Alexander waited outside St. George’s Church on Hanover Square, his hands opening and closing at his sides. His was not to be the typical society wedding held here during the months of the Season. There were very few guests and no frills—no organ or choir, no incense or floral arrangements, no flower-bedecked carriage. No groom waiting at the front of the church for his bride to walk toward him along the nave on the arm of her father.

But it felt no less a momentous occasion to him. He had purchased the special license and made the arrangements, and now here he was, as nervous as if there were three hundred guests and three bishops gathered inside.

Instead there were the members of his family on both his mother’s and his father’s sides, with the exception of Cousin Mildred’s three boys and Camille and Joel Cunningham and their adopted children. Harry was here, looking thin and smart, if slightly shabby, in his military uniform, which had been ruthlessly brushed and cleaned.

The situation was very lopsided, of course, for there was no family on the bride’s side. Perhaps after all they should have stuck with the original plan of marrying even more quietly than this. He knew she was feeling the absence of her aunt and uncle quite acutely, but that was not to be helped. What about the rest of her family, though? Was there any? He strongly suspected there was. Surely, she would have told him, no matter how painful the telling, if they had all perished in some disaster when she was a child.

One of these days they were going to have a long talk about her past. And one of these days they must talk about a number of other things too. The week had sped by in such a whirl of activity that they had not even discussed a marriage contract. She had revealed no details of her fortune to him and had extracted no promise from him about how it would be managed and spent. She had once sworn she would not marry before she had protected her interests.

He was just beginning to wonder if she would be late when his carriage turned into the square. He had come earlier with Sidney, from Sid’s rooms, where he had spent the night again. He flexed his fingers once more and stepped forward as the carriage drew to a halt at the foot of the steps.

He helped his mother descend first. She took both his hands in hers and squeezed them tightly. “My dearest boy,” she said. “What a lovely day. Promise me you will be happy.”

“I promise, Mama.” He kissed her forehead and turned to help Elizabeth alight. They shared a wordless hug, and she went up the steps with their mother and disappeared inside the church while he was handing down his bride.

She was wearing an elegant, perfectly tailored, high-waisted dress in a vivid shade of pink that looked unexpectedly stunning with her dark hair, some of which was visible beneath a cream-colored bonnet with pink satin lining ruched on the underside of the brim and pink rosebuds and greenery in a cluster on one side of the crown. Wide pink satin ribbons held the confection in place and were tied with a large bow beneath her left ear. There was not a veil in sight. She set a hand in his and stepped down carefully.

“You look beautiful,” he told her.

“And so do you,” she said, smiling.

He bowed over her hand, raised it to his lips, and drew it through his arm. They climbed the steps together and stepped inside the church. The few guests gathered at the front were swallowed up by the cold grandeur of their surroundings. The church smelled of candles and old incense and prayer books. In the absence of organ music, his bootheels rang on the stone floor as they made their way forward. He looked at his bride, whose hand rested in the crook of his arm, and felt all the momentous significance of the occasion.

This was his wedding day.

He was about to join himself to this woman for the rest of their lives. And it felt right. There had been no lengthy courtship, no grand romance, no declaration of love. But there was liking and respect on both sides. He was quite sure of that. There was admiration too on his side.

He looked ahead again to the clergyman, properly vested despite the quiet nature of the wedding. Sid, his best man, bearer of the ring, was facing them, a look of anxiety on his face. The others turned their heads, smiling, as they passed. And they came to a stop before the clergyman.

“Dearly beloved,” he said after a moment of silence, and this was it, Alexander thought. The most solemn, most momentous hour of his life.

And time swept on. Within moments, it seemed, the world as he knew it changed irrevocably with the exchange of vows and the placement of a ring and they were man and wife and moving off to the vestry to sign the register and then returning to greet their guests with handshakes and hugs and kisses. And then they were leading the way back along the nave and out onto the church steps, where Sid and Jessica and Abigail and Harry were awaiting them with handfuls of rose petals and a few curious onlookers, drawn no doubt by the fashionable carriages drawn up before the church.

The sun was shining.

There were more hugs and backslapping and congratulations somewhat louder and more hearty than those offered inside before Alexander handed his bride into his carriage for the drive back to South Audley Street. They were to ride alone. There were no old boots or pots and pans to clatter along behind them as they moved away from the church—at his insistence. And it was a closed carriage, when the weather was fine enough for an open barouche.

The trappings, the absence of those festive touches that usually drew attention to a bridal conveyance, did not matter. They were married.

He reached for her hand as the carriage rocked into motion. “Well, my lady,” he said.

“Do you regret not having a grander wedding?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Did you regret not having a quieter wedding?”

“No.”

He raised her hand to his lips. “I believe,” he said, “I will remember our wedding all my life as something perfect—just as it was.”

“So will I,” she said softly.

But there were times during the day when Wren wished they had kept to the original plan for a private wedding. She almost did not step into the carriage to go to church. It seemed like a physical impossibility. But of course she did. Going inside the church, which she was quite convinced during the journey she would not be able to do, was made easier by the fact that he was outside waiting for her and suddenly it was her wedding day and nothing else mattered. From the moment she set her hand in his to alight from the carriage, she saw only him and then the church and the clergyman awaiting them, and she felt only the solemn joy of the occasion. She was getting married. More than that, she was marrying the man with whom she had fallen deeply and unexpectedly—and secretly—in love. Oh, he was more right than he knew when he said in the carriage afterward that their wedding had been perfect. Even the ordeal after they came out of the vestry of facing the Westcott and Radley families en masse, some of whom she had not met before, could not quite mar the perfection. They had all been so very kind.

Joy remained with her during the carriage ride home. And her first sight of the dining room fairly took her breath away and really did bring tears to her eyes. The finest china, crystal, and silverware had been formally set out on a crisp white cloth. An elaborate epergne of summer flowers adorned the center of the table, and a pink rosebud stood in individual crystal vases at each place beside an intricately folded linen napkin. Wall sconces were filled with flowers, leaves and ferns spilling over the sides. Candles in silver holders burned everywhere despite the sunlight beyond the windows. A two-tiered cake iced in white and decorated with pink rosebuds stood alone on a small side table, a silver knife with pink ribbon adorning its handle beside it.

The cause of Wren’s tears was the drinking glasses and individual vases. They were Heyden ware. The design was the last one Uncle Reggie had approved.

“Wherever—?” She whirled about to gaze at the Earl of Riverdale. He was smiling back at her, looking smugly pleased with himself.

“I was at one of the shops you visited with Lizzie and Jessica within hours of you leaving it,” he said. “Fortunately, the shop owner had a complete set of everything I needed. He did complain, though, that I had left him with almost nothing and it might take him weeks to get more.”

“Oh.” And he must have paid the full retail price for them when he might have got them … But no. She would not complete that thought, even within her own head.

“Thank you,” she said. “Oh, how inadequate words are. Thank you, Lord Riverdale.”

“Might that be Alexander now?” he said. “Or even Alex?”

“Yes.” But there was no time to say more. Their guests were arriving.

Sitting through the wedding breakfast with a large number of people, kind as they all were, was excruciatingly difficult for Wren. She had never done anything remotely like it before. Worse, she was very much on display as the bride and was expected to smile and converse without ceasing. None of them could have any idea what an ordeal it was for her. There were speeches and toasts, during which, inexplicably, everyone seemed to look and smile at her rather than at the speaker. And then, when it was all over, they removed to the drawing room and in many ways the situation was worse, for everyone circulated, as she remembered the neighbors doing it at that ghastly tea at Brambledean. But this time she did not have a veil to hide behind.

And yet on balance, Wren did not really regret what she had agreed to. At least she had done it. And now she had met almost the whole of her husband’s family and that terror was not still ahead of her.

Her husband. Every time that fact was mentioned—and it was mentioned a great deal—she felt an inner welling of joy. When she had made her list back in February and started to interview the gentlemen whose names were on it, she surely had not really believed her dream would come true. Had she?

But it had. Today.

Today was her wedding day.

Everyone left late in the afternoon. Everyone. Harry and Abigail went with Cousin Louise and Jessica to spend the night at Archer House. Cousin Viola went with the dowager countess and Matilda. Alexander’s mother and Elizabeth went with Aunt Lilian and Uncle Richard Radley. It had all been planned ahead of time and was accomplished with a great deal of chatter and laughter and hugs as the bride and groom were left alone at Westcott House.

“Would you like a stroll in the park?” Alexander suggested as they waved the last carriage on its way. They both needed some air and exercise, he believed, and he for one was not quite ready yet for the sudden quietness of the house.

“Lovely,” she said. She did not change out of the pink dress she had worn for the wedding, but she did don a plainer bonnet—a straw one he had seen before—and she drew the veil down over her face before they left the house. He raised his eyebrows. “Please understand. I have felt so dreadfully … exposed all day. It is something I have never done before. So many people! Until the day you first came to Withington I had not shown my face to anyone except my aunt and uncle and my governess and a few trusted servants in almost twenty years. Not even to anyone at the glassworks from the manager on down. Not to anyone.”

It was incredible to think that she had spent almost twenty years behind a veil—all through her girlhood, all through her early adulthood. “I am not intending to scold you,” he said as they made their way along South Audley Street. “You must always do as you choose. I am not going to play tyrant.”

“I know,” she said, and he turned his head to smile at her. It was still a bit dizzying to think that she was his wife, his countess.

“Do you realize,” he said, “that there is no marriage contract? You once told me you would protect your rights and your options before you married.”

“And do you realize,” she said, “that you still do not know the extent of my fortune? But marriage is not a business deal, is it? I am accustomed to deals and contracts and the careful protection of my rights and interests. Marriage ought not to be like that.”

“So you decided to trust me?” he said.

She did not answer for a while. “Yes,” she said then. “And I think perhaps you did the same thing, Alexander. I could be a pauper or deeply in debt for all you know.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But when I proposed marriage to you, it was because I wished to marry you, not your money.”

“We are a couple of fools,” she said as they crossed the road to the park. “Or that is what my business instincts tell me. I tell them to be quiet, however. I always remember something Aunt Megan once told me. Our brains are not in command of our lives unless we let them be, she said. We are in command.”

“We are not our brains, then?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “We possess brains, but sometimes they try to make us believe they possess us. My aunt was a placid lady and did not usually say much, but she had great depths of wisdom.”

“I know that today has been a huge ordeal for you, Wren,” he said as he led her onto the wide lawn between the carriage road and the trees. “I knew it even before you drew the veil over your face. I just hope it has not been too overwhelming.”

“I very much like your family,” she told him, “on both sides. You are very fortunate.”

“I am,” he agreed. He hesitated for only a moment. “Do you have family?”

It was a long time before she answered. “If by family you mean people with whom I have ties of blood,” she said, “then I assume so. I do not know for certain. Twenty years is a long time. But if by family you mean ties of affinity and loyalty and affection and all the things that bind the Westcott and Radley families, then no. I have no family. My uncle and aunt are dead.”

He kept his head turned toward her. Carriages and horses and pedestrians passed one another on the main thoroughfare, but here it was quieter. “Will you tell me about them one day?” he asked her.

“Perhaps,” she said. “One day.”

“But not yet.”

“No,” she said. “And perhaps never. It is not a story I want to tell, Alexander, and it is not one you would want to hear.”

“But perhaps you need to tell it,” he said, “and perhaps I need to hear. No, forget I said that. Please. I will not add yet one more burden to your load.” Although she was his wife, he had no right to her heart and soul. What was inside her was hers to guard or disclose. She had married him out of trust. He would earn that trust, then.

He talked of their wedding and the breakfast, of Harry and Abigail and Camille, of some of the mischief he had got up to with Sid when they were boys. She spoke of her governess and her aunt, of the time when her uncle and aunt had chosen Withington House as their country home, consulting her wishes every step of the way.

They dined together later upon cold cuts and leftovers from the breakfast—at Wren’s insistence for the sake of the servants, who had been unusually busy all day—and they spent the evening in the drawing room, talking again. This time she wanted to talk about Brambledean Court and what ought to be done there first now that there were funds.

Alexander felt the awkwardness of his situation. “I cannot in all conscience make grandiose plans for the spending of your money, Wren,” he said.

“But it is our money now,” she told him. “Not mine, not yours, but ours. We must always decide together what ought to be done—at Brambledean, at Withington, at Riddings Park, at the Staffordshire house, even at the glassworks if you are prepared to take an interest in it. I shall feel uncomfortable about the money if you do, Alexander. I hope you will not. We are us now.”

“It sounds ungrammatical,” he said at the same time as he was jolted by the idea of it—we are us now. “But I shall try. It will take a little getting used to, though. I have stood alone since my father’s death and managed my own affairs. In the normal course of things, I would have continued to do so after my marriage, and I would have provided for my wife too.”

“Then our marriage will be good for you,” she said briskly. “It will be a necessary lesson in humility. I need to have a say in all the decision making, Alexander, not because the money has come from me—I wish it could be otherwise—but because I want to be involved and like and need to be involved. I am not anyone’s idea of a typical lady, as you may have noticed. I can work cooperatively with other people. I did it with my uncle, especially during the last few years of his life when he was a bit weary. We worked together, and it worked well—is that a pun?”

“Probably,” he said. “Very well, then, let’s talk about Brambledean. Everything hinges upon the farms, Wren. Without them, the estate cannot prosper and we cannot prosper. Poor us, one might say, when we have all our other properties and sources of income. But there are many people dependent upon me—upon us. And it is for their sakes that the farms need to be made prosperous.”

“Then give me your ideas on what needs to be done first,” she said. “I know very little about either farming or the running of a vast estate, but I will learn. Be my teacher.”

And they talked and planned for a whole hour—dry, dull stuff that would have driven most brides into hysterics or a coma on their wedding day. She listened, sitting back in her chair, her arms folded beneath her bosom, her head tipped slightly to one side. And occasionally she spoke, either with a pertinent question or with an intelligent comment or suggestion. It was like talking to another man, he thought as he relaxed back in his chair—until he caught himself in the thought and was very glad he had not said it aloud. She was nothing like a man, except perhaps in her willingness to use her mind to its full capacity without fear of being considered unfeminine.

She was very feminine actually. There was something surprisingly appealing—sexually, that was—about a woman who demanded to be taken seriously as a whole person. Though whether that was deliberate on her part, he did not know. He would guess not.

Their discussion came to an end when Lifford brought in the tea tray and lit the candles and drew the curtains to shut out the heavy dusk of evening. They talked on more general topics after that until the conversation lagged as they finished their tea.

“I get security with my marriage,” he said at last, “and the wherewithal to repair the neglect of decades to what I have inherited. And an intelligent wife with a good business head. What do you get in exchange, Wren?” He wished he could rephrase his words as soon as they had been spoken. An intelligent wife with a good business head. It was hardly a complimentary way to describe one’s bride on her wedding day.

“Marriage,” she said without hesitation, her head tipped slightly to one side. “It is what I wanted, remember? It is why I invited you to Withington.”

“I passed the tests you set me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

It was impossible to know what else lay beyond the simple answer. Was marriage the be-all and end-all to her? The security of being a wife, of having a shared home and a family? Sex? He knew that was part of it. She had admitted it in so many words before they ever came to London. It was impossible to know what her feelings were for him, and he could not ask, because she might ask the same question of him, and he did not know how he would answer. He did not know the answer. Liking, respect, even admiration did not seem enough.

“Are you ready for bed?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

The final chapter of their wedding day still had to be written. He got to his feet and offered his hand. She took it, and he drew her arm through his when she was on her feet. They proceeded upstairs without speaking and stopped outside her new dressing room, which was beside his and linked to it, her new bedchamber on the other side of it.

“I will come to you in half an hour if I may,” he said.

“Yes.”

He took her hand in his and held it to his lips before opening the door and then closing it behind her.

No, he did not know how he felt about her. Perhaps it did not matter if he could not find the appropriate word. She was his bride. That was really all that mattered tonight.