again?” Wren asked. “You told me you doubted they would come without some specific family event with which to entice them. Will a wedding suffice? Will you invite them to come for our wedding—next week instead of the day after tomorrow? A family wedding, which will not be threatening to them but for which their presence will be much appreciated by the whole family—and by the bride? Yes, I will meet the two sides of the family on my wedding day. And after that, I may well shut myself away at Brambledean and never meet anyone else for the rest of my life.”

Elizabeth, she was aware, had tears in her eyes and looked as though she were biting her upper lip. Mrs. Westcott was still frowning. The earl was gazing very intently at Wren.

“It may just work,” Mrs. Westcott said. “We can but try. Wren, my dear, I am going to love you to pieces. Be warned.”

“Wren,” Elizabeth said, “will you write to Cousin Viola and Abigail too and send the letter with Mama’s?”

“I will,” Wren said. But what had she started? It was too late to unstart it, however. At the very least she had committed herself to a family wedding one week hence. She had never felt more terrified in her life.

The butler appeared in the doorway at that moment to announce that dinner was served.

The Earl of Riverdale offered Wren his hand, his eyes intent upon hers. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Do not think I am unaware of the magnitude of what you have agreed to and what you have suggested. I honor you. I only hope I can be worthy of you.”

And here she went, tearing up again. This was becoming a nasty habit. She set her hand in his. “But I may well flee before our wedding day,” she said just as softly.

“Please don’t.” He chuckled.

And so the chance of getting married quietly within two days of the Earl of Riverdale’s proposal, almost before she had time to think about it in order to have second and twenty-second thoughts, had disappeared, entirely through her own fault. She was going to have to wait a whole week. Worse, she had agreed that the Westcott and Radley families would be invited to both the wedding and the breakfast afterward at Westcott House. She had even agreed to St. George’s on Hanover Square as the venue, the church attended by the fashionable world during the spring, though the congregation would be small. There was no point, after all, in seeking out an obscure little church on some equally obscure back street, as the Duke and Duchess of Netherby had done last year, since there was to be nothing secret about their wedding.

Their betrothal was announced in the morning papers two days after their walk in Hyde Park—Miss Wren Heyden to Alexander Louis Westcott, Earl of Riverdale. On the society pages, no less, where the whole fashionable world would see it and half that world, no doubt, would mourn the loss of the earl from the ranks of eligible bachelors.

The afternoon brought a steady stream of visitors, all of whom Mrs. Westcott and Elizabeth entertained in the drawing room while Wren cowered in her room, writing to Philip Croft to tell him how gratifying it had been to see for herself the displays of their glassware in fashionable London shops. Elizabeth tapped on her door, however, just when she thought everyone must have left.

“Cousin Louise and Jessica and Anna are still here,” she said. “They know how reclusive you are and will understand if you do not come down, but Jessica begged me to come and ask you anyway. It is entirely up to you, Wren.” Her smile held a hint of a twinkle. “I know that such a lead-in is usually followed with a but … In this case it is not, however.”

Wren sighed and set down her pen. “Do they know?” she asked. “Has Lady Jessica told them? Or you or your mother?”

“About your face?” Elizabeth asked, coming right into the room. “No. Why would we?”

Why indeed? Wren thought as she got to her feet. She was beginning to be a bore even to herself. So she had a very unsightly birthmark covering most of one side of her face. So what? Anyway, she was curious to meet the famous Anna—full name Anastasia—who had grown up in an orphanage only to end up a duchess with a fabulous fortune of her own. The famous Anna, who all unwittingly had caused havoc within the Westcott family.

“Lead the way,” she said with a huge sigh that only made Lizzie smile more.

Within minutes there were two more people to add to the growing list of those who had seen her without her veil. And though Wren suspected that Lady Jessica had indeed told them about her birthmark, neither her mother nor her sister-in-law paid any attention to it or—perhaps more significant—studiously avoided looking into her face. The Dowager Duchess of Netherby, Cousin Louise, was a handsome lady, somewhat on the stout side, probably in her early to mid-forties. The duchess—Anna—was slight of build and pretty and exuded a sort of smiling serenity that intrigued Wren when she considered all the woman had gone through in the last year and a half. They were polite and amiable and kind. Anna thanked her particularly for suggesting that the former countess and her daughter be invited to the wedding and for writing in person to add her persuasions to Mrs. Westcott’s.

“Perhaps they will come for such an occasion,” she said. “I live in hope. Abigail is my half sister, Miss Heyden, and I long to see her again almost as much as Jessica does. And Aunt Viola is as much a part of this family as anyone else and ought to be here for Alex’s wedding.” She paused then for a moment before saying, “I am so sorry you have no one of your own to be with you. You must be missing your aunt and uncle more than ever this week. However, this is a welcoming family. I know that from personal experience. We will all be your cousins. Lizzie has the advantage of us, of course. She will be your sister.”

“Thomas—my brother-in-law, Lord Molenor—believes he remembers Mr. Reginald Heyden, your uncle, as a venerable elder when he was just a young sprig about town, Miss Heyden,” the dowager duchess said. “He will no doubt have questions for you when he meets you. And about your aunt too, though Mr. Heyden was still a widower after his first marriage at the time.”

“He married my aunt twenty years ago,” Wren explained, “and sold his London house and never came back here.”

The conversation flowed pleasantly after that, but the ladies stayed for only twenty minutes more. But now she had met five members of the family, including Mrs. Westcott and Elizabeth. She could meet the rest too. It was not going to be easy, but she could do it. She would do it. It was her newest project, and she would not fail any more than she failed at any of her business endeavors.

And then—oh, then, she would settle into the marriage of her dreams and never meet anyone else ever again.

She almost believed herself.