Royce leaned forward and spoke to Henry. “Pull up.”

Bedecked in full livery, garlanded with white ribbon-as was the open carriage-Henry eased the heavy horses to a halt in the middle of the road leading through Alwinton village.

The cheering crowd pressed closer, waving, calling.

Royce threw Minerva a glance, a smile, then rose, and drew her up with him; her hand clasped in his, he raised it high. “I give you your new duchess!”

The crowd roared its approval.

Minerva fought to contain the flood of emotion that welled and swelled inside her; looking out, she saw so many familiar faces-all so pleased that she was Royce’s bride.

His wife.

She stood by his side and waved; the beaming smile on her face had taken up residence when he’d turned her from the altar to walk back up the aisle, and hadn’t yet waned.

The crowd satisfied, he drew her back down; once she sat, he told Henry to drive on.

Still smiling, she relaxed against Royce’s shoulder, her mind reaching back to the ceremony, then ranging ahead to the wedding breakfast to come.

The same carriage, freshly painted with the Wolverstone crest blazing on the doors and with ribbons woven through the reins, had carried her, the Earl of Catersham, and her matrons-of-honor to the church. Her gown of finest Brussels lace softly shushing, the delicate veil anchored by the Varisey diadem, she’d walked down the aisle on the earl’s arm oblivious to the horde packed into the church-held by a pair of intense dark eyes.

In an exquisitely cut morning coat, Royce had waited for her before the altar; even though she’d seen him mere hours before, it seemed as if something had changed. As if their worlds changed in the instant she placed her hand in his and together they turned to face Mr. Cribthorn.

The service had gone smoothly; at least, she thought it had. She could remember very little, caught up, swept along, on a tide of emotion.

A tide of happiness that had welled as they’d exchanged their vows, peaked when Royce had slipped the simple gold band on her finger, overflowed when she’d heard the words, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Duke and duchess.

The same, yet more. A fact that had been amply illustrated from the instant Royce had released her from the utterly chaste kiss they’d shared. A kiss that had carried both acknowledgment and promise, acceptance and commitment, from them both.

Their eyes had touched, then, as one, they’d turned and faced their future. Faced first the assembled throng, all of whom had wanted to congratulate them personally. Luckily, the others-his friends and the Bastion Club couples-had formed something of a guard, and helped them move reasonably smoothly up the aisle.

The roar as they’d emerged from the church into the weak sunshine had echoed from the hills. Hamish and Molly had been waiting by the steps; she’d hugged Molly, then turned to Hamish to see him hesitating-awed by the delicacy of her gown and the brilliance of the diadem’s diamonds. She’d hugged him; awkwardly, he’d patted her with his huge hands. “You were right,” she’d whispered. “Love really is simple-no thinking required.”

He’d chuckled, bussed her check, then released her to all the others waiting to press her hand, shake Royce’s, and wish them well.

An hour had passed before they’d been able to leave the churchyard; the guests and the rest of the wedding party had gone ahead, to the wedding breakfast waiting in the castle’s huge ballroom, a long-ago addition built out at the back of the keep.

The carriage rolled across the stone bridge; a minute later, they passed through the heavy gates with their snarling wolf’s heads. The castle rose before them; it was as much home to her as it was to Royce. She glanced at him, found his gaze dwelling on the gray stone of the faзade.

Retford, Hamilton, Cranny, and Handley were waiting to meet them just inside the front door; all were beaming, but trying to keep their delight within bounds. “Your Grace.” Retford bowed low; it took her a moment to realize he was addressing her.

Hamilton, Cranny, and Handley, too, all greeted her formally. “Everything’s in readiness, ma’am,” Cranny assured her.

“I take it everyone is here?” Royce asked.

Handley nodded. “Lord Haworth and Lord Chesterfield will need to leave in a few hours-I’ll make sure to remind them.”

Royce glanced at Minerva. “Any others we need to pay early attention to?”

She mentioned five others, representatives of king, regent, and Parliament, all of whom had to leave for London later that day. “Other than that, we’d be wise to give the grandes dames their due.”

He snorted. “It’s always wise to give those beldames due attention.” Taking her arm, he led her toward the ballroom.

“I suspect I should mention, Your Grace, that as from today, I am classed among the grandes dames.”

He grinned. “My own grande dame. If that means that from now on I’ll only have to deal with you”-he met her gaze as they paused outside the ballroom door-“I have no complaints.”

Jeffers, liveried, proud, and bursting with delight, was waiting to open the door. Royce held her autumn eyes-eyes that saw him, all of him, and understood. He raised her hand, pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “Are you ready?”

She smiled a touch mistily. “Indeed, Your Grace. Lead on.”

He did, ceremonially leading her into the huge ballroom where the entire company rose and applauded. They paraded down the long room to the table at the end; a smile wreathing every face, the company clapped until he seated her in the center of the main table, and sat beside her, then everyone followed suit and the festivities began.

It was a day of unalloyed happiness. Of enfolding warmth as the breakfast rolled on-through the long meal, the customary speeches, the first waltz. After that, the company rose and mingled freely.

Returning from doing his duty with the representatives of Crown and government, Royce resumed his chair at the high table. Content, aware of a depth of inner peace he’d never before known, he looked over the crowd, smiling at the undisguised joy apparent on so many faces. A moment to savor, to fix in his memory. The only friends missing were Hamish and Molly; both he and Minerva had wanted them to attend, but hadn’t pressed, understanding that, in this milieu, Hamish and Molly would feel awkward.

Instead, he and Minerva planned to ride over the border tomorrow.

He wondered how much longer it would be wise for her to ride, especially long distances. He slanted a glance at her, in her chair beside him; as she hadn’t yet actually told him anything, he suspected he’d be wise to hold his tongue, at least until she did.

A frisson of uncertainty rippled through him; he had absolutely no experience of ladies in delicate conditions. However, he knew several men who did-several, indeed, who were in much the same straits as he. Leaning closer to Minerva, deep in conversation with Rose and Alice, he touched her wrist. “I’m going to mingle. I’ll catch up with you later.”

She glanced at him, smiled, then turned back to his friends’ wives.

Rising, he went looking for his ex-colleagues.

He found them in a knot in one corner of the room. All had glasses in their hands; all were sipping while they chatted, their gazes, one and all, trained in various directions-resting on their ladies scattered about the hall.

Accepting a glass from one of his footmen, he joined them.

“Ah-just the man!” Jack Hendon beamed. “Finally, you’re here to join us-about time.”

“I often wondered,” Tony mused, “whether it was our weddings you eschewed, or weddings per se.”

“The latter.” Royce sipped. “The excuse of not being Winchelsea was exceedingly convenient. I used it to avoid all wider ton gatherings.”

They considered, then all grimaced. “Any of us,” Tristan admitted, “would have done the same.”

“But we always have a toast,” Gervase said. “What’s it to be today?” They all looked at Charles.

Who grinned. Irrepressibly. He’d clearly been waiting for the moment. He raised his glass to Royce; the others did the same. “To the end of Dalziel’s reign,” he began. “To the beginning of yours-and even more importantly, to the beginning of hers.”

The others cheered and drank.

Royce grimaced, sipped, then eyed them. “You perceive me in the unusual position of seeking advice from your greater collective experience.” They all looked intrigued. “How,” he continued, “do you…corral and restrain, for want of better words, your spouses when they’re in what is commonly termed ‘a delicate condition’?”

The only one of their wives not yet obviously blooming-and he suspected it truly was not yet-was Letitia.

Somewhat to his surprise, all his men looked pained. He looked at Jack Hendon. “You’re an old hand-any tips?”

Jack closed his eyes, shuddered, then opening them, shook his head. “Don’t remind me-I never figured it out.”

“The difficulty,” Jack Warnefleet said, “is in being subtle when what you want to do is put your foot down and state categorically that they can’t do that-whatever ‘that’ is at the time.”

Deverell nodded. “No matter what you say, how tactfully you try to put it, they look at you as if you have the intelligence of a flea-and then just do whatever they were going to.”

“Why is it,” Christian asked, “that we, the other half of the equation as it were, are considered to have no valid opinions on such matters?”

“Probably because,” Tony replied, “our opinions are ill-informed, being based on a woeful lack of intelligence.”