Wren awoke slowly from a deep sleep and was aware of warmth and comfort and daylight and the sounds of wheels and horses and a single human shout from beyond the window, and of the fact that she was nestled in her husband’s arms, her head on his shoulder. And then it all came flooding back—yesterday, the first full day of her marriage.

“What time is it?” she asked, drawing back her head, not checking first to see if he was awake.

He was. He was gazing back at her, his hair tousled, his nightshirt open at the neck. She was still wearing her nightgown. A man in his nightshirt, she thought, could look every bit as enticing as the same man naked. This man could, anyway, and he was the only one in whom she was interested.

“Late enough,” he said, “to satisfy our servants and please our relatives.”

“Oh.”

“It is important,” he said.

“To keep up appearances?”

“I think perhaps it is more than that, is it not?” he asked.

I care, he had told her last night. You belong to me now, Wren. I have ownership of you. Not to tyrannize over you, but to keep you safe so that you can be free of these fears and horrors. I look after what is my own. It is more than a promise. Strange words, which might have sounded alarming but had not. For she had believed the intention behind the words. And after they had come back to bed, he had loved her slowly, gently, and surely with tenderness.

“Thank you for listening,” she said. “I try not to be self-pitying, but last night it all came welling up at your expense. My life has been hugely, wondrously blessed and continues to be. I will not inflict my darkness upon you again.”

“Avoiding self-pity can sometimes mean suppressing what needs to be spoken of and dealt with,” he said.

“You are going to be late for the Lords,” she told him.

“I am not going today,” he said. “I daresay the country will not fall into total collapse as a result. I am going to spend today with my wife. If she will have me, that is.”

“She will think about it,” she said. She raised her eyes and set one fingertip to her chin. “She has given the matter due consideration. She will have you.”

“Wren.” He laughed softly and touched his forehead to hers. “I may find myself capable of missing a day at the Lords, you know, but I am quite incapable of missing my breakfast.”

A short while later they entered the breakfast parlor together. Everyone was still there, though it seemed they had all finished eating. Wren felt acutely self-conscious as all eyes turned their way and was very glad indeed that they had had their wedding night and yesterday’s breakfast to themselves. There was a cheerful exchange of greetings.

“I hope I have left you enough sausage and bacon, Alex,” Harry said. “After twelve hours of unbroken sleep and those few ghastly days of nothing but gruel and jellies, I was ravenous.”

“There is enough for me,” Alexander said, peering into the dishes. “I am not sure about Wren, though.”

“If you did not leave me two slices of toast, Harry,” Wren said as she seated herself between her mother-in-law and Abigail, “I shall have to get the cook to put you back on broths.”

“I did. I swear.” He laughed. There was more color in his face this morning, and it was already surely a little fuller than it had been a week ago.

“You were very tired last night, Wren?” her mother-in-law asked, covering one of her hands with her own as the butler poured her coffee and set her toast before her.

“I was,” Wren said. “But I do apologize for not saying good night before I went upstairs. That was ill-mannered of me.”

“Oh, it was clearly more than just tiredness,” Elizabeth said. “It was exhaustion, Wren. Going to the theater must have been a huge ordeal for you in addition to everything else.”

“So it was for Viola and Abigail,” Wren said. “But we did it, and today we may bask in self-congratulation.” Just please let no one mention my mother.

“I am taking Wren out for the day,” Alexander said. “Yesterday was a mistake. Sometimes there are more important things than cold duty.”

“Ah.” Elizabeth laughed. “There is hope for you yet, Alex.”

“I think, Wren,” their mother said, patting her hand, “you are already having a positive influence upon my son.”

“You are not leaving for home today, I hope?” Wren asked Viola.

“No.” Viola shook her head. “Mildred and Thomas have organized a family picnic to Richmond Park.”

“You and Alex are invited too, of course,” Wren’s mother-in-law said. “But if you would prefer a day alone together, I am sure everyone will understand.”

“I think Wren needs a quiet day,” Alexander said.

She wondered how much any of them understood that even just this much was all new to her and a strain on her nerves—this sitting at a table with six other people, part of a conversation. For the past year and a bit there had been almost total silence in her life. But these people were her family now. So were the others—the other Westcotts and the Radleys—and they had been kind to her.

Alexander’s quiet day sounded infinitely desirable. But—

“It would be a pity to be the only ones missing from a family picnic,” she said.

He had the loveliest eyes. Not only were they a clear blue, but they had the ability to smile even when the rest of his face did not. “Yes, it would,” he said.

Was it possible now, Wren wondered, to move forward, to be happy, to be done finally with the past? Now that she had seen her mother again and felt the full force of the pain she had bottled up for twenty years? But she had spoken of it, so could she now forget? Or, if forgetting was impossible, could she at least let go of the feeling that the central core of her being was one bottomless pit of darkness?

Was it possible to be … normal?

Richmond Park had been set up as a private deer park during the reign of King Charles I, but although it was still royal property, it was now open for the pleasure of the public. It was a broad expanse of wooded areas and grassland and flower gardens, with a number of small lakes known as the Pen Ponds. It was a lovely piece of the countryside close enough to London to allow for a brief escape to those who must spend most of their days there. It was the perfect place for a picnic, and the weather had cooperated, as it had been doing for several weeks past. The sky was blue with just enough fluffy white clouds to offer occasional shade from the sun.

Alexander was glad to be with the family, though he hoped to be able to wander off for some time alone with Wren. He must make a decision about what to do with his new knowledge, but he needed to sense her mood first. She had slept deeply through the night—he knew because he had not—and had seemed refreshed this morning. She appeared to have recovered her spirits, though he was not foolish enough to believe that now she was healed.

Everyone remained together for a while, seated upon blankets on one expanse of grass, trees behind them, one of the ponds before them. Wren was holding the Netherbys’ baby, a bald, plump-cheeked little girl who was just beginning to smile in that wide, toothless way of babies. Anna was beside her on one side, Abby on the other, Elizabeth close by. Wren was totally absorbed in the baby, the child’s head on her raised knees, its little hands in hers, its feet pressing against her ribs beneath her bosom. She looked utterly happy, and it struck Alexander that motherhood would agree with her—as fatherhood surely would with him. Soon, he hoped.

Jessica and Harry had wandered close to the water. She was talking animatedly about something. The older people were in a group together, centered about the chair that had been brought for the use of Cousin Eugenia, the dowager countess. Netherby stood a little apart, as he often did, his shoulder propped against a stout tree trunk, his posture indolent and elegant. He was dressed as gorgeously as ever. He was flicking open the lid of a jeweled snuffbox.

Alexander used to dislike him. He had thought him effete and trivial minded, someone who did not take his position and responsibilities seriously. He had felt disliked in return, thought of, no doubt, as stuffy and humorless. Alexander had changed his mind during the last year or so with all the family turmoil that had followed upon the death of the former earl. He doubted he and Netherby would ever be close friends. They were too different in almost every imaginable way. But they respected, even perhaps liked each other, he felt. And they trusted each other. At least, he trusted Netherby. He approached him now, and Netherby closed his snuffbox unused and returned it to his pocket.

“A family picnic in rural England,” he said on a sort of sigh. “It is deeply affecting, is it not?”

Alexander smiled. Not many minutes ago Netherby had been holding his child and subjecting himself to having his nose grabbed. “What do you know about Hodges?” he asked.

“Lord Hodges?” Netherby pursed his lips. “What do you wish to know, my dear fellow? His life story? I cannot give it, alas. I was never a keen student of social history.”

“How old would you say he is?” Alexander asked. He did not know Lord Hodges at all, but he had seen him a few times.

“Mid-twenties?” the duke suggested.

“Not mid-thirties?”

“I would say not,” Netherby said, “unless, like his mother, he has discovered the fountain of youth.”

“What is his first name?” Alexander asked.

Netherby thought. “Alan? Conan?”

“Not Justin?” Alexander suggested.

“Colin,” Netherby said decisively. “I assume there is some point to your questions, Riverdale? The sight of an apparently youthful Lady Hodges last evening, perhaps? I do assure you she is the man’s mother rather than his wife.”

“Does he live with her?” Alexander asked.

“Hmm.” Netherby raised his quizzing glass and tapped it against his lips. “Why is it that I know he has rooms very close to White’s? Ah, yes, I have it. He made a joke when someone asked him if he had ridden to the club. He said it would be rather pointless, as he could mount on the rump of his horse outside his rooms and dismount from the neck at White’s without the horse having to lift a hoof. I assume he somewhat exaggerated unless he owns an extraordinarily long horse.”

“I’ll find out,” Alexander said, “and call on him.”

“You will call on him,” Netherby asked, “to discover just how long his horse is? Perhaps five people can ride on its back without being crowded. But the poor beast might sag in the middle.”

“He is Wren’s brother,” Alexander said.

“Ah.” The world-weary eyes sharpened to regard him shrewdly. “Which fact would make Lady Hodges her mother and Lady Elwood her sister.”

“Lady Elwood?” Alexander said. “The other lady in the box last night, do you mean?”

“The same,” Netherby said. “The lady is gradually growing older than her mother.”

“The father and the older brother must have died,” Alexander said.

“Was there an older brother?” Netherby asked. “I never had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Your wife said nothing at the theater last evening.”

“No,” Alexander said. They did not speak for a while. Harry and Jessica had returned to the rest of the group, and Harry had stretched out on one of the blankets, one arm draped over his eyes. His mother seated herself beside him and said something to him while she smoothed his hair back from his brow. “Will Harry go back, do you think?”

“To the Peninsula?” Netherby said. “Oh, without a doubt. He has been worn to the bone by injuries and fever, but the bone is tough and so is Harry.”

“This has all been the making of him, then?” Alexander asked dubiously.

“This?” The duke brooded over his answer, his glass tapping against his lips again. “Rather, life is the making or breaking of all of us, Riverdale. We are all tested in different ways. This is Harry’s testing ground.”

It would have seemed a strange answer if Alexander had not already learned that Netherby was not at all as he seemed from the image he projected to the world. He wondered what had been the duke’s testing ground. He knew what his had been—and still was. And if Netherby was right, as undoubtedly he was, there was no single test for anyone. Life was a continuous series of tests, all or some or none of which one might pass or fail and learn from or not.

Wren had lifted the baby to sit on her raised knees and was bouncing her gently. Abby was up on her knees beside her, trying to make the baby smile. Anna was smiling happily.

“Wren has neither seen nor heard anything of or from any of them since her aunt took her away when she was ten years old,” Alexander said. “Her mother was about to commit her to an insane asylum.”

“Because of her face,” Netherby said. It was not a question. “Because it was imperfect and the lady’s very survival depends upon her own beauty and the perfection of everyone connected with her.”

“Yes,” Alexander said.

“Did you want me to come with you?” Netherby asked.

“No,” Alexander said. “But thank you.”

The baby, happy and smiling and bouncing one moment, was suddenly crying. Anna was on her feet, laughing and taking the child from Wren. The baby still howled with what sounded more like temper than pain.

“Ah,” Netherby said, pushing his shoulder away from the tree, “it is time to discover a secluded nook, it seems. We should have named our daughter Tyranny rather than Josephine. Eternally Demanding Stomach would have been too much of a mouthful. And I do believe there was a pun in there somewhere.” He went strolling off toward his family.

“Wren,” Alexander said after following him, “come for a stroll with me?”

They walked among the trees, in a different direction from the one Anna and Avery had taken with Josephine.

“I have never held a baby before,” Wren said. “Oh, Alexander—” But then she felt foolish. All women were silly about babies, were they not? Perhaps that fact ensured the protection of the young of the human race. She had wanted a family of her own, but her thoughts had centered mostly about being married. Now that she was wed, she yearned for motherhood too. Would she never be satisfied?

“Perhaps,” he said, “you will be holding one of your own within the next year or so, Wren.” He disengaged his arm from hers and set it about her shoulders to draw her against his side. Surprised, she set her own arm about his waist. “What do you want to do? Do you want to go home? Do you want to stay?”

“I am home,” she said, and when he turned his head to look at her, their faces were a mere few inches apart.

“In London?” he said.

“Here,” she said, and he tipped his head slightly to one side. She knew he understood that she did not mean here in Richmond Park. “I am not running away any longer, Alexander. I instructed Maude before we left the house to make all my veils disappear before I return. I told her she could sell them if she wished. But she said she would burn them with the greatest pleasure.”

“Wren,” he said, and he kissed first her forehead and then her mouth.

“I am as I am,” she said.

He dipped his head closer to hers. “Those are the loveliest words I have heard you utter,” he said.

Her knees turned weak. I care, he had told her last night. And he did care. Those were the loveliest words she had heard him utter. But she would not say so aloud. She would reveal too much about herself if she did.

She looked up at an old oak tree by which they had stopped. “I have not climbed a tree since I fell out of that one the day I left Roxingly,” she said.

“You are not by any chance planning to climb now, are you?” he asked her.

Many of the branches were wide and almost horizontal to the ground. Some of them were low. And some of the higher branches were easily accessible from lower ones. She was not a child. She had not climbed for twenty years, and even then not often. She was wearing a new sprigged muslin dress. She had the body of an athlete, he had told her. She was afraid of heights. But that unoffending tree suddenly looked like all the barriers that had ever stood between her and freedom. It was silly. It was childish. It would ruin her dress and expose her legs. Her shoes were totally unsuitable. She would probably fall again and break every limb she possessed, not to mention her head. She needed to make pro and con lists.

“Why not?” she said, and took her arm from about his waist, shrugged off his arm from her shoulders, and marched to the tree and up it.

Well, she did not exactly march up. Indeed, she hauled herself onto the lowest branch in a most ungainly fashion and then stepped gingerly up to the next and crawled inelegantly up to the third before looking down. Her rational mind told her she was still pathetically close to the ground. If Alexander below her stretched up an arm and she stretched down a leg, he would surely be able to grasp her ankle or even her knee. Her irrational mind told her she was in danger of bumping her head on the sky before falling from it like Icarus. She turned with great care and sat on the branch. Her legs felt boneless.

He was grinning at her. He had removed his hat and dropped it to the grass. “I daresay,” he said, “it must be almost twenty years since I climbed a tree.”

She grinned back at him before deciding that looking downward was not a good idea. He came up after her until his boot was on the branch beside her and then disappeared upward. He sat on a branch adjacent to her own and slightly above it and draped his wrists over his bent knees.

“I think,” he said, “it is still almost twenty years since I climbed a tree.”

“Do not belittle me,” she said as she edged along to set her own back against the trunk. “I have one question. How do we get down?”

“I do not know about you,” he said. “I intend to climb down the way I came up.”

“I thought so,” she said. “But that is the whole problem.”

“Never fear,” he said. “When teatime comes, I shall fetch you some food.”

And somehow they found the sheer silliness of their exchange hilariously funny and laughed and snorted with glee.

“And maybe a blanket to keep you warm tonight,” he added.

“And breakfast in the morning?” she asked.

“You are very demanding,” he told her.

“Ah, but—” She tipped her head to look up at him. “You care.”

Their laughter stopped. He gazed back down at her, his smile lingering, and she wished she had not said that—although he had said it first. Last night.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “You had better tell me what I can fetch you for breakfast, then.”

“Toast and coffee,” she said. “Marmalade. Milk and sugar.”

“Wren.” He held her gaze. “Are you regretting any of this?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. How could she regret it? Yes, marriage was vastly different from what she had expected. It had challenged her in unimaginable ways—and they had only been wed for two days. But how she loved it. And how she loved him.

She would not ask him if he was regretting it. It would be a pointless question. If she regretted it, there was something he could do about it. He could take her home and leave her to the hermit’s life to which she was accustomed. If he regretted it, however, there was nothing she could do to make life better for him.

“We will stay in London, then, until the end of the session, will we?” he asked. “And then go home to Brambledean? And perhaps to Staffordshire?”

“You would come there with me?” she asked him.

“Of course,” he said. “I have no plans to be apart from my wife for longer than a few hours at a time. Besides, I may need to hold your hand when you meet your team of managers and designers and artisans for the first time without a veil.”

Ah, she had not thought of that. “Yes, we will remain here,” she said.

“But not literally here,” he said, and he climbed down from his branch to hers and the one below just as though he were descending stairs in the house. “Give me your hand. I promise not to let you fall.”

And she set her hand in his and knew somehow that he never would.