“I would say she looks stunningly beautiful,” Alexander said, “but I may, of course, be biased. What would you say, Maude?”

He had stepped into his wife’s dressing room to see if she was ready for the ball. Clearly she was. She was standing before the pier glass in a gown of primrose yellow silk overlaid with fine lace, looking youthful and vibrant. It was high waisted, low necked, and short sleeved. It was deeply ruched and scalloped about the hem. Her gloves and slippers were ivory colored. Her dark hair was dressed in elaborate curls on the top of her head, adding to her height, with tendrils curling along her neck and over her temples. Ah, but she was not quite ready. Her pearl necklace still lay on the dressing table.

“I said the same thing five minutes before you even came in here,” Maude said. “This time I think she believes me. Us. My lord.”

“Well, I do.” Wren laughed. “I think I am the most beautiful woman in the world.” She twirled once about, and her skirt twirled with her. “There. Are you both satisfied?”

“Sit down again,” Maude said. “We forgot your pearls.”

“I will see to that,” Alexander said. “You may go and have your dinner, Maude. I daresay you missed it at the proper time.”

“You go to the ball, then,” Maude said, addressing Wren. “And just remember what Mr. Heyden always used to say to you. There is nothing you can’t do if you set your mind to it.”

“I will remember, Maude,” Wren said. “Thank you.”

She looked ruefully at Alexander after her maid had left. “She is more nervous than I am,” she said.

“You are not nervous?” he asked.

“Not nervous,” she said. “Terrified.”

He smiled at her. He was a bit surprised that she had chosen delicacy over boldness for her gown. She and his mother and Lizzie had been involved in a conspiracy of secrecy about it. He had imagined she would choose royal blue or a vivid rose pink or even bright red, bold colors to bolster her courage. The yellow was inspired. Actually it was a little brighter than primrose. And then he understood. Of course.

“Daffodils in June?” he said, indicating her gown with both hands. “Trumpets of hope?”

“I have danced alone among them at Withington,” she said. “Tonight I will be one of them and dance in company.”

“Yes, you will,” he said. “Sit down while I will put on your necklace.”

She sat, handed him the pearls, and bowed her head. He slipped the pearls into a pocket, drew out a diamond necklace from another, and clasped it about her neck. He set his hands on her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She lifted her head to look in the mirror, raising a hand at the same time to touch the necklace. Her hand froze before it arrived. The chain was gold. It was dotted with small diamonds along its whole length with a larger one at the center, hanging just above the neckline of her dress. “Oh,” she said, and one finger ran lightly over the right side of the chain. “Oh.”

“They will never outshine the daffodils,” he said. “But it is high time I gave you a wedding gift.”

“It must be the most beautiful necklace ever,” she said. “Oh, thank you, Alexander. But how inadequate words can be.”

“There are earbobs too,” he said.

She turned on the stool to look up at him. “I have never worn any,” she said as he drew them out of his pocket to display on his palm—two single diamonds, a little smaller than the one at the center of the necklace, set in gold. “How exquisite they are. See how the light glints off them. I do not even know how to put them on.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “I have never worn any either. Can we work it out together, do you suppose, on the theory that two brains are more effective than one?”

“And four hands better than two?” she said as her own hovered over his while he clipped the first to her left ear. She lowered her hands to her lap while he clipped on the second, and then she stood and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Alexander, thank you. I am so glad the first two gentlemen on my list did not come up to snuff.” She laughed. Actually, it was more of a giggle.

“And I am very glad,” he said, “that I was not number four on your list. Number three might have taken your fancy before I had a chance.”

“Never,” she said. “Alexander? You do not ever regret—”

He set a finger across her lips. “You must ask again? Do I behave like a man who regrets anything he has done recently?” he asked her. “Should we perhaps consider going downstairs? It would be a huge embarrassment, do you not think, to arrive at Archer House too late to stand in the receiving line for the ball that is in your honor?”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “There is no danger of that, is there?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, drawing her arm through his, “Mama and Lizzie may be starting to think we have climbed out of the window and gone without them.”

She reached for her filmy wrap and fan on the side of the dressing table, and Alexander heard her draw and hold a deep breath before releasing it and turning to smile at him.

Wren’s heart was in her throat from the moment of their arrival at Archer House, when she saw the red carpet that had been run out over the steps and across the pavement. And inside there was the grand hall and stairway bedecked with white and yellow and orange flowers and copious amounts of greenery. There were more than the usual number of footmen in gorgeous livery that included pale gold satin coats, white knee breeches and stockings and gloves, buckled shoes, and powdered wigs. Upstairs there were salons whose open doors gave glimpses of lavish floral arrangements within and candelabra and tables covered with starched white cloths. Some seemed designed for quiet relaxation for guests wishing to escape the noise and bustle of the dancing for a while. Others had been set up for cardplayers. One large salon next to the ballroom was ready for the refreshments that would be served despite the fact that there was to be a proper supper late in the evening.

Everything suggested a grand occasion, and it was all in her honor.

And there was the ballroom itself. Wren had seen it on an earlier visit and had been awed by its size and magnificence. Now it looked unfamiliar in all the splendor of banks of flowers and chandeliers and wall sconces in which hundreds of candles burned and a freshly polished floor that gleamed in the candlelight and chairs upholstered in dark green velvet arranged in a double row around the perimeter.

She had never in her life felt more intimidated. Just three months ago she had been living the life of a virtual recluse, carefully veiled on the rare occasions when she ventured beyond her own home. Even indoors she had worn her veil when any stranger intruded. She had lifted it to a stranger for the first time in almost twenty years when the Earl of Riverdale came to Withington at her invitation. Was it possible that was only three months ago? How could she possibly have come from that to this in so short a time? And why was she doing this? It was everything she had been quite adamant she would never do.

She had moved a few paces into the ballroom while all the others—her own family group, Avery and Anna, Cousin Louise and Jessica, Cousins Mildred and Thomas, the dowager countess and Cousin Matilda—were clustered outside, talking while they awaited the appearance of the first guests. Why was she doing it? No one had pressured her. Indeed, no one had even suggested a ball in her honor—they had all respected her desire for privacy. Even Alexander had not been suggesting it that afternoon in the carriage. Was it her mother, then? Had her mother goaded her into doing something beyond her wildest imaginings? Had seeing her again and listening to her made Wren believe that the only way to be free of her past was to open wide the door of her childhood prison and step out into the widest of wide worlds? Was a ton ball the most blatant way it could be done? And would she then be free? Was she now free?

She supposed not. But miracles did not always come in a single flash of time. Sometimes they came with every step forward one took when every instinct urged two steps back. Sometimes they came with the simple courage to say no longer, no more. She raised one hand to touch the side of her bare, unveiled face and felt the stirrings of panic. And so she took one step farther into the room.

An arm came through her own on her right side, and almost simultaneously another arm linked itself through hers on the left.

“I wonder,” Anna said, “if you are feeling the sort of paralyzing terror I was feeling in this very room last year, Wren. I daresay you are, though you look as cool and poised as you always look.”

“It is a good thing we wear our skirts long,” Wren said. “You cannot see my shaking knees.”

“If it is any consolation to you,” Anna said, “I will add that my first ball here will always be one of my most treasured memories.”

“You were right about the colors, Wren, though I was dubious,” Elizabeth said. “Your gown is perfect. As Mama said before we left home, you look like a piece of both springtime and summer.”

“And I was right about Alexander, Lizzie,” Wren said. “He did recognize the reference to daffodils without having to be told.”

And then, long before she was quite ready—but would she ever be?—the guests began to arrive and it was time to form the receiving line while the uniformed majordomo stepped into place beyond the ballroom doors to announce the guests as they came to the top of the stairs. Anna and Avery stood inside the doors, Wren and Alexander next to them, Elizabeth and her mother beyond them.

And Wren stood there, smiling and inclining her head, shaking hands, even presenting her cheek for the occasional kiss for a whole hour while close to three hundred of the crème de la crème of society filed past and greeted her and took a good look at her. She made no attempt to hide the left side of her face. She behaved as though there were no damage there at all. There were several lingering looks, a few raised eyebrows, one raised lorgnette, and two open grimaces. That was all. Everyone else greeted her with smiles and polite remarks. Several were even warm in their greetings. The raised lorgnette, Wren realized only after it had passed into the ballroom with its owner, belonged to the older of the two ladies who had been walking by the Serpentine with Alexander on the day of her own arrival in London.

“I believe it is time to proceed with the dancing,” Avery said at last. An elaborately jeweled quizzing glass was halfway to his eye. “I must congratulate you and thank you effusively, Wren. This third ball at Archer House during my tenure as duke is clearly destined to be as sad a squeeze as the other two. Such success can only enhance my reputation.”

Wren laughed, as she was intended to do, she realized from the keen, amused glance he cast her way. And she turned her laughing face to Alexander, who had somehow contrived to look even more handsome than usual tonight in his black tailed evening coat and silver satin knee breeches and silver embroidered waistcoat with white stockings and linen and elaborately tied neckcloth and lace at his cuffs.

“The first act of the drama is over,” she said. “Now for the second—the dancing.”

“It is always worth remembering,” he said just before he led her out onto the floor to form a set for the first country dance of the evening, “that most other people will be dancing too and focused upon their own little world, and that those who are not dancing will be either engrossed in conversation with one another or watching any of a hundred or so of the other dancers. We always tend to believe that everyone is watching us. It is very rarely so.”

“Ah.” She laughed. “A timely lesson in humility.” Even so, she was not convinced. Alexander must have drawn more than his fair share of eyes wherever he went, and so, surely, would she tonight for a variety of reasons. The ball was in her honor. She was the new Countess of Riverdale but unknown to the ton. Word must have spread about her facial blemish, and, even if it had not, everyone would have had a good look at it tonight. She was unusually tall. She had been described in the morning papers the day after her wedding as the vastly wealthy Heyden glassware heiress. She was the newly discovered sister of Lord Hodges. Therefore, she must be the daughter of the famous—or infamous—Lady Hodges. Oh, there were any number of reasons to be skeptical of the comfort Alexander had tried to offer. But no matter. She was here and she was not going to take two steps back now—or even one. She was not even going to continue to stand in the same spot. She stepped forward on her husband’s arm, her spine straight, her chin raised, a smile on her face, and—lest the smile look too much like a grimace—a sparkle in her eyes.

The worst was over. Everyone had seen her.

No, it was not. The dancing was yet to come. And she could not remember a single dance or what steps and figures went with the dances she could not remember. Her legs felt wooden, her knees half locked, her feet too large for the ends of her legs.

“Wren,” Alexander said, setting his free hand over hers on his sleeve, “I do admire you, you know. More than I have admired anyone else in my whole life.”

But how was that going to help?

Netherby would certainly be able to boast that his third ball at Archer House was as successful as the other two, Alexander thought as the evening progressed, and undoubtedly would do so at the end of the evening just to get a smile out of Wren. Not that smiles needed to be coaxed out of her tonight. She had not stopped smiling since the first guest appeared in the doorway of the ballroom. And it was not just a sociable smile. It sparkled. She looked like the happiest person at the ball, her shoulders back, her head high. And she danced every set—with him, with Sidney, with her brother, with one of her brother’s friends, with Netherby, with strangers to whom she had been introduced for the first time in the receiving line. And she danced with precision and apparent enjoyment. She went in to supper on Uncle Richard’s arm.

Perhaps only he understood just how much courage it was taking her to get through the evening. Or perhaps not. His mother and Lizzie surely understood. So, he suspected, did Anna and Netherby and … well, all his family. So did Hodges. He even came to talk about it with Alexander during the break between two sets after supper.

“How can Roe be such a smashing success tonight after being a hermit for twenty years?” he asked. “Where does she find the poise and courage, Riverdale? I honestly do not feel worthy to be her brother.”

“Or I to be her husband,” Alexander said with a laugh. “Her uncle gave her the name Wren apparently because she looked like a caged bird. I think she has finally discovered that the door of the cage has been open all these years, and she has fluttered outside and found that freedom is worth fighting for.”

“Yes,” her brother agreed. “She is fighting, is she not?”

“Oh yes,” Alexander said. “This ballroom is her battleground.”

“I have engaged Miss Parmiter’s hand for the next set,” Hodges said. “I must go and claim her. It is a waltz and she has only this week been approved by one of the patronesses of Almack’s to dance it.”

Wren had been granted no such approval, though several of the patronesses were present this evening and doubtless would oblige if asked. But she was almost thirty years old and the Countess of Riverdale and did not need anyone’s approval for anything. She had already waltzed this evening with her brother, and it had pained Alexander not to partner her himself. But etiquette decreed that he dance with his wife no more than twice this evening and he had preferred to wait for the waltz later in the evening—now, in fact. He had danced every set with different partners, but this was the one for which he had waited. He had reserved it with her. It would have been disastrous to arrive at her side only to discover that someone else had claimed it.

She smiled when she saw him come. To a casual observer it would have seemed that her expression had not changed, for she had smiled all evening. But he could see a greater depth to her eyes, a warmth of regard she reserved for him alone. And it was time, surely, for both of them to acknowledge what had happened since that first ghastly meeting at Withington, since her withdrawal of her offer on Easter Sunday, since his sensible, rational offer in Hyde Park. For something had happened. Everything had happened, in fact, and he was sure it could not have happened just to him.

“Ma’am,” he said, reaching for her hand and bowing over it as he kept his eyes on hers, “this is my dance, I believe.”

Elizabeth, beside her, was fanning her face and looking amused.

“Sir,” Wren said, “I believe it is. And I can almost promise,” she added after he had led her onto the floor, “not to tread all over your feet. I did not tread on Colin’s even once earlier.”

“Wren,” he said as one of the violinists was still tuning his instrument and other dancers gathered about them, “you have done it. You have stepped out fearlessly into the world and proved that you can do anything you choose to do.”

“Ah, not fearlessly,” she said.

“Courageously, then,” he said. “No courage is needed if there is no fear, after all, and you are the most courageous woman—no, person—I have ever known.”

“And I do not believe I could swim across the English Channel to France,” she said.

“But would you choose to try?” he asked.

“No.” They both laughed.

And the music began. They waltzed tentatively at first, concentrating upon performing the correct steps and finding a shared rhythm. Then he twirled her into a spin and she raised a flushed, smiling face to his. Her spine arched inward with the pressure of his hand at her waist. Her left hand rested on his shoulder while her right hand was clasped in his. And the world was a wonderful place, and happiness was a real thing even if it welled up only occasionally into conscious moments of joy like this one. His family—and hers—and friends and peers and acquaintances danced around them with a shared pleasure in this celebration of life and friendship and laughter. And his wife was in his arms and they were at the very beginning of a marriage that would, God willing, bring them contentment and more on down the years to old age and perhaps even beyond.

Other couples twirled about them, candlelight wheeled above them, flowers gave off their heady perfumes, and the music seeped into their very bones, or so it seemed.

She smiled at him and he smiled back and really nothing else mattered, nothing else existed but her—and him. Them.

“Ah,” she said on a sigh when the music finally came to an end, “so soon?”

“Come,” he said. He did not know if she had promised the next set. He did not really care. He led her out onto the balcony beyond the French windows and down the steps to the garden below. It was lit with colored lanterns strung among the trees, though not many people strolled there. He stopped walking when they were beneath a willow tree beside a fountain, out of sight of the house. “Happy?” he asked.

“Mmm,” she said, clinging to his arm. “It is beautifully cool out here.”

“I suppose,” he said, “you are still going to insist that we wait to go home to Brambledean until after the parliamentary session is over.”

“Yes,” she said. “Because your duty here is important. To you. And therefore to me.”

“We will leave the very day after,” he said. “At the crack of dawn. I want to be home. With you.”

“It does sound heavenly, does it not?” she said.

“Wren.” He turned to face her and cupped her face in his hands. “I am guilty of a terrible deception. Of myself as much as of you. I surely suspected when you insisted upon ending things between us at Brambledean. I surely knew when I saw you again by the Serpentine. The truth must have been staring me in the face and knocking on my brow when I offered you marriage on that woodland path. It has been clamoring for my attention ever since.”

She raised both her hands and set them over the backs of his. “What?” she half whispered. Lamplight was swaying across her face in the breeze.

“I love you,” he said. “I wish there were a better word. But maybe it is the best after all, for it encompasses everything else and reaches beyond. I love you more than … Well, I am really not good with words. I love you.”

Her smile was soft and warm and radiant in the dim light. “Oh,” she said, her voice hushed with wonder. “But you have chosen the most precious word in the English language, Alexander. I love you too, you see. I think I have known my own feelings since the moment you walked into my drawing room at Withington and looked so disconcerted not to find it full of other guests. I have certainly known since Easter Sunday. It broke my heart to let you go, but it would have been worse to continue—or so I thought. After we met again I chose to settle for the hope of affection, and it has been good knowing that you do indeed care. I have tried to tell myself it is enough. I have tried not to be greedy. But now … Oh, Alexander, now …”

He touched his forehead to hers. “And it is at least a few weeks since I last noticed, you know,” he said. “Is it still there? I wonder.” He lifted his head and gazed with a frown of concentration at the left side of her face. “Indeed it is. The birthmark is still there. How could I possibly not have noticed?”

She was laughing. “Perhaps,” she said, “because you were noticing me instead.”

“Ah,” he said. “Undoubtedly that is it.”

They smiled at each other, and she pressed her hands warmly against his as he kissed her.

… because you were noticing me instead.

Ah, Wren.

Yes.