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Suchlike draped the underskirts over a chair and began unlacing Melisande’s stays. “And when Lord Vale threw those coins to the crowd! What a kind gentleman he is. Did you know, ma’am, that he gave a guinea to every servant in this house, even the little bootblack boy?”

“Really?” Melisande bit back a fond smile at this evidence of Lord Vale’s sentimental nature. She wasn’t surprised at all. She rubbed a sore spot under her arm where the stays had chafed a bit. Then, clad in her chemise, she sat at a dainty burlwood vanity and began taking down her stockings.

“Mrs. Cook says that Lord Vale is a very pleasant gentleman to work for. Pays a regular wage and doesn’t shout at the maids as some gentlemen do.” Suchlike shook out the stays and laid them carefully in the big carved wardrobe in the corner.

The viscountess’s rooms in Renshaw House had been closed since Lord Vale’s father had died and his mother had moved to the London dowager residence. But Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper, was obviously a very competent woman. The rooms had been thoroughly cleaned. The bedroom’s honey-colored woodwork was freshly waxed and shining dully, the dark blue and gold drapes had been aired and brushed, and even the carpets looked to have been taken out and beaten.

The bedroom was not overly large but was quite lovely. The walls were a soothing creamy white, the carpets dark blue with spots of gold and ruby patterning. The fireplace was a pretty little thing, tiled in cobalt blue and surrounded by a white woodwork mantel. There were two gilt-legged chairs in front of it with a low marble-topped table between them. On one wall was a door that led to the viscount’s rooms—she looked quickly away from it—on the opposite wall, a door that led to her dressing room, and beyond, a private little sitting room. Now and again, a faint scratching came from the dressing room, but she ignored it. Overall, the rooms were very comfortable and pleasant.

“So, you’ve met the other servants?” Melisande asked to distract herself from staring at Lord Vale’s connecting door like a lovesick ninny.

“Yes, my lady.” Suchlike came over and began taking down her hair. “The butler, Mr. Oaks, is very stern, but he seems fair. Mrs. Moore says she respects his judgment wholeheartedly. There are six downstairs maids and five upper, and I don’t know how many footmen.”

“I counted seven,” Melisande murmured. She’d been introduced to the household this afternoon, but it would take time to learn individual names and duties. “They were all kind to you, then?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Suchlike was silent a moment, taking out the myriad of pins that had held her hair up. “Although . . .”

o;I’m so happy for you.” Gertrude gave her a stiff hug, pressing her cheek briefly to Melisande’s. “Are you ready?”

Melisande straightened her back and drew in a steadying breath before answering. Even her trembling nerves couldn’t keep the quiet joy from her voice. “Yes, I am.”

JASPER LOOKED DOWN at the slice of roasted duck on his plate and thought how very odd the tradition of the wedding breakfast was. Here was a group of friends and family gathered to celebrate love when in reality it was fertility they should be feting. That was, after all, the desired point to a union such as this: the production of children.

Ah, well, he was finally married, and perhaps he should lay aside cynicism and look no further than that fact. Yesterday, whilst riding toward London, he’d begun to wonder if he’d left off returning for too long. What if Miss Fleming had grown weary of being ignored? What if she didn’t even bother showing up at the church to give him his congé? He’d been detained in Oxfordshire far longer than he’d planned. There always seemed to be something more to delay his return there—another field his land steward wanted to show him, a road that badly needed repair, and, if he was honest with himself, the very steadiness of his fiancée’s gaze. She seemed to see right through him with those tilted brown eyes, seemed to look beyond his surface laughter and saw what he hid in the depths of his soul. At Lady Eddings’s musicale, when he’d turned and saw Melisande Fleming watching him and Matthew Horn, he’d had a moment of stark terror—fear that she knew what they talked about.

But she didn’t know. Jasper took a swallow of ruby wine, reassured on that point. She didn’t know what had happened at Spinner’s Falls, and she would never know if, with God’s grace, he could help it.

“Jolly good wedding, what?” an elderly gentleman leaned forward to shout down the table.

Jasper hadn’t a notion who the gentleman was—must be a relative of his bride’s—but he grinned and raised his wineglass to the fellow. “Thank you, sir. I rather enjoyed it myself.”

The gentleman winked hideously. “Enjoy the wedding night more, what? I say, enjoy the wedding night more! Ha!”

He was so taken with his own wit that he nearly lost his gray wig laughing.

The elderly lady sitting across from the gentleman rolled her eyes and said, “That’s quite enough, William.”

Beside him, Jasper felt his bride still, and he cursed under his breath. Some of the color had finally returned to her cheeks. She’d gone quite white at the ceremony, and he’d prepared himself to catch her should she faint. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d stood like a soldier before a firing squad and grimly recited her marriage vows. Not quite the expression a bridegroom hoped for on his bride on her wedding day, but he’d learned not to be particular after the last fiasco.

Jasper raised his voice. “Will you tell us the story of your own wedding, sir? I feel we shall be quite entertained.”

“He doesn’t remember,” the old lady said before her husband could recover enough to speak. “He was so drunk he fell asleep afore he even came to bed!”

The guests within earshot roared.

“Aw, Bess!” the elderly man shouted above the laughter. “You know I was plumb worn out from chasing you.” He turned to the young lady beside him, eager to recount his memories. “Courted her for nigh on four years and . . .”

Jasper gently replaced his wineglass and glanced at his bride. Miss Fleming—Melisande—was pushing her food into neat piles on her plate.

“Eat some of that,” he murmured. “The duck is not nearly as bad as it looks, and it’ll make you feel better.”

She didn’t look at him, but her body stiffened. “I am fine.”

Stubborn girl. “I’m sure you are,” he replied easily. “But you were as white as a sheet in the church—for a while, you were even green. I can’t tell you how it shattered my bridegroom’s nerves. Indulge me now and have a bite.”

Her mouth curved a little, and she ate a small piece of the duck. “Is everything you say in jest?”

“Nearly everything. I know it’s tedious, but there it is.” He motioned to a footman, and the man bent near. “Please refill the viscountess’s wineglass.”

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