He gazed at her. Darkness or no darkness, there was no mistaking the expression on her face.

"I am not a gentleman," he said, his eyes settling on her lips.

"I think it is a man's task, Joel," she said, "even if he is not also gentle or genteel. You are very definitely a man. It was the first impression I had of you when we met in the schoolroom, and it offended me, for I had never consciously thought it of any other man, even Viscount Uxbury. It struck me that you were very . . . male."

He wondered if she was blushing. It was impossible to know in the darkness. But if she was, her eyes were certainly not wavering from his.

"It must be my Italian heritage," he said. "Do you suppose we have any sort of audience behind any of those darkened windows all about us?"

"I neither know nor care," she told him.

"Very well, then." And since he was apparently a man and very male even if not a gentleman-and half Italian to boot-he had better do the thing properly. He lowered himself to one knee and held her hand in both of his. He felt silly . . . and then he did not. He gazed up at her. "Camille, will you marry me? Because I love you with all my heart and really, really do not want to live the rest of my life without you? Because I hope you feel that same way about me? I wish I had composed and memorized some polished sort of speech you might have quoted to our grandchildren-if your answer is yes, that is. Though I daresay I would have forgotten every word of it by now. Dash it, Camille, will you?"

She was laughing softly. He loved her laughter. Actually, he loved the Amazon and the military sergeant and the brisk schoolteacher and the Madonna and child and this aristocratic G.o.ddess in her sliver-and-blue ball gown and elaborately piled hair. He loved the woman with whom he had made love in his rooms and the woman who had begged to be held when she was feeling upset.

"Well, I will," she said, freeing her hand and bending over him to cup his face in her hands and kiss him softly on the lips. "But do get up. You will be ruining your splendid new evening clothes."

"You will?" He scrambled to his feet and caught her by the waist.

"I will," she said, "but only because I love you and cannot bear the thought of living without you. Not for any other reason."

"You will." He gazed at her for a moment and then tipped his face up to the sky. "She will." He lifted her from the ground and spun twice about with her while she laughed down at him. "She will."

He did not think he had spoken loudly. Part of his mind was aware that there might be sleepers in the houses all about the Circus, and they might not appreciate being woken by voices from the central garden. But from somewhere-in the darkness it was impossible to know exactly where or even in which direction-came the sound of someone clapping slowly.

They looked at each other, he and Camille, as he set her feet on the ground, their eyes widening with shock and then filling with amus.e.m.e.nt. He drew her close and held her against him while she wound her arms about his neck, and they laughed softly.

Twenty-three.

The wedding of Miss Camille Westcott to Mr. Joel Cunningham was set for a date in early September, six weeks after the birthday ball in the Upper a.s.sembly Rooms. It was to take place at Bath Abbey, a somewhat surprising choice, perhaps, when the bride was an earl's illegitimate daughter and the groom was the illegitimate son of a lady of no great social significance and an Italian artist whom few people remembered and none could identify by name. But the bride was acknowledged and held in high esteem by the powerful Westcott family and the formidable Duke of Netherby, who was married to one of their number, and by Mrs. Kingsley, widow of one of Bath's wealthiest and most prominent citizens and the bride's maternal grandmother. And the groom was the great-nephew of the late Mr. c.o.x-Phillips, a prominent politician in his time and wealthy citizen of Bath, who had acknowledged the groom in his will by leaving him his two homes and his fortune. Joel's story, and, by a.s.sociation, Camille's, had captured the imagination of Bath, at least temporarily, and invitations to their wedding were coveted.

The whole of the Westcott family was to return to Bath for the occasion. So was the Reverend Michael Kingsley, whom many people remembered from his boyhood, and his affianced bride, granddaughter of a baronet, with her sister. Other Kingsley relatives were expected too. Miss Ford, enjoying some fame of her own as matron of the orphanage where the d.u.c.h.ess of Netherby and Mr. Cunningham had both grown up and where Miss Westcott had taught until very recently, had also been invited, as had the whole staff of the orphanage and all the children. Many people recalled that they had seen a number of those children quite frequently through the summer walking out on various excursions in an orderly line as they clung to a rope of startling purple hue. Rumor had it that the bride and groom were in the process of adopting two of the orphans as their own children.

The groom had also invited a number of personal friends as well as the staff of a certain butcher's shop and all the lecturers and many of the former students of the art school he had attended ten years or so ago. And invitations went out to numerous citizens, including friends of Mrs. Kingsley and people for whom the groom had painted portraits.

One person of real importance would not be in attendance. Lieutenant Harry Westcott was in the Peninsula with his regiment and would not have been able to travel home in time even if he could have been granted leave or had wanted to. A letter arrived for Camille a few days before the wedding, however, in which he expressed his very best wishes for his sister's happiness and his trust in her choice of mate, though it had surprised him. He also mentioned the fact that he had recently been in a great pitched battle, which had been a touch-and-go thing before the inevitable rout of the enemy. He had sustained an a.s.sortment of cuts and bruises during the hostilities, but the regimental sawbones, who was a good sort, had patched him up and a.s.sured him that in no time at all he would be as good as new with the addition of a few interesting scars to appeal to the ladies. He sent his love to his mother and Abby and anyone else who might like to have it.

Strangely, Camille thought as she folded the letter, Harry was the only one who seemed a little dubious about her choice-it had surprised him. No one else did. Indeed, everyone seemed happy for her. Perhaps they recognized that she had changed-and perhaps they saw that the changes were for the better. Perhaps they could see that she was in love, just as it was perfectly obvious that Anna was in love with Avery. Perhaps, she thought with a smile and a soft laugh, everyone loved a lover. She raised Harry's letter to her lips and said a silent prayer for his safety.

Joel had given notice to his landlord-he would move to the house on the hill after his marriage. He had finished Abigail's portrait, to the delight and even awe of all who saw it, though her grandmother would not display it until Camille's had been painted too. Joel left that until after his wedding. He was not sure if his intimate relationship with her would make her portrait easier or harder to paint, but he always welcomed a challenge, and this would surely be the biggest yet.

Camille gave her notice to Miss Ford but did a.s.sure her she would teach right up until her wedding day if necessary. She was cheered to discover that there had been two other very promising applications after the position had been offered to her, and that one of those applicants was still available and eager for the job. Camille met her and approved of her sunny nature and sensible disposition and enthusiastic knowledge on all sorts of subjects, academic and otherwise, and obvious love of children. Even so, Camille felt a pang of regret for having to leave so soon. She would see the children again, though. She would visit, and a number of them would come up to the house on the hill for various reasons. Joel was already concocting an ambitious scheme for gathering them all there over Christmas for feasts and parties and games and gifts and the celebration of the birth of a baby.

The legal arrangements for the adoption of Sarah and Winifred were well under way. Sarah did not need to be consulted, of course, being too young to express an opinion. However, that she loved Camille above anyone else was acknowledged by all, as was the fact that Camille adored the baby quite as much as she could possibly love any child of her own.

There was to be no child of her own yet. She had discovered that a week after her betrothal.

Winifred, at nine years old, was old enough to be consulted. Indeed, it was imperative that her wishes be known. She had lived at the orphanage all her life. It was the only home she had ever known, the people there the only family. It might well be that she would choose to stay rather than launch into the unknown several years before it would be necessary for her to do so anyway. Camille took her into one of the visitor rooms a week after her betrothal and closed the door.

"Winifred," she said when they were both seated, "you have probably heard that Mr. Cunningham and I are to be married."

"I have, Miss Westcott," Winifred said, seated primly on the edge of her sofa cushion, her hands folded in her lap. "I am very happy for you."

"Thank you," Camille said. "You probably do not also know that after we are married and move to our house up in the hills we will be taking Sarah with us as our adopted daughter."

The girl's thin hands tightened about each other. "I am very happy for her," she said. "I have prayed for her, and my prayers are to be answered."

"We have asked Miss Ford," Camille said, "and Miss Ford has asked the members of the board of governors if it is also possible for us to adopt you. They have granted permission, but since you are old enough to have a say in the matter, I have undertaken to be the one to speak privately with you. The choice will be yours, Winifred. You may remain here where you have always belonged and where you are safe and comfortable, or you may come with us and be our daughter and Sarah's elder sister. We would give you a home and love you and care for you and provide for you when you grow up. No matter what you decide to do when that time comes, you would always be our daughter, and our home would always be yours. We would always love you."

Winifred's eyes stared out at her from a thin pasty face. "But why have you chosen me?" she asked in a voice that was higher pitched than usual. "I always try to be good and to learn my lessons and be tidy and help others and say my prayers, but other people do not always like me because I am still a sinner. I am not worthy of such an honor, Miss Westcott. Sarah-"

"Winifred." Camille went to sit beside her and set a hand over the two clasped ones. They were icy cold. "Let me tell you something about love. It is unconditional. Do you know what that is?"

The child nodded. She had not taken her eyes off Camille's face.

"Love does not have to be earned," Camille told her. "You are indeed a good girl and conscientious and pious. Those are admirable qualities and have won my approbation. They alone would not necessarily win my love, however. Love is not the reward for good behavior. Love just is. I want you to know that if you choose to be my daughter and Mr. Cunningham's, we will love you no matter what. You would not have to feel you must be on your best behavior every moment. You would not have to feel you must prove yourself worthy or fear that we would send you back here if you did not live up to our expectations. We have no expectations, Winifred. We just love you and want you to be part of a family with us and Sarah and any other children we may have in the future. We want you to be happy. We want you to be able to run and play and talk and laugh and do whatever you wish to do, provided only that it is not dangerous to yourself or others. We want you to be the person you choose to be. I do love you, Winifred."

The eyes still stared. The complexion was still pasty. "I am not pretty," she half whispered.

Her brown hair fell in two braids over her ears and shoulders. Her forehead was broad, her eyes and other facial features unremarkable. It was a small face and had not yet grown into her permanent teeth. She was thin, even a bit gangly. She was indeed not a pretty child.

"Most girls and women are not," Camille said, resisting the temptation to protest and perhaps lose all chance of winning the child's trust. "Many are beautiful, however. Have you noticed that? Some women are plain, even bordering upon the ugly, but no one ever notices except perhaps upon a first encounter. There is so much goodness and light and kindness and happiness and vitality welling up from inside them that their outer appearance is transformed into beauty."

"Can I be beautiful?" Winifred asked.

"Yes, of course," Camille said. And perhaps even pretty in time, with an elfin, dainty sort of look. "You are already well on the way."

"Would I be Winifred Cunningham?" the child asked.

"I believe we would like that," Camille told her, "though the choice would be yours. Hamlin may seem too much a part of your ident.i.ty to be abandoned."

"Winifred Cunningham," the girl whispered. "Would I call you Mama?"

"I would like that above all things," Camille said-though she was only thirteen years older. "Do you wish to think about it, Winifred? It is a huge decision for you and I do not want to press anything upon you that you may regret later. I do want you to know, however, that you will be loved regardless."

"I do not need time." Winifred was back to clasping her hands very tightly in her lap, and Camille withdrew her own. "When I heard you were going to marry Mr. Cunningham and leave here so soon after Miss Snow left and married the Duke of Netherby, I cried a bit and prayed for the strength to be glad for you. But I could not feel quite glad. It was selfish of me, but I am being rewarded anyway. Miss Westcott . . . I am going to have a mama and a papa? And a sister? I am going to be Winifred Cunningham, part of the Cunningham family?"

"And the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Netherby will be your aunt and uncle," Camille said. "And there are others too."

Winifred's face looked even more pasty, if anything.

"Would you like to be held?" Camille asked her. "Would you like me to hug you?"

The child nodded and squirmed into Camille's arms and clung tightly. She ended up somehow on Camille's lap, all gangly legs and thin body and urgent arms. Camille kissed the very white, very straight parting along the top of her head and rested her cheek there. She would do what her father had never done, she thought, closing her eyes. And because he had been the loser in his inability to love or accept love, she forgave him for all the pain he had caused her and loved him anyway.

Joel was familiar with Bath Abbey, inside and out. He had always admired its beauty and studied its architecture and intricate decoration with great attention and awe. He had wandered inside, and had often sat there for long minutes, absorbing the atmosphere of peace and exaltation he had not felt anywhere else, even in other churches. He had been to a few services there, but had always sat as close to the back as possible, more an observer than a partic.i.p.ant.

In his wildest imaginings he could not have pictured himself being married there, the pews almost filled with people both humble and fashionable who had come to witness the event and share his joy and his bride's. Several rows were occupied by children close to bursting with excitement but on their best behavior under the eagle eyes of Miss Ford and their housemothers and the new teacher. Even so, a few of them bounced in their seats and waggled their fingers at Joel and smiled broadly at him as he walked to the front with Martin Silver, his best man, to take his seat and await the arrival of his bride.

Winifred and Sarah, in crisp new dresses, sat on the other side of the aisle from him, Sarah on Abigail's lap, sucking on two fingers and looking as if she was about to fall asleep, though she did remove the fingers and beam a wide smile at Joel when she saw him. Winifred, her braids wound in a coronet about the crown of her head, gazed at him with wide eyes and looked taut with anxiety. He felt a bit the same himself and winked at her before sitting down.

He thought with longing of his faithful old coat and boots and the old cravats, which had never been starched to death as this one had been. Everything had changed since he had put himself under the care of Mr. Orville, his great-uncle's erstwhile valet, now his own. He might never know comfort in his clothes ever again unless he learned to put his foot down, something he was finding virtually impossible under the fond, reproving eyes of the professional gentleman's gentleman. He had to admit, though, that the smart young gentleman who frowned back at him from the looking gla.s.s these days looked really quite dashing. Today, he thought with an inner grimace of discomfort, he appeared nothing short of magnificent. And he could check that impression anytime he wished by gazing down into the high gloss of his new Hessian boots. He carefully did not look down.

"She is here," Marvin murmured to him, leaning a little closer, and sure enough the two clergymen-one was the Reverend Michael Kingsley, Camille's uncle-both magnificent in clerical robes, had arrived at the front, the congregation was rising, and the organ was launching into something solemn and thrilling. Joel stood and turned.

She was approaching along the nave on the arm of the Earl of Riverdale. She was dressed with simple elegance in an ivory-colored dress and a small-brimmed straw bonnet with flowers about the crown. As she drew closer Joel could see that the bodice and hem of her dress were encrusted with pearls. She wore slippers and gloves of dull gold. In truth, though, he did not spare much attention for her appearance. He saw only Camille. She was wearing none of her recognizable personas today. Today she was without masks, without defenses, or so it appeared to him. Today she was simply herself. Today she was a bride, his bride. Her eyes singled him out and focused upon him as she approached, and she smiled.

Someone must have lit a dozen candelabra overhead. The fanciful thought banished his terror, and he smiled back at her. He was in Bath Abbey, surrounded by people of great importance and people who were simply important to him. His daughters were across the aisle from him and his bride was almost at his side, and there really were no words . . .

They turned together and the church and congregation were behind them and only the clergymen and the altar and the great solemnity of the occasion before them.

"Dearly beloved." They were two of the most solemn, most awe-inspiring, most joyful words in the English language when spoken together and at the beginning of the nuptial service. They had been spoken now, and the service was for him and Camille.

Joel spoke only to her when he made his vows, and she spoke only to him. But there were moments in life-their waltz in the Upper Rooms had been one and this was another-when one was aware simultaneously of the two realities of being alone or at least alone with one other person and yet surrounded by other people, all in one harmony of belonging to friends, family, community, the human race. They were precious moments, to be lived to the full and cherished in memory for the rest of a lifetime.

And then they were man and wife and no one was to put them asunder. They signed the register in the vestry and waited while their signatures were witnessed, and came out again, her arm drawn through his, to look about at their friends and family and well-wishers and pa.s.s along the nave and out into the s.p.a.cious yard Bath Abbey shared with the Roman baths and the Pump Room.

He saw faces in the congregation this time, all smiling warmly, a few-Camille's mother and both grandmothers, Anna-with tears in their eyes. Sarah was still looking on the verge of sleep, but she held out her arms as they approached and Joel took her from Abigail and held her nestled against his shoulder. Winifred gazed up at them with longing eyes, and Camille bent over her to kiss her cheek and then took her by the hand. And they walked along the nave, the four of them, a patched-together family united by the powerful glue of love and hope.

Joel smiled at his wife-good G.o.d, she was his wife-and held her arm more tightly to his side.

"Camille," he said beneath the sound of the joyful anthem the organ was playing, "my wife."

"Oh yes," she said, breathless as they pa.s.sed through the great doors into sunshine. "Yes, I am."

A flower-decked open carriage would be waiting for them on the other side of the cla.s.sical columns at the end of the yard to take them up to the wedding breakfast in the Upper Rooms, but first they would have to run the gauntlet of guests who had slipped outside ahead of them armed with flower petals to pelt at them and of curious bystanders who had gathered to watch the show.

"They will be horribly disappointed if we do not make a run for it," Joel said, releasing Camille's arm and grasping her hand instead. Sarah was snug and secure on his other arm. He leaned forward and grinned at Winifred. "Ready?"

"Yes, Papa," she said, smiling sunnily back at him.

"Hold tight," Camille said.

And they were off, running the gauntlet, laughing helplessly. Winifred's giggles were high pitched and utterly joyful. Even Sarah was chuckling as though the game had been designed for her exclusive amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Happy?" Joel cried as petals rained about them and clung to their clothes.

"Happy," his wife said.

"Happy," their elder daughter screeched.

There were no other words beyond that obvious one. But why did there need to be when there were feelings in overabundance that were shared by one's nearest and dearest?

The abbey bells were pealing out the glad tidings of a couple newly married.

Yes, this was indeed happiness.

READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM THE THIRD BOOK IN MARY BALOGH'S WESTCOTT SERIES, Someone to Wed AVAILABLE FROM JOVE IN NOVEMBER 2017.

"The Earl of Riverdale," the butler announced after opening wide the double doors of the drawing room as though to admit a regiment and then standing to one side so that the gentleman named could stride past him.

The announcement was not strictly necessary. Wren had heard the arrival of his vehicle, and guessed it was a curricle rather than a traveling carriage, although she had not got to her feet to look. And he was almost exactly on time. She liked that. The two gentlemen who had come before him had been late, one by all of half an hour. Those two had been sent on their way as soon as was decently possible, though not only because of their tardiness. Mr. Sweeney, who had come a week ago, had had bad teeth and a way of stretching his mouth to expose them at disconcertingly frequent intervals even when he was not actually smiling. Mr. Richman, who had come four days ago, had had no discernible personality, a fact that had been quite as disconcerting as Mr. Sweeney's teeth. Now here came the third.

He strode forward a few paces before coming to an abrupt halt as the butler closed the doors behind him. He looked about the room with apparent surprise at the discovery that it was occupied only by two women, one of whom-Maude, Wren's maid-was seated off in a corner, her head bent over some needlework, in the role of chaperon. His eyes came to rest upon Wren and he bowed.

"Miss Heyden?" It was a question.

Her first reaction after her initial approval of his punctuality was acute dismay. One glance told her he was not at all what she wanted.

He was tall, well formed, immaculately and elegantly tailored, dark haired, and impossibly handsome. And young-in his late twenties or early thirties, at a guess. If she were to dream up the perfect hero for the perfect romantic fairy tale, she could not do better than the very real man standing halfway across the room, waiting for her to confirm that she was indeed the lady who had invited him to take tea at Withington House.

But this was no fairy tale, and the sheer perfection of him alarmed her and caused her to lean back farther in her chair and deeper into the shade provided by the curtains drawn across the window on her side of the fireplace. She had not wanted a handsome man or even a particularly young man. She had hoped for someone older, more ordinary, perhaps balding or acquiring a bit of a paunch, pleasant-looking but basically . . . well, ordinary. With decent teeth and at least something of a personality. But she could hardly deny her ident.i.ty and dismiss him without further ado.

"Yes," she said. "How do you do, Lord Riverdale? Do have a seat." She gestured to the chair across the hearth from her own. She knew something of social manners and ought to have risen to greet him, of course, but she had good reason to keep to the shadows, at least for now.

He eyed the chair as he approached it and sat with obvious reluctance. "I do beg your pardon," he said. "I appear to be early. Punctuality is one of my besetting sins, I am afraid. I always make the mistake of a.s.suming that when I am invited somewhere for half past two, I am expected to arrive at half past two. I hope some of your other guests will be here soon, including a few ladies."

She was further alarmed when he smiled. If it was possible to look more handsome than handsome, he was looking it. He had perfect teeth, and his eyes crinkled attractively at the corners when he smiled. And his eyes were very blue. Oh, this was wretched. Who was number four on her list?

"Punctuality is a virtue as far as I am concerned, Lord Riverdale," she said. "I am a businesswoman, as perhaps you are aware. To run a successful business, one must respect other people's time as well as one's own. You are on time. You see?" She swept one hand toward the clock ticking on the mantel. "It is twenty-five minutes to three. And I am not expecting any other guests."

His smile disappeared and he glanced at Maude before looking back at Wren. "I see," he said. "Perhaps you had not realized, Miss Heyden, that neither my mother nor my sister came into the country with me. Or perhaps you did not realize I have no wife to accompany me. I beg your pardon. I have no wish to cause you any embarra.s.sment or to compromise you in any way." His hands closed about the arms of his chair in a signal that he was about to rise.

"But my invitation was addressed to you alone," she said. "I am no young girl who needs to be hedged about with relatives to protect me from the dangerous company of single gentlemen. And I do have Maude for propriety's sake. We are neighbors of sorts, Lord Riverdale, though more than eight miles separate Withington House from Brambledean Court and I am not always here and you are not always there. Nevertheless, now that I am the owner of Withington and have completed my year of mourning for my aunt and uncle, I have taken it upon myself to become acquainted with some of my neighbors. I entertained Mr. Sweeney here last week and Mr. Richman a few days after. Do you know them?"

He was frowning, and he had not removed his hands from the arms of his chair. He still looked uncomfortable and ready to spring to his feet at the earliest excuse. "I have an acquaintance with both gentlemen," he said, "though I cannot claim to know either one. I have been in possession of my t.i.tle and property for only a year and have not spent much time here yet."

"Then I am fortunate you are here now," she said as the drawing room doors opened and the tea tray was carried in and set before her. She moved to the edge of her chair, turning slightly to her left without conscious intent as she did so, and poured the tea. Maude came silently across the room to hand the earl his cup and saucer and then to offer the plate of cakes.

"I did not know Mr. and Mrs. Heyden, your aunt and uncle," he said, nodding his thanks to Maude. "I am sorry for your loss. I understand they died within a very short while of each other."

"Yes," she said. "My aunt died a few days after taking to her bed with a severe headache, and my uncle died less than a week later. His health had been failing for some time, and I believe he simply gave up the struggle after she had gone. He doted upon her." And Aunt Megan upon him despite the thirty-year gap in their ages and the hurried nature of their marriage almost twenty years ago.

"I am sorry," he said again. "They raised you?"

"Yes," she said. "They could not have done better by me if they had been my parents. Your predecessor did not live at Brambledean, I understand, or visit often. I speak of the late Earl of Riverdale, not his unfortunate son. Do you intend to take up permanent residence there?"

The unfortunate son, Wren had learned, had succeeded to the t.i.tle until it was discovered that his father had contracted a secret marriage as a very young man and that the secret wife had still been alive when he married the mother of his three children. Those children, already adults, had suddenly found themselves to be illegitimate, and the new earl had lost the t.i.tle to the man now seated on the other side of the hearth. The late earl's first marriage had produced one legitimate child, a daughter, who had grown up in an orphanage in Bath, knowing nothing of her ident.i.ty. All this and more Wren had learned before adding the earl to her list. The story had been sensational news last year and kept the gossip mills grinding for weeks. The details had not been difficult to unearth when there were servants and tradespeople only too eager to share what came their way.