Lady Webb opened Jane’s dressing room door and stepped inside. Dressed in midnight blue with matching plumed turban, she formed a marked contrast to Jane, who looked almost ethereal in a fashionable low-cut gown of white lace over white satin, silver thread gleaming on the scalloped hem, the sash beneath her bosom, and the short scalloped sleeves. She wore long white gloves and silver slippers and had a narrow white, silver-shot ribbon threaded through her golden hair.

‘Oh, Sara, my dear,’ Lady Webb said, ‘you are indeed the daughter I never had. How fortunate I am. But how I wish your poor mother could be here to see you on surely the most important day of your life. You look positively beautiful.’

Jane had been critically examining her appearance in the long pier glass in her dressing room. She turned to her godmother.

‘You said exactly the same thing yesterday when I was forced to wear those horrid, heavy, old-fashioned clothes that the queen insists upon when one is being presented at one of her Drawing Rooms,’ she said. ‘I certainly feel better tonight.’

‘Your presentation at court was obligatory,’ Lady Webb said. ‘Your come-out ball is your personal, triumphant entry into society.’

‘Will it be a triumph, do you suppose?’

Jane picked up her fan from the dressing table. She was feeling a fluttering of anxiety about the evening ahead. All day there had been a great hustle and bustle in preparation for the ball. Since returning from a morning outing with her maid, she had watched in wonder as the ballroom was transformed before her eyes. It was decked out all in white and silver ribbons and bows and flowers, the only color provided by the lush green of leaves and ferns. The great chandeliers had been lowered and cleaned and filled with hundreds of new candles. The orchestra had arrived late in the afternoon and set up their instruments on the dais. The dining room had been set with all the best porcelain and crystal and silverware for a sumptuous supper banquet at midnight.

‘Of course it will be a triumph,’ Lady Webb said, approaching Jane and hugging her, though not closely enough to rumple either of them. ‘How could it not? You are Lady Sara Illingsworth, daughter of the late Earl of Durbury and a great heiress. You are as lovely as the princesses of fairy tales. And you already have a considerable court of admirers.’

Jane smiled ruefully.

‘You could make any of a number of brilliant matches,’ her godmother told her. ‘Viscount Kimble, for example, has been markedly attentive and could be brought up to scratch, I believe. You need not feel obliged to allow Tresham to continue paying court to you – if he intends to do so, that is. He came and made you a decent offer – at least, I trust it was decent. But the choice is yours, Sara.’

‘Aunt Harriet,’ Jane said half reproachfully.

‘But I will say no more on that subject,’ Lady Webb said briskly. ‘I have already said enough – perhaps too much. Come, we must go down to the ballroom. Our guests will be arriving soon. Cyril and Dorothy will be waiting for us.’

Lord Lansdowne was Lady Webb’s brother. She had invited him and his wife to help her host the ball. Lord Lansdowne was to lead Jane into the opening set of dances.

The ballroom had looked magnificent in the light of late afternoon. Now it looked nothing short of breathtaking. The candles had all been lit. They sparkled gold above all the white and silver, their light multiplied by the long mirrors along the walls.

It all looked, Jane thought, almost like a room prepared for a bridal ball. But it was her come-out they were celebrating tonight. And all must go well. Nothing must be allowed to spoil it. Aunt Harriet had given so much time and energy – as well as a great deal of money – to make sure that yesterday and today would be perfect for her goddaughter.

‘Are you nervous, Sara?’ Lady Lansdowne asked.

Jane turned to her with eyes that were tear-filled, despite herself. ‘Only insofar as I want everything to go well for Aunt Harriet’s sake,’ she said.

‘You look as fine as fivepence, I must say, my dear,’ Lord Lansdowne told her. ‘Now, if only I can disguise the fact that I have two left feet …’ He laughed heartily.

Jane turned to Lady Webb, who was regarding her with a maternal eye. ‘Thank you so very much for all this, Aunt Harriet,’ she said. ‘My own mama could not have done better for me.’

‘Well, my dear. What can I say?’ Lady Webb looked suspiciously dewy-eyed.

Fortunately, perhaps, there were some early guests arriving. The four of them hurried to form a receiving line outside the ballroom doors.

The next hour sped by in a blur for Jane as she was formally presented at long last – at the advanced age of twenty – to her peers in the ton. There were familiar faces among those of strangers. Some people she felt she already knew quite well. There was the very handsome and charming Viscount Kimble, who Aunt Harriet seemed to believe was a prospective suitor for her hand. There was the amiable Sir Conan Brougham, and a few more of Jocelyn’s friends, who had visited him at Dudley House while Jane was there. There was Lord Ferdinand Dudley, who bowed over her hand, raised it to his lips, and grinned at her with his attractive boyish charm. And there were Lord and Lady Heyward. The former bowed courteously, said all that was correct, and would have moved on into the ballroom if his wife had not had other ideas.

‘Oh, Sara,’ she said, hugging Jane tightly at risk of grave damage to both their appearances, ‘you do look lovely. I am so envious of your ability to wear white. I look like a ghost in it myself and simply must wear brighter colors. Though Tresham and Ferdie are forever criticizing my taste, odious creatures. Is Tresham coming tonight? He would not give me a direct answer when I met him in the park this afternoon. Have the two of you had words? How splendid of you actually to quarrel with him. No one has ever been able to stand up to him before. I do hope you will not forgive him too readily but will make him suffer. But tomorrow, you know—’

But Lord Heyward had grasped her firmly by the elbow. ‘Come, my love,’ he said. ‘The line will be stretched down the stairs and across the hall and out to the pavement if we stand here talking any longer.’

‘Have you quarreled with the duke, Sara?’ Lady Webb asked as they turned away. ‘You had so little to say for yourself after he called on you last week. Do you know if he intends to come tonight?’

But there really was a line of people waiting to be presented. There was no chance for further private talk.

He did come. Of course he came. He was late, but not too late. Jane and Lady Webb were still standing outside the ballroom doors with Lord and Lady Lansdowne while all was abuzz inside and the members of the orchestra were tuning their instruments. He was dressed in a tailed black, form-fitting evening coat with gray silk knee breeches, silver-embroidered waistcoat, sparkling white linen, lace, and stockings, and black dancing shoes. He was looking formal and correct and haughty as he bowed in turn to everyone in the receiving line.

‘Lady Sara,’ he murmured when he came to Jane. He grasped the handle of his jeweled quizzing glass but did not raise it quite to his eye as he looked her over slowly from head to toe. ‘Dear me. Looking almost like a bride.’

Oh, odious, odious man! He knew very well that white was almost obligatory for any lady making her come-out.

‘Your grace,’ she murmured, emphasizing the words slightly in retaliation for his calling her Lady Sara. She dipped him a curtsy.

He did not linger but proceeded on into the ballroom. Jane turned her thoughts away from him. It was not easy to do but must be done. Tonight was for Aunt Harriet more than for herself.

Five minutes later Lord Lansdowne led her into the opening set of country dances. Jane relished the moment to the full. She was dancing at a grand London ball for the first time, and it was her own ball. It was a vigorous and intricate dance, one that had her flushed and laughing before it was over. Other couples had joined them on the dance floor, enough in fact to make it quite clear that tomorrow Aunt Harriet would be able to boast that the event had been a squeeze.

Jocelyn did not dance. Jane did not once look directly at him, but every moment she was aware of him, standing alone on the sidelines, dark and handsome, watching the dancing. At the end of the set, after Lord Lansdowne had returned her to Lady Webb’s side and a few prospective partners had approached her, including Lord Ferdinand, she saw him turn and leave the ballroom.

Jocelyn prowled. There was no other word to describe his movements. Even he was aware of it as he moved from the ballroom to the card room to the refreshment room to the landing that connected all three rooms and back to the ballroom again. He could not settle anywhere, even though Pottier invited him to join a table of card players and Lady Webb offered to present him with a dancing partner. There was Ferdinand to deal with, of course. And Angeline.

‘I do not know why you bothered to come, Tresh,’ the former said disapprovingly when they ran against each another on the landing while Ferdinand was on his way to the refreshment room and Jocelyn was about to enter the card room for the third time. ‘All you have done since you arrived is look damned morose and toplofty. If you have come to spoil the evening for her, I am here to tell you that I will not have it.’

Jocelyn looked at his brother with pleased approval. Then he raised his quizzing glass to his eye. ‘You still have the same valet, Ferdinand?’ he asked. ‘Despite the fact that he is still attempting to slice your throat? You are braver than I, my dear fellow.’

Ferdinand frowned and fingered the small nick beneath his jaw on the right side while Jocelyn prowled off in the direction of the card room.

Angeline was a little more garrulous – but then, when was she not? It seemed that she applauded Jane for looking so radiantly happy when it was clear that Tresham must have quarreled with her. She hoped Jane would lead him a merry dance and never forgive him for whatever he had said to offend her. And he was no brother of hers if he did not immediately sweep Jane off her feet and make her an offer and positively refuse to take no for an answer.

‘That is what I goaded Heyward into doing,’ she told him. She fanned her face while her brother looked at her with distaste.

‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you are color blind, Angeline. It is the kindest explanation I can think of to account for your appalling choice of red and pink plumes to be worn side by side in your hair.’

She ignored him. ‘You are going to marry Lady Sara in St. George’s, Hanover Square, before the Season is over,’ she told him. ‘With all the ton in attendance. I absolutely insist upon it, Tresham. I shall plan it all myself.’

‘Heaven defend us,’ he murmured before bowing politely to her and continuing on his way into the ballroom.

It was almost time. A cotillion was coming to an end. A waltz was next. He stood close to the doors, his prowling forgotten, and watched Brougham lead a flushed and smiling Jane off the dance floor and return her to Lady Webb’s side. The inevitable court of hopefuls gathered around. It looked as if Kimble had won the race. He was smiling and saying something to Jane. Jocelyn strolled forward.

‘This,’ he said firmly when he was close enough, ‘is my dance, I believe, ma’am.’

‘Too late, too late,’ Kimble said flippantly. ‘I spoke first, Tresham.’

Jocelyn regarded his friend with haughtily raised eyebrows as the fingers of one hand grasped the handle of his quizzing glass.

‘Congratulations, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘But the lady’s hand is mine nonetheless. Of course, if you care to argue the point—’

‘Your grace,’ Jane began, sounding more embarrassed than angry. Jocelyn lifted his glass all the way to his eye and swung it in her direction. All the other bucks in attendance on her had frozen in place, he noticed, as if they were expecting fisticuffs to break out at any moment and were terrified that they might be involved.

‘You have fought enough duels to last for the next decade or so, Tresh,’ Kimble said. ‘And I have no wish whatsoever to peer down the wrong end of your pistol, even if I know very well that you will shoot into the air when it comes to the point.’

He bowed, had the temerity to wink at Jane, and strolled away.

‘I cannot waltz, your grace,’ Jane reminded Jocelyn. ‘This is my come-out ball, and I have not yet had the nod of approval from any of the patronesses of Almack’s to waltz at a public ball.’

‘Poppycock!’ he said. ‘This is your ball, and you will waltz if you wish to. Do you?’

Lady Webb, who might have spoken up in protest, did not do so. The decision was Jane’s. Did she have the courage? He looked directly into her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said, setting her hand on his sleeve. ‘Of course I do.’

And so they took the floor together for the waltz, a move that drew considerable attention from most if not all of the gathered guests, Jocelyn noticed. He and Jane were an ondit, he realized, despite his efforts to see to it that they were not. And now he had goaded her into waltzing in defiance of the prevailing custom.

He did not care a tinker’s damn what anyone thought. But she did, of course. This was her come-out ball, which Lady Webb had prepared for her with such selfless enthusiasm. He gazed intently at her as he took her in his arms. How could he possibly behave himself as a gentleman ought and act as if she meant nothing at all to him? How could he possibly disguise what he felt for this woman? Even just touching her, like this … But he held her the regulation distance from his body and concentrated on keeping the heat he was feeling out of his gaze.

‘It was quite odious of you,’ she said, ‘to say what you did when you arrived.’

‘Lady Sara?’ he said. ‘But you are. And I was on my best behavior. Besides, you retaliated without a blink, Jane.’

‘Not that,’ she said. ‘The other thing.’

‘About your looking like a bride?’ he said. ‘You do. All white lace and satin and blushes.’

‘Flushes,’ she said. ‘I have been dancing.’

‘With all your most loyal and persistent beaux,’ he agreed.

‘Jealous?’

He raised his eyebrows and did not deign to answer. Instead, he drew her closer. Scandalously close, in fact. He could sense the gossips murmuring and muttering behind fans and lorgnettes and gloved hands. Jane made no protest at all.

They did not talk after that. It was a spirited waltz tune that the orchestra played, and the dance floor was larger than the drawing room at Dudley House, where they had last waltzed together. He moved her about the perimeter of the floor, twirling her to the rhythm, his eyes locked on hers the whole while, their bodies almost touching.

There was no need of words. They had spoken plenty during the weeks of their acquaintance. Enough that they could sometimes converse quite eloquently without a single sound issuing from their lips. Despite good intentions, he made love to her with his eyes, heedless of any audience they might still have. She pressed her lips together, but she did not once look away. He was not going to spoil the evening, her eyes told him. For Lady Webb’s sake he was not. She might have been goaded into possible scandal by waltzing with him, but she would not be persuaded into looking back at him as he was looking at her. Or into quarreling with him. And yet her eyes said other things too. They were far more expressive than she realized.

‘Well, Jane,’ he asked her when he knew the waltz was drawing to an end, ‘what is your assessment? Is this the happiest day of your life?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled slowly at him. ‘How could it not be? Are you happy?’ she asked him.

‘Bedamned,’ he told her.

There was a stranger with Lady Webb, he saw as he took Jane’s arm to lead her back to her godmother. A young man who was dressed with perfect decency and propriety but with not the slightest flair of elegance or fashion. Someone who lived almost exclusively in the country, it would appear. The milksop and country bumpkin, if his guess was not quite wide of the mark.

It was a suspicion that was confirmed almost immediately, as soon as Jane’s attention was drawn away from someone who said something to her in passing. She looked ahead to Lady Webb, her hand stiffened on his arm, and she hurried forward.

‘Charles!’ she exclaimed, holding out both her hands to the bumpkin, who was glaring at him, Jocelyn, as if he would dearly like to take him apart limb from limb.

‘Yes, Sara,’ the young idiot said, finally looking at the woman who was reputed to be the love of his heart and taking her hands in his own. ‘I have come. You are quite safe now.’

‘I have come,’ Charles said again. ‘And in the very nick of time, it would appear, Sara. I found that fellow offensive.’

Jane had her arm linked through his and was leading him in the direction of the refreshment room. Yes, Jocelyn really had behaved rather annoyingly. He had become the Duke of Tresham even before she had introduced the two men, all haughty ennui, his quizzing glass to his eye. And when she had introduced them, he had spoken with faint hauteur.

‘Indeed?’ he had said, looking Charles over. ‘Lady Sara’s champion, I gather? Her trusty knight, who rode at a gallop to her rescue when she was within the very jaws of the dragon?’

Charles had swelled up almost visibly with indignation, but he had found nothing better to say than that he had been away from home at the time and that when he had arrived back it was to learn that even a Bow Street Runner had been unable to find her.

‘Yes, quite so,’ Jocelyn had agreed with an audible sigh before inclining his head to Jane and Lady Webb and strolling away.

To her shame Jane had wanted to laugh. She had felt nothing but dismay and chagrin at seeing Charles in Aunt Harriet’s ballroom. Surely he must have received her letter before leaving Cornwall. But he had come anyway.

‘Yes, you have come,’ she said. ‘But why, Charles, when I wrote and told you not to?’

‘How could I stay away?’ he asked her.

‘And yet,’ she said quietly, accepting the glass of lemonade he had taken off a tray for her, ‘you did not come when I most needed you, Charles. Oh, yes, I know.’ She held up a staying hand when he would have spoken. ‘You did not see the point in coming when you did not know where to look. It was sensible to remain at home.’

‘Yes, exactly,’ he agreed. ‘I have come now when I can do some good. I am happy that Lady Webb has arranged this ball for you. It is only fitting that Lady Sara Illingsworth be presented to the ton. But it is unfortunate that an event such as this exposes you to every rake and fortune hunter who cares to ask a dance of you.’

‘The guest list was prepared by Aunt Harriet,’ Jane explained. ‘And every partner I have had tonight has been approved by her. You insult her by saying such a thing, Charles.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you were waltzing with the Duke of Tresham, Sara, and he was taking inappropriate liberties with his eyes. Besides which, he had no business leading you into a waltz of all things. He will be causing you to be called fast. I know that he had a hand in finding you and bringing you here, so I suppose Lady Webb had no choice but to invite him. But he must not be encouraged. A man such as he has no honorable intentions toward any decent woman, believe me.’

Jane sighed and sipped her drink. ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘I will not quarrel with you. We have always been friends, and I am grateful that you have cared enough to come all this way. But you really must not pass judgment on people you have not even met before, you know.’

‘His reputation is enough for me,’ he said. ‘Pardon me, Sara, but you have been gently nurtured and have lived a sheltered life far from places like London. I can understand that an experience like this tonight is exciting for you. But you must not abandon your roots. You belong in the country. You would not be happy here forever.’

‘No,’ she agreed, smiling softly into her glass. ‘You are right.’

‘Come home with me, then,’ he urged her. ‘Tomorrow or the next day or next week. Just come.’

‘Oh, Charles,’ she said, ‘I do wish you had read the letter I sent. I cannot go back to Cornwall. That phase of my life is over. I hope we can remain friends, but there—’

‘He is not the one for you, Sara,’ he said urgently, interrupting her. ‘Believe me, he is not. He could bring you nothing but unhappiness.’

‘Which is exactly what I would bring you, Charles,’ she told him gently. ‘I feel a deep affection for you. But I do not love you.’

‘Love is something that grows between two married people,’ he said. ‘Affection is enough on which to start.’

She set a hand on his arm. ‘This is neither the time nor the place, Charles,’ she said. ‘I have already missed one set of dances. If I do not return to the ballroom soon, I will miss another, and I would hate that.’

‘We will speak tomorrow, then,’ he said.

How she wished he had not come to London, she thought as he escorted her back to the ballroom. But she said no more.

Later in the evening, she was seated for supper at one of the long tables in the dining room, in company with friends and acquaintances, when Charles came to take the empty place opposite her. Jane smiled at him and introduced him to the people around them. He was quiet for a time while the rest of them chattered and laughed on a variety of topics.

Baron Pottier announced his intention of removing to Brighton for the summer, after the Season was over. It was where the Prince Regent went, and where half the ton followed him.

‘Will you be going there, Lady Sara?’ Lord Pottier asked.

‘Oh, no, I think not,’ Jane said. ‘I would rather spend the summer in the country.’

Viscount Kimble, seated at her side, caught her hand in his and raised it to his lips. ‘But Brighton would be empty of all attraction without you,’ he told her, his eyes twinkling. ‘I shall simply kidnap you and take you there myself.’

‘Oh, no, you will not,’ Lady Heyward said, laughing. ‘If there is any kidnapping to be done, it is I who will be doing it – with Heyward’s help. Not that he would agree to do anything so dashing or dangerous, of course. With Ferdie’s aid, then. We will kidnap Lady Sara and Tresham and bear them off to St. George’s for a grand wedding. Will we not, Ferdie?’

Lord Ferdinand, seated across the table, next to Charles, grinned. ‘I would need the assistance of half a regiment of burly military types, Angie, if I were to try trussing up Tresham,’ he said.

Viscount Kimble sighed soulfully. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘do not forget all about me or my heart will be broken, ma’am.’

Jane laughed at him, and the conversation would doubtless have moved on to another subject. But Charles, perhaps not recognizing the light, teasing tone of the conversation, chose to speak up.

‘As Lady Sara has said,’ he told the group, ‘she will be returning to the country for the summer. Perhaps sooner.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Heyward agreed, laughing. ‘After the wedding. Now really, Ferdie—’

‘Lady Sara will be returning to Cornwall. With me,’ Charles said with enough emphasis to attract the attention of everyone seated at their table. ‘We have long had an understanding.’

‘Charles!’ Jane said sharply before explaining to the group at large. ‘We have been friends and neighbors all our lives.’

‘Tresham might have a thing or two to say about your understanding,’ Baron Pottier said. ‘Are you really going back to Cornwall, Lady Sara? Jardine notwithstanding?’

‘I believe I will be able to protect my own betrothed from any further impertinences from that direction,’ Charles said.

‘Charles, please …’

‘Oh, you are mistaken, sir,’ Lady Heyward said merrily. ‘Lady Sara is going to marry my brother even though they have quarreled and have danced together only once this evening—’

‘Stow it, Angie,’ Lord Ferdinand said. ‘The lady is looking embarrassed. Let’s change the subject. Let’s talk about the weather.’

But Charles was not to be deterred. He actually stood up, scraping back his chair with his knees. And somehow the action attracted general notice in the crowded dining room and the noise level dropped noticeably.

‘Lady Sara Illingsworth will not be the object of any London buck’s gallantries for much longer,’ he said, indignation vibrating in his voice. ‘I will be taking her home where she belongs. Not to Candleford, but home.’

Jane would have closed her eyes in mortification, but she glanced first at a dark-clad figure standing in the dining room doorway. He must have been on his way out, but he was standing still now, his quizzing glass in one hand, his attention on Charles.

‘Mr Fortescue,’ Lady Lansdowne asked from the end of their table, ‘are we to understand that you are announcing your betrothal to Sara?’

Jane’s eyes locked with Jocelyn’s in the doorway.

‘Charles—’ she said aloud.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Charles said, raising his voice and speaking now to an audience of every single guest at the ball. ‘I have the honor of announcing my betrothal to Lady Sara Illingsworth. I trust everyone will wish us happy.’

A swell of sound in the dining room replaced the silence. But then Jocelyn took one step forward and a hush descended once more.

‘No, no, no,’ he said, every inch the Duke of Tresham again. ‘I would wager that Lady Sara has not consented, and it is not good ton, you know, Fortescue, to make such an announcement unless the prospective bride has done so.’

‘Of course she has consented,’ Charles said testily. ‘We have had an underst—’

‘Have you, Jane?’ The ducal quizzing glass swung her way. ‘How naughty of you, my love.’

Jane heard a feminine gasp at the duke’s use of the endearment. While Jocelyn was actually enjoying himself, Jane was wishing for a black hole to swallow her up.

‘She is not your love,’ Charles retorted, ‘and I would thank you for not—’

‘Ah, but she is,’ Jocelyn said, taking a few more steps forward and lowering his glass. ‘And I must protest most forcefully against your imagined betrothal to her, my dear fellow. You see, much as I commend you for the concern you have shown for her well-being, I really cannot permit you to marry my wife.’

There was another swell of sound, but it died away quickly to a chorus of hushing noises. No one wanted to miss a word of this drama, which would be repeated endlessly and with blissful relish in dozens of drawing rooms and gentlemen’s clubs for days, even weeks to come.

‘What?’ Charles had turned pale, Jane saw in a quick glance at him. He was looking at her across the table. ‘Is this true? Sara?’

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

He stared at her for a few moments while there was another small swell of sound and more hushing noises, and then he turned without another word and stalked from the room, brushing past the duke as he went.

‘Come, Jane.’ Jocelyn held out a hand toward her and she went to him on legs that were not quite steady. He was smiling as she had never seen him smile before – openly, warmly, radiantly.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said as his hand closed about hers, ‘allow me, please, to present my wife, the Duchess of Tresham. Ma’am?’ He bowed to Lady Webb. ‘I do beg your pardon that my hand has been forced. Jane insisted that nothing be allowed to spoil yesterday and today for you since you have worked so tirelessly to plan her presentation and her come-out. Both, of course, would have had to change for a married lady. And so I agreed that we would delay our announcement until tomorrow.’

He settled Jane’s hand on his arm and covered it with his free hand before looking around at all the gathered guests, though his eyes rested on his brother and sister as he spoke again. ‘We were married by special license this morning. We had a quiet wedding, as we both wished, with only my secretary and her grace’s maid in attendance as witnesses.’

He smiled down at Jane – that warm, wonderful, defenseless smile again – and raised her hand to his lips. There was already noise and movement in response to his announcement.

‘My love,’ he murmured while he still could, ‘I was already quite determined to have my bride in my own home and my own bed for what will remain of our wedding night when your ball is over. I am no saint, you see.’

‘I have never wanted a saint,’ she told him. ‘I have only ever wanted you, Jocelyn.’

He leaned toward her, his eyes on fire, and whispered with passionate intensity in her ear. ‘My love and my life. My Jane. And at last and forever my wife.’

There was only a moment – a timeless moment – in which to smile radiantly at him and to realize with a shock of reality that it was really true. She was married to Jocelyn, her love, her heart’s desire, her soul’s mate. She was happier than anyone had any right to be. He was her husband.

And there was no further need to hide the fact.

Then Aunt Harriet was hugging her and shedding tears over her and scolding her and laughing. And Lady Heyward was catching her in her arms and talking a mile a minute. Lord Ferdinand was grinning at her and kissing her cheek and calling her sister. Viscount Kimble was pretending to clutch his broken heart and was also kissing her cheek. Jocelyn’s friends were all pumping his hand and slapping his shoulder. His sister was crying all over his waistcoat despite his protests and declaring that her nerves would not stand the shock and she had never been more happy in her life and she would organize a grand wedding ball for next week and just let Heyward try to stop her, provoking man.

Everything became a blur after that as everyone moved back to the ballroom, congratulating the newly married couple, bowing, curtsying, shaking hands, hugging and kissing as they went. The resumption of the dancing was considerably delayed.

Finally they were alone in the dining room with Lady Webb, Lord and Lady Lansdowne, Lord and Lady Heyward, and Lord Ferdinand. Jocelyn drew Jane’s shining new wedding ring from a pocket of his waistcoat, lifted her left hand, and slid it onto her ring finger, where it had resided so briefly during the morning.

‘With this ring, my love,’ he said, and dipped his head to kiss her lips in full view of their small audience. He looked up at Lady Webb. ‘Now, ma’am, do you suppose the orchestra can be coerced into playing another waltz?’

‘Absolutely,’ Aunt Harriet said.

And so they waltzed again – alone for the first five minutes, while everyone watched.

‘I repeat,’ Jocelyn said as the music began – a slow, dreamy waltz tune this time, ‘you look almost like a bride, Jane. In fact, you look exactly like a bride. Mine.’

‘And the ballroom looks as if it had been decked out for a wedding ball,’ she said, giving him back look for look. ‘Ours.’

And then he did something truly outrageous. He dipped his head and kissed her hard. He lifted his head, smiled wickedly at her, and kissed her softly. And then again with all the yearning and all the hope and all the love Jane knew was in his heart – and her own.

‘She will never reform the dangerous Duke of Tresham,’ some unidentified voice said with startling clarity as Jocelyn twirled Jane into the dance.

‘But whyever would she want to?’ a female voice called back.