It was an eternity before the dinner hour finally arrived.

Gareth delayed going to the drawing room. He smoothed his cravat and tugged at his jacket, trying not to notice how his heart seemed to be thudding very hard against his ribs. He hadn’t seen his bride since the Greys arrived. That was perfectly expected; no doubt she had wanted a chance to rest from the journey and refresh herself. The fact that he kept picturing Mrs. Barrows—instead of Miss Grey, his chosen bride—reclining against the pillows of her bed was surely just a result of the lightning strike. It must have been closer than he’d thought and disordered his brain. No doubt as soon as he saw her at dinner, he would realize how mistaken that first electrifying impression had been.

Of course, he’d met her for a moment in the garden and nothing had happened to change it. On the contrary; she’d called it a garden of love and mentioned kissing in the shrubbery, and his mind had almost ceased working.

But now it was time to see her, along with his bride and her parents and even—God help him—all his family. His sisters were wildly excited to meet Miss Grey, and his mother had deemed dinner the proper time. Perhaps some of his bride’s quiet self-possession would wear off on Bridget especially, he thought, trying not to think how Mrs. Barrows’s lively nature was far more like his siblings’.

He took a deep breath. What was the matter with him? It must have been the lightning. Once he met the lady in proper, dignified circumstances, he would revert to his usual sane, rational self. Surely a longer acquaintance would confirm what he truly believed, that Helen Grey was the best possible choice for his duchess. She would be an excellent hostess, a kind mother, and a good role model for his sisters. She would look beautiful on his arm. He would have her dowry property, which he had long coveted. Just thinking through the logical, sane reasons why he wanted this match had a calming effect. He had made the right choice, and his odd fascination with her sister was merely a passing flight of fancy.

The door opened behind him and James Blair came in. The storm had blown away, and Blair’s expression was once more calm and equable. He would be at dinner tonight as well, as he often was at family dinners or when there was an unescorted lady present. Gareth had even excused him from most of his duties for the next fortnight; Blair had spent a great deal of time around the Greys this spring, and he could help smooth any awkward moments that might arrive as the families mingled. “Ah, there you are. I was beginning to fear you’d left me to face the ladies all by myself.”

“Sir William would be there.”

“I had hoped for more,” said Gareth dryly.

“And here I am.” Blair made a grimace. “In desperate need of a drink, I’m afraid.”

“Yes.” Gareth seized on the word. Now that his cousin mentioned it, a drink sounded like just the thing. “A brilliant idea.” He went to the cabinet in the corner and poured two measures of brandy, glad of something to do.

“I’ve decided to grant your wish regarding Mrs. Barrows,” said Blair then, with no warning at all.

The brandy bottle seemed to lurch in his hand, spilling liquor on the silver tray beneath the glass. “What do you mean?” he asked, keeping his back to his cousin as he hastily mopped up the liquid.

“That I act as her escort this fortnight.”

“Ah yes.” Gareth had forgotten that request. It had seemed a natural one to make a week ago, when all he knew was that Helen Grey’s older widowed sister would be part of the party. Blair had already agreed to do that; why did he have to bring it up now? “I thought we’d settled that a week ago.”

“I was uncertain.” Blair accepted a glass of brandy. “But after meeting her today, I believe I may enjoy her company a great deal.”

Gareth was struck motionless. “Why?” was all he managed to ask. Had Blair also met her in the garden? Hadn’t he been cowed by the threat of lightning? For some reason, Gareth was wildly irked that his cousin might have seen her with raindrops glistening on her skin. Damn it, maybe they’d better go in to dinner at once, so he could take another long look at her and cure his irrational interest right away.

Blair seemed not to notice his tension. “I suspect she is the source of some tension in the family. There was something about the way she pressed her lips together when she stepped out of the carriage.”

He pictured her mouth and took a gulp of his drink. “She’s a widow with her own home. Perhaps there’s something in her own life, and not her family’s, that gave her pause.”

“No doubt. She married a shopkeeper when she was only seventeen, and she still owns and runs the shop.”

A shopkeeper’s wife. Gareth either hadn’t paid attention to that part of James’s report on the Grey family or hadn’t cared enough to remember. “Where is the shop?” he asked, instantly chagrined that he had done so. Why did that matter?

“In Melchester, near Grey’s property. A rather large draper’s shop.”

A draper’s shop. He pictured her running her fingers over bolts of brilliant silks, gauzy laces, satin ribbons. He tossed back the last of his brandy. Why did she run the shop? Ladies did no such thing; his mother would have fainted away at the thought of managing a shop. “How independent. What do you suspect, Blair?” He tried to get back to the main topic, which was ... oh yes. Mrs. Barrows’s secrets. The way she pressed her lips together. “Is this shop a dark family secret?”

Blair shook his head. “No, although you won’t hear a word about it from Sir William. The man has a supremely inflated sense of himself, and I doubt he approves.”

“No, I expect not.” Gareth’s one overriding impression of his soon-to-be in-laws was pride. Sir William clung to it, and Lady Grey couldn’t hide her delight in having a connection to Wessex. He rather doubted a merchant in the family had been as agreeable to the Greys. “Why did she marry a shopkeeper?” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Apparently she loved him.” Blair’s faint grin returned. “I told you: impulsive, bold, and passionate. She’s a woman who isn’t afraid to pursue what she wants.”

Oh, Lord. He raised his glass and realized it was already empty. “Do you think that might be causing this tension you noticed?” he asked, grasping at Blair’s earlier comment.

“I’m not certain.” Blair spoke slowly. “Didn’t you remark it? I wasn’t aware of it earlier, in London, but it was almost palpable when they arrived.”

Gareth frowned. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss—well, he hadn’t noticed much of anything beyond Mrs. Barrows’s mouth and eyes and the way her skirt swayed as she climbed the stairs, none of which had struck him as remotely amiss. “I wonder why. Could it be the wedding?” He lowered his voice, watching his cousin closely. “Do you think Miss Grey or her parents want to break the engagement?”

Blair seemed startled. He turned to Gareth, a frown creasing his forehead. “I highly doubt it, Wessex. What made you say that?”

Yes, what had made him say that? He had no idea. This morning he had been highly pleased with his impending marriage and his choice of bride. Not one wisp of hesitation had clouded his mind, not even his mother’s gentle chiding about love and affection. Then a woman—the wrong woman—looked up at him with sparkling brown eyes and it seemed as though all his logical decisions had been made hastily and foolishly, based on air. Now he had just asked, without any forethought at all, if his bride might be planning to jilt him. Even worse, there had been a thread of hope in his question.

What was wrong with him tonight? His mother had planned a wedding celebration that would be spoken of for years to come. Dozens of guests would be arriving in a matter of days. The marriage contract was signed. The bride was upstairs, probably already planning how she would redecorate when the duchess’s suite was hers. The marriage was going to happen. Gareth must have lost his mind to contemplate—let alone contemplate with equanimity—anything else.

“Nothing,” he said, telling himself it was true. “You made it sound very ominous, and that was the most alarming thing I could think of on the spot. The wedding is in a fortnight, after all.”

Blair’s shoulders eased. “Of course.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. Well, thank you for sharing your concern with me. If anything particular comes up, do let me know.”

“Of course I will. I shall do my best to learn Mrs. Barrows’s secrets.”

For some reason, that didn’t sit too well with Gareth. He cast a longing glance at the brandy decanter but resolutely set down his glass. “Shall we go to dinner?”

“Indeed,” murmured Blair. “Time to face the enemy.”

That fit a little too well with Gareth’s own feeling, so he said nothing. They went to the drawing room, where much of the family had already gathered. His sisters had clustered around Miss Grey, chattering with various degrees of animation. Serena and Alexandra, he was pleased to see, were achieving some level of decorum, but Bridget, as feared, was louder and more boisterous than ever. For her part, Miss Grey seemed a little cowed by them. Her smile was uncertain, and she wasn’t saying much, although in fairness, it must have been rather intimidating to have three girls discussing every detail of her dress and pelting her with queries about London.

His mother was conversing with Sir William and Lady Grey, who looked up with twin expressions of rapture at his entrance. Gareth joined them as Blair headed for the younger ladies. He had a way with Bridget, and Gareth hoped Blair could calm his sister down so she wouldn’t frighten poor Miss Grey to death.

“Good evening, Your Grace, good evening!” Sir William almost preened in his satisfaction. “Delightful house.”

“Oh yes,” gushed his wife. “I’ve never seen one finer!”

“How very good of you to say so.” He inclined his head, keeping one eye on the door. A quick survey of the room had revealed the absence of Mrs. Barrows.

“If you’ll pardon me, I shall have a word with the butler about dinner.” His mother lowered her voice as she passed him. “Sophronia has deigned to join us this evening.”

“Has she?” Gareth shot her a look. “How generous of her.”

“Don’t start,” she murmured, edging past him. “I tried to dissuade her.”

Everyone knew that was hopeless. Nothing dissuaded Sophronia once she set her mind on something. Still, it gave him something to think about as Lady Grey’s effusions of delight over Kingstag Castle continued. Everything was perfection, in her opinion, and she seemed determined to list each point. It grew to be a bit much, to tell the truth. Gareth appreciated his home and was pleased to hear it admired, but she went on and on as though praising a gift he had given her. As soon as he could, he excused himself and went to Miss Grey, who appeared more at ease now. Blair had channeled the discussion into the diversions planned for the next fortnight.

“Good evening, Miss Grey.” He bowed, and she curtseyed. Very proper. Very reserved. “How have you found Kingstag Castle thus far?”

She smiled. “It is lovely, sir. I look forward to seeing the grounds. Your sisters have described them so well.”

“We’re going to take her around to see everything!” put in Bridget, beaming. “The lake, the grotto, everything! Only, she doesn’t ride terribly well, so James will have to drive us in the barouche.”

“I never promised,” Blair said with a smile.

“But near enough! I shall be on my best behavior. Please?” she begged.

“Perhaps Wessex will want to show Miss Grey the grounds himself,” replied Blair with a glance at Gareth.

“If she wishes,” he said. “We shall ride out to see as much as you care to see, Miss Grey.”

She lowered her eyes and curtseyed again. “That is very kind of you, sir.”

Blair drew the younger girls aside, saying he had an idea for an entertainment later, and they retreated to a corner of the room, although the giggles and whispers were audible to all. Gareth looked at his bride-to-be, and she looked at him. He suddenly realized he had no idea what to say to her, and from the expression on her face, she probably felt the same.

“Your sisters are charming,” said Miss Grey.

“They are indeed—and they have been positively wild to make your acquaintance.” He watched Alexandra whisper something in Serena’s ear, and a slight smile curved his lips at the delight in Bridget’s face over whatever they were plotting. His sisters were exhausting, but he did love them. “I hope they haven’t been impertinent.”

“Not at all.” Miss Grey paused. “Sisters are important. I shall be glad to have some more.”

“I shall be glad to share them.” Gareth repressed the urge to glance at the door yet again at the mention of her sister. He must not allow himself to think what was teasing the edges of his mind. If their conversations were always rather dull, it must be his fault and not hers. When they were better acquainted, they would know what to talk about and not end up in these awkward silences.

“Good evening,” said a bright voice behind him. He turned, tamping down the quick spurt of anticipation. This time he was prepared. This time she wouldn’t catch him off guard, the earth would remain firmly and motionlessly lodged beneath his feet, and he wouldn’t feel as though he’d been hit over the head by a falling tree branch.

Instead he felt as though the breath had been sucked right out of his lungs. Mrs. Barrows wore a gauzy white dress that swirled and clung to her body with every step. A long, narrow shawl of vivid blue looped around her bare arms. Ropes of delicate gold chain looped around her bodice, jingling with little gold coins. Her sable hair was twisted up on her head, more gold chain running through it, and on her feet—her bare feet—were dainty leather sandals. She looked like a Roman goddess, he thought numbly: Venus, the goddess of desire.

“Oh, Cleo, how lovely you look,” said Miss Grey warmly.

“Thank you, Helen. The minute the chain came into the shop, I thought to wear it.” Mrs. Barrows beamed at her sister as she joined them. “Although I don’t think I can compare to you!”

Gareth turned his head to look at his fiancé. He hadn’t even noticed what she was wearing. A pale pink dress, very fashionable and very ordinary. His feet had never left the ground once while looking at her.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” Mrs. Barrows dipped a curtsey. The little coins tinkled softly as she moved.

“Good evening.” His tongue had trouble forming the words.

“Mrs. Barrows.” Blair appeared at her elbow with a pleased smile. “Good evening. What an original gown.”

She smiled. “Very unoriginal, you mean! I fell in love with an illustration in one of my father’s books and longed to recreate it for myself. This design must be two thousand years old.”

“But surely even better now,” he replied. Blair was looking at her with far too much appreciation, thought Gareth testily. “Don’t you agree, Wessex?”

“Er— Yes,” he said. At least the question gave him an excuse for staring at her.

She looked directly at him then, her dark eyes sparkling. A little smile curved her mouth into a perfectly kissable shape. Gareth felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. He might need another brandy. “Thank you, Your Grace. You flatter me.”

The door opened, and Gareth’s mother returned, thank God—although with Sophronia and Henrietta Black in her wake. Sophronia looked as eccentric as ever tonight, in a gown thirty years out of date and her henna-colored hair tied up in a bewildering assortment of braids and knots, but her gaze was as keen and ruthless as ever. Unconsciously Gareth braced himself, sensing that she had decided to join them in order to stir up trouble in some way. “Isn’t it time to eat?” she asked loudly, confirming his suspicions. Her companion, Henrietta, tried to murmur something in her ear, but Sophronia waved her away. “I’m half-starved after the long walk down here.”

“Nearly,” said the duchess calmly, guiding her across the room. “Come meet our guests. Here are Sir William and Lady Grey. Wessex is to marry their daughter. Sir William, Lady Grey, may I present you to Lady Sophronia Cavendish?”

“A great honor, madam.” Sir William bowed.

“Oh yes, indeed!” trilled his wife, fluttering her hands as though she couldn’t contain herself. “A singular pleasure, my lady!”

Sophronia gave the woman a hard stare, then turned away. The duchess quickly intervened. “You must meet the bride!” She gave Gareth a look as Sophronia tottered toward him, and he made the introductions.

Sophronia baldly looked Miss Grey up and down, then did the same to Mrs. Barrows. “Are you the bride?”

Mrs. Barrows blinked. “No, my sister has that happy honor.”

The older woman grunted. “She doesn’t look honored.”

“Sophronia,” murmured the duchess in a warning way.

“Oh, but she is!” put in Lady Grey. “Who would not be honored to become the Duchess of Wessex, mistress of Kingstag Castle? I assure you, madam, my daughter feels her honor very, very well!”

“She doesn’t show it.” The elderly lady’s keen eye landed on Mrs. Barrows again. “Already married, are you?”

“No, my lady. I’m a widow.” Mrs. Barrows seemed amused by Sophronia. She shot her sister a glance full of impudent amusement. Her mouth twitched as if to keep from laughing. Gareth wondered what her laugh sounded like. What her lips felt like. What she wore underneath that slip of a gown.

God help him.

“You don’t dress like one,” remarked Sophronia. Once again she was coming perilously close to rudeness, and as usual, no one seemed to know quite how to deflect her. She peered closer at Mrs. Barrows’s gown. “Where did you get that chain? It’s quite unusual.”

“Oh my heavens!” burst out Lady Grey. Everyone looked at her and her face seemed to fill with panic for a moment. “I—I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I have just remembered something I must tell my daughter.”

“Yes, Mama,” murmured Miss Grey, stepping forward.

“No, Helen dear.” Her mother’s voice was high and strained. “Your sister.”

Miss Grey’s eyes flickered to Mrs. Barrows’s. Something passed between them, but Gareth wasn’t sure what. Suddenly he understood what Blair had meant about a tension in the Grey family. Even Mrs. Barrows’s supple mouth looked flat. “We’re about to go in to dinner, Mama,” she said, her voice quiet and reserved. There was none of the warmth and humor she had shown before.

Lady Grey’s face pinched. “It will only take a moment, Cleo. Come here.”

“Well, Alice, is it time to eat or isn’t it? I never had the patience to stand around waiting for my dinner.” Sophronia turned to the duchess, who began to look a little strained as well.

“Yes, dinner is ready.” The duchess nodded at one of the footmen, who swept open the doors.

“Thank goodness,” declared Bridget, bounding across the room. Alexandra and Serena followed more sedately. “I’m so hungry!”

“That’s my girl,” said Sophronia with approval as the duchess closed her eyes in despair. “Who’s going to escort me? I see you haven’t got nearly enough gentlemen tonight, Wessex.”

“The guests will begin arriving tomorrow,” he replied. “Blair will give you his arm tonight.” He nodded at his cousin.

Sophronia grunted. “I suppose he’ll do.” She put out her hand, and Blair obediently gave her his arm.

The duchess smiled at the rest of them. “Since we are just family tonight, I thought we could all go in together. I hope you will forgive the informality.”

There was a murmur of assent. Gareth turned to Lady Grey, still hovering behind him. What the devil had she wanted to tell Mrs. Barrows so urgently? And why had it banished the light from the lady’s eyes? Even now, she was staring fixedly at the carpet, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He felt again the oddest sensation of falling. He wanted to shake her mother—her own mother—for dampening her spirits. He must be going mad. “May I escort you, madam?”

Lady Grey hesitated, but after exchanging a glance with her husband, she took Gareth’s arm. “Why yes, how kind, Your Grace! I have heard such reports of your chef at Kingstag, I expect dinner shall be utterly incomparable ...” She went on, but he barely heard her. His sisters fell in step with Miss Grey behind them, and they followed his mother into the dining room.

But when he reached the dining room and seated Lady Grey, he discovered that Mrs. Barrows and Sir William had not followed them.