The wedding was to be held on the evening of the third of July.

Though this was not common practice—nearly all weddings were held before noon—the Duchess of Moncrieff was anything but common. No one in their right mind would question her edicts. Aside from which, the families planned a massive reception and ball following the event.

For Isobel, it was a dizzying week leading up to the nuptials. There was a flurry of fittings—and not just for her. The entire family needed to be outfitted for the festivities. More than once, she caught her brothers glaring at her as they suffered the pins and needles of the modiste who had come to the house to do her work, on the sound justification of sheer convenience.

Beyond that, there were many callers, all coming to pay their respects to the countess-to-be and curry favor. Isobel, of course, deplored these meetings but was thankful for the support and advice of the Duchess of Moncrieff, who counseled her to be gracious, regardless. “One never knows when one will meet a friend,” she said, and that maxim proved true on many accounts. To Isobel’s surprise, many of the ladies she met were kind, respectful, and delighted to meet her.

That made it easier to ignore the ones who were not.

And as Kaitlin said, “There will always be those who are not.”

Ironically, once the wedding plans were in motion, she saw less of Nick than she would have liked. Both mothers assured her it was because she was busy. It was gratifying, when she finally did get to see him, that he expressed his frustration that they had been kept apart.

“I canna wait until we can be alone,” he grumped to her one day at tea.

Aunt Esmeralda, who had remarkable hearing for a woman of her years, snorted. “I daresay you won’t be alone for long.”

Something in her tone must have captured everyone’s attention, because Kaitlin, Isobel’s mother, and her aunts turned to pin her with curious looks.

“Whatever do you mean?” Sorcha asked.

Esmeralda glanced artlessly at the ceiling. “Nothing.”

Those sharp gazes flicked to her and Nick. Isobel could practically hear the suppositions wheeling in their heads.

“She has been ill,” Esmeralda said, taking a sip of tea.

Isobel glared at her. She had been ill, and it had been getting worse, but there was no call to bring it up now.

She turned to her mother, to offer some platitude about something I ate, but was stopped short by her expression as the truth—one that Isobel was convinced of now—descended.

“Oh, my,” Mama said.

“Oh, my,” Kaitlin sighed.

“Oh, lovely,” Aunt Hannah gushed.

“Don’t tell Papa,” was all Isobel could manage. “Not until after the wedding.”

Mama laughed and then bounded up and across the room to give her a hug. “I wouldna dream of it. Oh, congratulations, my darling. And you . . .” She turned to Nick and fixed him with a stern look.

He smiled sheepishly, charmingly, and shrugged, and in the end, she had to hug him as well, too.

* * *

For some reason, Nick was nervous as he stood next to the altar at the front of St. George’s on the third of July, before all and sundry, and waited for his bride to come down the aisle. Not that he doubted she would come. He knew she would.

It was just that this day, above all others, marked an irrevocable change in his life.

Not one he dreaded, as he had once imagined, but one that filled him with joy.

It was a joy that frightened him. The intensity of it.

He now understood the fear that had caused Isobel to balk, to want to run.

How fortunate he was that she had chosen not to escape this magnificent terror.

It was overwhelming, his sweeping love, one that caused pain to ping in his chest when he thought of her. When he thought of the child she was carrying—his child—he wanted to fall to his knees and weep, to bless the God who had made this all possible.

And then all thoughts of weeping and God were whisked away as she stepped into view.

His Isobel.

His woman.

And she was splendid. Swathed in an exquisite white gown studded with pearls, she floated down the aisle toward him. He knew the moment she took in his attire, the Sinclair dress kilt. She nearly stumbled, but her father’s hand on her arm kept her steady.

She smiled at him, though, with such elation, such gratitude, it made him feel humble.

What had he ever done to deserve this? This joy? This gift? This woman?

He didn’t know, but he knew he would spend the rest of his life making up for it. Somehow.

She came to stand beside him, and it took an effort for him to rip his gaze from her luminous face to shake her father’s hand. Fortunately, in this moment, Andrew Lochlannach was patient.

“Be good to her,” he said in a low growl that was almost a threat.

“Aye,” Nick said, returning his gaze to hers. “I shall.”

The rest of the ceremony was a blur. It was a miracle he remembered his vows, though they were written on his heart.

His voice cracked a little as he said them, but he meant them, every word.

“With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He shivered when she spoke her vows, staring into his eyes.

And when the archbishop pronounced them man and wife, he was swept away with a delight unlike anything he had ever known.

“We’re one now,” he whispered to her, before the kiss.

“Aye,” she said. “We are one.”

* * *

Isobel tried her hardest to memorize every detail of the wedding, but her mind was in a whirl. She did, however, remember the kiss. It was the sweetest thing she’d ever felt.

After the ceremony, she was whisked away from her new husband—which was vexing—and taken to the Moncrieff mansion and changed into her ball gown.

They assured her, as they plied her with supper, that she would be with Nick again soon, but in Isobel’s eyes, it would not be soon enough. She wanted to spend every moment with him from now on, and the delays were not acceptable.

One delay she disliked intensely was the fact that now, as Countess Stirling, she had to stand in the receiving line as hundreds of members of the haute ton filed into the ballroom for the celebration, shaking their hands and being complimented on her beauty and other such folderol.

“It will be over soon, darling,” Nick whispered into her ear at one point.

“Will it? It occurs to me that we have many receiving lines in our future.”

He laughed at her disgruntlement.

She had no idea why he laughed. It was hardly a laughing matter.

She didn’t really mind so much, being a countess, especially now that she’d gotten used to the idea, but the burdens of the station were still that.

“I promise, I shall make it up to you.” He winked. “Later.”

She frowned at him. “You’d better.”

When the receiving line finally trickled to nothing, he took her arm and turned her to the top of the stairs. His parents were announced first, and together, Nick and Isobel watched as they made their way down the stairs.

And then, the butler cleared his throat and intoned, “The Viscount and Countess Stirling,” and the ballroom erupted in applause, which Isobel had not expected. No one had ever clapped for her before.

She shot Nick a grin. “Shall we?”

“Aye,” he said in a deep brogue. “The first dance is ours.”

“I do hope it’s a waltz,” she teased.

And then the music swelled, and it was.

“I guess Mother knows you too well.”

“Aye. She does.” She shot Kaitlin a thankful smile, to which the duchess curtsied. Her grin was wide. She must have known how anxious Isobel would be to have her new husband in her arms.

The crowds stood back and watched them dance. It was glorious, whirling around the ballroom with Nick. Just the two of them, staring into each other’s eyes. And then the duke and duchess joined in, as well as Mama and Papa, which signaled everyone else to dance as well.

Nick smiled down at her. “I canna believe we’re finally married.”

She grinned back. “Neither can I. It was a lovely ceremony.”

“Was it? I recall nothing but a blur.”

“Aye. But this is lovely, too. Again, your mother has outdone herself.”

“Aye.” His eyes twinkled. “When shall we leave?”

She snorted. “I think we’re at least expected to stay for this dance.”

His chuckle surrounded her. “Not leave the party. When shall we leave for Scotland?”

Her heart lurched. “I . . . Leave for Scotland?”

“Soon, I think. I’m anxious to settle in.”

“Ah . . . Settle in?”

“I thought we should begin our married life at Stirling House. Shall we leave when your family does?”

Her heart swelled. But . . . “I canna ask you to leave your family, Nick.” It wouldn’t be fair.

“I’m sure they won’t be far behind.” He swung her into a turn and she laughed, from the pure joy of it. He was willing to move to Scotland. For her.

“I love you so much, Edward Nicholas Wyeth,” she said, unable to stay the words.

He shot her an adorable look. “Even though I’m only half Scot?” he said in his terrible brogue.

“Och, my love,” she sighed. “You are all Scot to me.”