“I should perhaps have thought of taking you on a wedding journey,” Alexander said the next morning, holding both of Wren’s hands. “To Scotland. Or the Lakes. Or Wales.”

“We,” she said. “We ought to have thought of it. But I do not want a wedding trip. Do you?”

“No,” he said. “But it feels wrong to have been sitting here composing a letter early in the morning following our wedding and now to be going off to the House of Lords and leaving you alone.”

They had been jointly composing a letter to the steward at Brambledean with instructions on what they wished him to do immediately. Wren supposed it was a bit odd to be thus employed, but why not? Working together like this made her feel as much married as what they had done in their bed last night. And she liked the feeling of being married.

“I never mind being alone,” she told him. “Besides, I have work of my own to do too. There have been reports and queries from the glassworks in the past few days and I need to respond to them without further delay, as I always do. One of them has detailed sketches of a new design for my approval. I am not sure after one quick glance that I do approve. I need to give the matter far more concentrated attention.”

She must write a few other letters too, one to her housekeeper at Withington, another to the house in Staffordshire, a third to Philip Croft, her business manager, about the change in her name and status.

“What you are really telling me,” he said, raising one of her hands to his lips, “is that you cannot wait for me to leave for my work so that you can get to yours.” His eyes were smiling.

“Ah,” she said, “the gentleman begins to learn.”

He laughed outright. “You can probably expect a quiet day,” he said.

“Yes.” But she did feel a pang of regret a few minutes later as she watched him leave the house. She would have liked to prolong the sense of togetherness just a little longer.

A quiet day. It seemed ages since she had spent a day alone. She would enjoy this one with the thought that her husband would be coming home later. And that must be one of the loveliest words in the English language—husband.

Her day alone started well. She wrote the letters first and then studied the sketches from the glassworks. She still could not make up her mind about the multicolored curlicues that would be cut into the glass on a new batch of drinking glasses if she gave her approval. They would look dazzlingly gorgeous, but would they also be elegant? It was the final measure by which she judged all designs and the one slight difference between her and her uncle. Both of them had liked vivid beauty and both had liked elegance, but while Uncle Reggie had tended to put more emphasis upon the former, she had leaned toward the latter. Usually, of course, the distinction between the two, as now, was such a fine one that a decision was not easy to make.

Half the morning had gone by in total absorption in her work before she made the simple discovery that if the yellow curlicues were omitted—or, better yet, changed to a different color—the whole effect was transformed. Total elegance. But even as she thought it and smiled, the butler appeared with a silver salver piled with the morning’s post and, behind him, a maid carried in a tray of coffee and oatmeal biscuits.

“For me?” Wren asked the butler. From whom could she possibly be expecting all these letters?

“Yes, my lady,” he said with an inclination of the head. “And I took the liberty of setting the morning paper on the tray too.” He and the maid left the room.

Wren picked up the pile of letters and looked quickly through them. Most surely must be for Alexander or for his mother or Elizabeth. But all were addressed either to the Countess of Riverdale or to both the earl and countess. And almost none of them had been franked, she noticed. They must all have been hand-delivered. She picked up the paper, which had been opened to the page of society news before being folded neatly. The announcement of her wedding was there as well as a gossip column about who had attended. In the column Wren had been identified as the fabulously wealthy Heyden glassware heiress. Oh goodness.

The letters were all invitations—to a wide variety of ton entertainments over the coming days and weeks, from balls to routs to a picnic to a Venetian breakfast to a musical evening. Oh goodness again. This was the stuff of her worst fears. It was the reason she had withdrawn her offer to Alexander on Easter Sunday. But he had promised … Well, she would simply hold him to it. She had gone as far as she intended to go in sociability and further than she had originally intended. She had met most of his family. She had gone walking a few times in Hyde Park—once without a veil. As much as she enjoyed his family, she had been exhausted by those efforts. She craved her privacy now in a visceral way. She would not further expose herself.

She was going to have to reply to all these invitations, she supposed, though she would wait and show them to Alexander first. She sat down, her tranquillity severely ruffled, to drink her coffee. She had taken only two bites out of one of the biscuits, however, when the door opened again to admit Cousin Viola—all the family had urged her yesterday to call them by their given names. So much for her quiet day, Wren thought as she got to her feet. But she could wish some of the others had returned first. She felt extremely awkward this morning greeting the lady who just over a year ago had held the title that was now hers and lived in this house with her children.

Cousin Viola looked just as uncomfortable. “Am I the first to return?” she asked. “I am so sorry. I thought to find Althea and Elizabeth here and perhaps Harry and Abby too. I expected that you would have gone out somewhere with Alexander.”

“He felt that he really ought to go to the Lords this morning,” Wren explained.

“On the day after his wedding?” the other lady said, looking startled. But then she laughed. “Oh, but that sounds just like Alexander.”

“And I had work to do here myself,” Wren added.

“Oh, have I interrupted—”

“No, you have not,” Wren assured her. “Do come and sit down. The coffee is fresh and there are extra cups. Let me pour you some.”

A minute later they were seated on either side of the fireplace in a room that seemed somehow larger and quieter than it had five minutes ago.

“I find this situation far more awkward than I expected when I suggested inviting you to the wedding,” Wren said. “And more awkward than it seemed when you first arrived. After yesterday you must—Well, surely you must resent me.”

“You are refreshingly honest,” Viola said. “For of course I have been sitting here trying not to squirm with discomfort. I do not feel any resentment toward you, Wren, or toward Alexander. Even if you had not been good enough to invite Abby and me to your wedding, and even if you had not been so extraordinarily kind to Harry, I still would not resent you. There is only one person deserving of my resentment and he is dead. I will say no more about that, for he was my husband and I owe him loyalty even in death—and even though the marriage was never a legal one. I am no saint, however. I did feel an intense hatred and resentment of Anastasia for many months even while denying it and understanding how illogical such feelings were. But then I saw how persistently kind and generous she tried to be to my children, her half siblings, and even to me, and I had a good talk with her when we were all in Bath last year. And I am determinedly loving her. That may sound strangely worded, but love is not always a feeling, Wren. Sometimes it is more of a decision. I have decided to love her, and I trust that eventually I will feel it too.”

“I find her delightful, I must confess,” Wren said. “I find the whole family delightful, in fact. They have welcomed me despite everything.”

“Everything?” Viola regarded her in silence for a few moments, her head tipped to one side. “Do you mean despite your face? Or do you mean despite your money?”

“A bit of both, I suppose,” Wren said. “I was described in one of the papers this morning as a fabulously wealthy heiress. Everyone will be saying today that someone with Alexander’s good looks would not have married a woman who looks as I do without the money.”

“And do you care what people say?” Viola asked.

“Do you?”

“Touché.” Viola laughed softly. “Because I have hidden away in the country with Abby and refused to come to London until now? I suppose we all care, Wren, no matter how much we try to tell others and ourselves that we do not. Yes, I care. You cannot know what it is like to lose your very identity when you are already forty years old. Most of us, whether we realize it or not, take our identity from things and other people and circumstances and our very names. It is only when all those identifiers are stripped away that we ask ourselves the question who am I? It does not happen to many people, of course. It is more frightening than I can put into words to wonder if in fact one even exists without all those things. I call myself Viola Kingsley because that is who I was as a girl. It does not feel quite who I am today, however. But I beg your pardon. I do not usually talk so shamelessly about myself.”

“I do understand,” Wren told her. “I was not born with the name Wren Heyden. I acquired both names when I was ten years old and with them a whole new identity. I feel for you even though the transformation happened for me at a quite different point in my life than it did for you. And for me it was a change infinitely for the better.”

“Ten years old,” Viola said. “Oh, poor little girl. I did not know that about you. I know very little about you except that you are kind and beautiful—yes, you are. There is no point in looking so skeptical. And, little though I know, I have the feeling you are going to be the perfect wife for Alexander. He needs someone as serious minded and intelligent as he. And someone who can make him smile, as he did yesterday.”

“Oh,” Wren said, arrested. “I think that must be a worthy thing to do for others, must it not? Making them smile?”

They smiled at each other as if to prove the point. She could have a genuine friendship with this woman, Wren thought with a rush of warmth to the heart. First Lizzie, now Viola. Ah, she had missed so much in her life of self-imposed seclusion. Viola had opted out of life last year. Wren had been doing it for almost twenty years.

It was as though Viola read her thoughts. “You see what comes of conversation?” she said. “I would have sat here this morning in pained embarrassment, talking about the weather and praying for Althea and Elizabeth or my children to return here soon if you had not chosen to talk openly about the awkwardness we both felt. By talking freely we have each discovered that we are not the only ones who have ever suffered. Sometimes it feels, does it not, as though one had been unfairly singled out while everyone else proceeds with a happy, untroubled life?”

“Indeed.” Wren smiled again, and then moved on to lighter subjects. “Will you be attending any social functions while you are in town?” she asked. “Will Abigail?”

“My mother-in-law—former mother-in-law—and Matilda are very keen that I do,” Viola said. “They pointed out last evening that what happened to me was not in any way my fault and most of the ton would be perfectly happy to see me again and welcome me back. They believe I ought to make the effort for Abby’s sake. They think it is still possible, especially with the combined influence of the family and Avery, for her to have a decent coming-out and to find a husband suited to her upbringing. However, it is Abby who must make that decision, and I cannot predict what she will decide, though I can make an educated guess. If she decides to do it, however, it will not be with me by her side. She will have more powerful advocates. As for myself, I have no real wish to be restored to favor. It is not that I am afraid to show my face, but … well”—she smiled—“perhaps I am a little afraid.”

“A stack of invitations arrived this morning,” Wren said, nodding in the direction of the tray. “I was not expecting them. I daresay I am very naive. Our wedding was announced and commented upon in today’s papers, and I am now the Countess of Riverdale. I will refuse them all, of course.”

“Will you?” Viola said. “I understand you have spent years hiding yourself away and wearing a facial veil when you must go out. Yet you did not wear one yesterday. Will Alexander not try to insist that you attend at least a few of those entertainments?”

“No,” Wren told her.

“You said that with utter confidence,” Viola said. “So you will have no social life as the Countess of Riverdale?”

“No.” Wren shook her head.

“We are two fearful women, are we not?” Viola pulled a face and then looked speculatively at Wren. “Are we really going to give in to our fears? Or shall we challenge each other? Shall we show ourselves together to London, even if not to the ton? Shall we visit some of the galleries and churches and perhaps the Tower of London together in the next few days before I return home? Strangely, sightseeing is not something a Countess of Riverdale usually does. There are too many parties and other social events to take up her time. I shall run the very real risk of being recognized, and you will run the risk of being seen—for of course, to make the challenge real, you would have to go unveiled. What do you say? Shall we do it?”

Wren hesitated for only a moment. “What veil?” she said, and they both laughed again.

The door opened once more at that moment to admit Harry and Abigail and Jessica. They seemed to bring youth and energy and sunshine in with them—and chatter and laughter. Harry made his bow, and the young ladies hugged them both.

“Did you like the description of yourself as a fabulously wealthy heiress?” Jessica asked Wren with a laugh. “Avery, of course, pointed out that heiress is an inaccurate word since you are already the owner of the glassware fortune.”

“I did not like that description at all,” Abigail said, “implying as it did, ever so slyly, that Alex married you for the fortune and nothing else. Alex has always been a favorite of mine. I have always admired him, and I know it is something he would never, ever do even if he does need money to repair all the damage to that heap Papa left him. You looked absolutely beautiful yesterday, Wren, and quite radiant.”

“You still look radiant this morning,” Jessica said, and giggled a bit self-consciously. “I hope you do not mind that I have come here with Abby and Harry. I suppose Alex has gone off to the House of Lords?”

“I warned you not to bet against me, Jess,” Harry said, flopping into a chair, looking pale and cheerful and rather tired.

“Have you seen Josephine, Wren?” Abigail asked. “Anastasia and Avery’s baby? She is gorgeous. Oh, Mama, you must go and see her. Anastasia says you must. She is disappointed, of course, that I will not be able to go to Morland Abbey for the summer, as she had originally hoped, but she understands that you and I will wish to be in Bath for Camille’s confinement. She says she and Avery will probably go there too after the baby is born.”

Harry was yawning.

Mrs. Westcott and Elizabeth arrived home a few minutes later, and the buzz of conversation proceeded with more volume and enthusiasm. Wren laughed quietly to herself. Had she really expected a quiet day? Had she really wanted one? She was actually enjoying this sense of family and of being part of it.

“I suppose,” Elizabeth said, “Alex has taken himself off to the House of Lords. Sometimes I could shake that brother of mine.”

“You look more than usually lovely this morning, Wren,” her mother-in-law said with a little nod of satisfaction, and Wren knew that what she was really saying was that her daughter-in-law looked well and truly bedded. But since the words and the nod had been delivered unobtrusively while everyone else chattered, Wren did not feel unduly embarrassed.

And then the door opened one more time, and it was Alexander himself, looking rather surprised and achingly handsome. Wren got to her feet.

“Ah,” he said, “a family party while the master of the house is away? Is this what comes of now having a mistress of the house?”

“Actually, Alex,” Elizabeth said, “your presence is quite superfluous.”

“Hmm,” he said, meeting Wren halfway across the room and raising her hand to his lips. “I left the Lords early to take you for that drive to Kew you did not have last week. I pictured you languishing here alone.”

“Then you were quite wrong,” she said. “Today I am a Westcott, my lord, and am enjoying the company of my family.”

He grinned at her.

“That is putting you in your place, Alex,” Harry said, yawning again.

“However,” Wren said, “I will forgo the further pleasure of their company in order to go for a drive with my husband.”

His grin widened. “And I am the bearer of another invitation for this evening,” he said. “Netherby is taking Anna to the theater but declares that his private box is far too spacious for them to rattle about in alone—his words. He wants us to join them there. And he wants Cousin Viola and Abigail to come too and Harry if he feels up to it. I gave him no answer. I did, however, warn him that you would all very possibly decline the invitation. He merely shrugged and looked bored in that way he has. You must none of you feel under any obligation. I shall be perfectly happy to spend the evening at home in present company.”

“Oh.” Wren turned her head to look at Viola and they exchanged identical smirks.

“An even more daunting challenge than the one we devised,” Viola said.

Everyone looked at her blankly—except Wren. “Do we have the courage?” she asked. And oh goodness, did she? Ought she?

Viola lifted her chin, thought a moment, and nodded.

Wren returned her attention to Alexander. “We would be in a private box?” she asked. “In a darkened theater?”

He hesitated. “In a private box, yes,” he said. “But before the play begins the theater will be well lit and everyone will be looking around to see who else is present and who is with whom and what food for gossip is to be had. You would be very much on display during that time. After this morning’s announcement, there would be great curiosity to have that first glimpse of the new Countess of Riverdale—the fabulously wealthy Heyden glassware heiress. And after the events of last year there would be much food for gossip in the reappearance of the former countess and her son and daughter. I am afraid there would be as much focus upon Netherby’s box before the performance as there would be on the stage later.”

“You think we ought not to go, then?” she asked him.

“This is not my decision to make,” he said firmly.

“By thunder,” Harry said, “I would rather face a column of Boney’s men on the attack, all yelling vive l’empereur between beats of the drum in that unnerving way of theirs. I am not going. Besides, I am going to be ready to crawl off to my bed to sleep the clock around by the time this evening comes.”

“I will go,” Abigail said, “if Jessica can come too. I was never allowed to attend the theater before I was eighteen, and then I could not. I will go.”

“And so will I, Abby,” Viola said.

Oh, this was not fair, Wren thought. Inch by excruciating inch she was being dragged out into the open, where she had never intended to go. Except that there was no unfairness involved. The invitation had been extended and the decision of whether she would accept it or not was entirely hers.

“I will do it,” she said.

Alexander caught both her hands in his and squeezed tightly while there was a slight cheer behind her and then laughter.

“Oh, bravo, Wren,” Elizabeth said. “And Viola and Abigail too.”

“I would have won my wager, then,” Alexander said. “Unfortunately for me, Netherby was unwilling to bet against me.”

Now what had she done? Wren thought, feeling a twinge of panic. Whatever had she done? “But first,” she said, “I want to see Kew Gardens.”