The days passed in a blur of activity. Before Margaret knew it, her wedding day had dawned and it really was too late to change her mind even if she wanted to.

She did not.

Crispin caused her more than one restless night, it was true, but she knew that she would never marry him even if she were free to do so.

There were too many things about him that disturbed her, and the leftover dregs of an old attachment were simply not enough.

He was coming to the wedding, though she suspected it was only because Sir Humphrey and Lady Dew were still in London and he did not wish to arouse their curiosity by staying away. Lady Dew was delighted by the approaching nuptials, though she did admit to a little disappointment that her small attempt at matchmaking between Margaret and Crispin had been unsuccessful. She had finally heard of the scandal concerning Lord Sheringford, but she gave it as her opinion that if a lady was foolhardy enough to leave her husband in order to run off with another man, then she must have had a very good reason to do so. For her part, she would not hold it against the earl, especially as he now had the good sense to ally himself to Margaret.

Margaret stood barefoot at the window of her bedchamber early on the morning of her wedding, gazing up at a sky that was deep blue and cloudless – a rarity so far this summer. She was not particularly enjoying the sight, though. She was fighting panic by telling herself that it was surely what every bride faced on her wedding day.

She did not turn to look at the rumpled bed behind her. The linens would be changed after she had left for her wedding. Tonight it was to be her wedding bed. They were to leave in the morning for Warwickshire, she and Lord Sheringford, but tonight Stephen had insisted they stay at Merton House while he went to Vanessa and Elliott's.

Margaret set her forehead against the cool glass of the window and closed her eyes.

How strange it would be to be married!

And how she ached for it. And for tonight. Was that a shameful, unladylike admission? But she did not really care. She had waited long enough for this. /Too/ long. Her youth was already gone. And since it /was/ gone, and with it all her youthful dreams of romance, then it was as well to turn her mind to the future with a positive wish for it to come as soon as possible.

Today and tonight she would be a bride – and she was going to enjoy every moment. Tomorrow and for the rest of her life she would be a wife. She was going to enjoy that too. It was what she had always wanted, after all, and what she had decided over the winter that she would /be/. It really did not matter that her bridegroom was neither Crispin, whom she had loved, nor the Marquess of Allingham, with whom she had enjoyed a comfortable friendship. She had made her decision to marry the Earl of Sheringford, and somehow she would make something good out of their marriage.

There would be a child to bring up. /Again/.

She smiled fleetingly.

Even before she gave birth to any of her own.

Oh, /let/ it be the right thing she was doing, she prayed to no one in particular as she lifted her forehead away from the window and moved into her dressing room to ring for her maid. /Please/, let it be the right thing.

It was fourteen days since she had collided with the Earl of Sheringford in the doorway of the Tindell ballroom. Fourteen days since he had asked her to dance and to marry him – all in one sentence. His first words to her. /Only/ fourteen days.

Weddings by special license, Duncan discovered during the ten days preceding his marriage to Margaret Huxtable, did not differ significantly from weddings by banns except that one did not have to wait the obligatory month for those banns to be read.

They were going to be married at St. George's in Hanover Square, for the love of God. It was the scene of most /ton/ weddings during the Season, it being the parish church of most of the beau monde. It was where legend had it he had left Caroline waiting tragically and in vain at the altar for his arrival five years ago. Legend erred on the side of good theater, of course, as legend often did, but even so… How foolish of him to have imagined a mere two weeks ago that he would procure a special license, bear Miss Huxtable off to the nearest church, marry her there with only the clergyman and a witness or two for company, and then make off into Warwickshire with her to live obscurely ever after.

He could do nothing but kick his heels while his wedding crept up on him with the speed and inevitability of a tortoise.

The only thing of any real significance he did during those days was to call upon Norman and Caroline. It went severely against the grain to do so. Norman had never been his favorite person. Indeed, he had probably occupied the place of very least favorite for as far back into their childhood as Duncan had conscious memories. He was a pompous ass who had behaved in typical Norm fashion at Aunt Agatha's soiree. And Caroline was no better in all essential ways than her brother. Which meant that she was a pretty rotten human being.

Nevertheless, Duncan had wronged her. Even though he had written to her before he ran off with Laura and had made sure she would receive the letter as soon as she woke up on their wedding day, abandoning her had been an admittedly dastardly thing to do.

He owed her an apology.

And perhaps he needed to hold out some sort of olive branch to Norman.

Losing Woodbine Park, when he had fully expected that it would be his in a few days' time, must be a severe disappointment to him. Though Duncan was not the one who had played cruel games with him, nevertheless he felt bad for his cousin. He had never wished Norm any real harm, even if he /had/ bloodied his nose on one occasion when they were both boys, and blackened one of his eyes on another.

So he called upon the two of them one afternoon and hoped ignominiously that they would be from home – or that they would pretend to be.

He was no more fortunate on that account than he had been when he had gone to tell Margaret Huxtable about Toby.

He was admitted to a small visitors' parlor on the ground floor and left to kick his heels there and otherwise amuse himself for almost half an hour.

Caroline arrived first, looking not a day older than eighteen and as fragile and lovely as ever, though she had had three children during the past five years, had she not?

Duncan bowed.

She did not curtsy. "Caroline," he said, "I must thank you for receiving me." "I do not believe, Lord Sheringford," she said, "I have given you permission to make free with my given name." She spoke with the light, sweet voice that had once so enchanted him. "Mrs. Pennethorne," he said, "apologies are cheap, as I am well aware.

They cannot set right what has been done wrong. Nevertheless, sometimes an apology is all that is available. I beg you to accept mine for all the humiliation and suffering I caused you five years ago." "You flatter yourself, Lord Sheringford," she said. "What you did was release me from a connection that had grown distasteful to me, though of course good breeding would have forced me to honor it. I am grateful that you felt no such compunction. I am far happier with my dear Mr.

Pennethorne than I could ever have been with you." If she spoke the truth, he was vastly relieved. And why would it not be the truth? She must have grown as unhappy with him as he had with her when he had started trying to enlist her support to plead with her brother to put an end to Laura's sufferings. "I am happy for you," he said. "You will forgive me, then?" Delicate eyebrows arched above large hazel eyes. "Oh, you must never expect /that/ of me, Lord Sheringford," she said as the door opened again to admit Norman. "Certain actions are quite unforgivable. I can certainly be very glad that you left me free to engage in the happiest marriage in the world, but I cannot forgive your behavior. Neither could I /ever/ forgive you for tearing Randolph and Laura asunder and thus destroying a marriage that was made in heaven and that rivaled my own in happiness. Indeed, you might almost be called a murderer. She would very probably still be alive now if you had not dragged her off with you to satisfy your wicked desires." "My love," Norman said, hurrying toward her, taking her by the shoulders, and leading her to a love seat. "You ought to have remained abovestairs and left this unpleasantness to me. But you are always so foolishly brave." "I have never been a moral coward," she said, seating herself. "I even called upon Miss Huxtable at Merton House when I believed her to be the innocent dupe of a scoundrel. It seems I was mistaken in her. She will be sorry she did not listen to me one day soon, but my conscience is clear at least. And she will be getting only what she deserves." The visit went downhill from there. "Norm," Duncan said, "I am sorry about Woodbine. It was just Grandpapa being fiendish, I am afraid. He used you in order to bring me to heel.

But he ought not to have promised you something he was prepared to withdraw at a moment's notice if he succeeded. Will you feel free to visit my wife and me at Woodbine? And to bring Car – Mrs. Pennethorne and your children with you, of course." Norman fixed him with a stern stare – something he had perfected at the age of eight or so. His shirt points waited hopefully a scant inch from his eyeballs. "I am only sorry, Sheringford," he said, "that I felt compelled to admit you today under the same roof that shelters Mrs. Pennethorne and my children. I did it because I have something to say that I will say once only. I wish it were possible to slap a glove in your face and proceed to put a bullet between your eyes. It would give me the greatest satisfaction. It would, however, expose Mrs. Pennethorne to gossip again and cause her unnecessary distress. I deeply regret that my brother-in-law is too mild-mannered and peace-loving a man to challenge you himself. He is a gentleman with a conscience, and I must honor him for that even if I do not like it. I spurn your acquaintance, Sheringford. If you come here again, you will be refused admittance. If we come face-to-face, you will be ignored. If you should try speaking with Mrs. Pennethorne again, I shall punish you like the cur you are. I hesitated about moving my family to Woodbine Park because /you/ once lived there. You are mistaken if you believe I am now disappointed." Dash it all, but the man was a born orator – if one liked bombast and pomposity, that was. "And now," Norman said, "get out, Sheringford." Duncan nodded, bowed to Caroline, and took his leave.