It went forward without a hitch, without a single moment of awkwardness or panic. Once the gay crowd had assembled in the small church, gentlemen filling the aisles while their ladies took the pews, Luc stepped forward to face the altar, Martin, his cousin, Amelia's brother-in-law, by his side. Martin was in turn flanked by Simon, Amelia's brother, a nineteen-year-old stripling Luc had, courtesy of their families' closeness, even before the last few months considered in the light of a brother.

Martin, glancing first to his right, then his left, was moved to comment. "This is becoming incestuous — you do realize after today we'll not only be cousins, but brothers-in-law, too?"

Luc shrugged. "We always shared excellent taste."

Simon snorted. "More like you've both inherited a familial tendency to succumb to the charms of women with whom no sane man would dally."

Thus spake a Cynster; the obvious riposte rose to Luc's lips, but as he glanced across to deliver it he caught Martin's eye — saw the same thought mirrored in his cousin's face. They both knew the truth; they exchanged knowing smiles, then faced the altar again, by mutual agreement leaving Simon to learn of his fate by himself.

At that moment, from the mansion's front porch, Amelia, on Arthur's arm, stepped out on her journey into marriage. Attended by Amanda and Emily, she glowed with confidence, with the certainty of having finally achieved that of which she'd so long dreamed, with the satisfaction of having brought her dearest dream one step closer to full reality; indeed, she felt sure she was more than halfway there.

As they crossed the lawns and passed under the ancient trees, she leaned close to Arthur. "Thank you."

Returning her smile, he raised his brows. "For what?"

"Why for having me, of course, and taking care of me for all these years. In a little while, I'll no longer be yours, but Luc's… responsibility."

She looked ahead, briefly sobering. She'd added the last word to soften the truth, but she knew what that truth was, and Arthur, a Cynster to his bones, knew, too. She glanced again at him, but his smile hadn't faltered.

"I'm glad you chose Luc — there may be ups and downs, but at base he's the kind who will never turn his back on his duties. His responsibilities." Arthur patted her hand. "And that augurs well."

The church lay before them; Amelia grasped the moment to draw in a deep breath, to draw to herself the blessings of the years, then they entered, paused for only a moment, then, with a serene smile, radiant once more, she walked up the aisle to Luc's side.

He was waiting. Their eyes met, held, then he took her hand and she stepped up beside him; together they faced the altar.

Mr. Merryweather led them through the ceremony, delighted to be marrying another of the generation he'd baptized. They made their vows in strong, clear voices, then it was over, and they were man and wife.

She put back her veil, and Luc drew her to him, bent his head and set his lips to hers. A gentle kiss but a lengthy one; only she could feel the reined strength in the fingers curled about hers, sense the power of all he suppressed.

When he lifted his head, their eyes met, searched — briefly noted the underlying emotions that, despite their outward calmness, seethed behind their experienced facades — then, those facades firmly in place, they turned as one to receive the congratulations of their families and friends.

Luc hadn't believed impatience could ever escalate to this extent, to the point where it was a physical thing — a ravening beast inside him, clawing and howling for succor, for satisfaction. He hoped — prayed — that the promise of the fact she was now his, legally before God and all men, would be enough to see him through the day. As they stood side by side, accepting the wishes of those who crowded around to kiss Amelia and pump his hand, clap his shoulder, he was acutely aware of his inner tension, of how his nerves leapt, flexed — how they remained poised for action.

He wanted nothing more than to seize her, to lock her to his side, clear a path to the door, find a horse, and be far away from here — to whisk her away from this place that was hers, to a place that was his.

The sheer primitiveness of the feeling left him breathless, stunned — for the past decade, he'd thought himself an elegant sophisticate; what presently raged inside him was not sophisticated at all.

But he had a whole day to survive, and survive it he would. He had absolutely no intention of allowing anyone to know just how affected he was. Anyone other than Amelia, whose wide, cornflower blue eyes said she knew — and wasn't quite sure what she felt about it, how to interpret it — just as well. Other than Martin, who met his gaze, and smiled a too-knowing, too-understanding smile.

He'd briefly narrowed his eyes, but Martin guessing he could live with; the fact only confirmed that Martin knew what he was going through, which he only would had he gone through it himself.

The thought, if not precisely encouraging, at least made for resignation. If Martin had survived, he could, too.

A June wedding possessed numerous advantages, one of which was the chance of staging the wedding breakfast outside. The wide lawns of the Place provided a perfect setting; during the ceremony the staff had assembled long tables lined with chairs under the spreading branches bordering the main lawn.

The breakfast with its inevitable toasts turned into a riotous event. Because their families had always been close, their members so well acquainted, an informality prevailed that couldn't otherwise have been.

Amelia was thankful for the relaxed atmosphere, grateful when the breakfast slid into the easy, familiar comfort of a large family gathering. She was conscious of Luc's tension — conscious of the fact he was suppressing something — and she didn't know, couldn't think, what it was. She worried that it derived from their agreement — that now he'd actually done it and married her for her dowry, he wanted to depart, get away, leave behind the public charade they were enacting.

Everyone, of course, imagined they were in love, that being the norm for marriages celebrated here. In one respect, that was true — she was quite sure she was in love with him. She was equally sure the other half of the equation was possible, and that, given time and her devotion, it would come to be. But it wasn't there, in existence, yet; she could imagine the fact grated on Luc's pride, grated on his conscience… that was what she sensed from him — a wish to leave, to put this day behind them.

As it was, they both knew their duties; the informality of the day made them easier to bear.

Once the meal was at an end, she and Luc parted, going in opposite directions around the long table, greeting, talking with and thanking their guests. Others rose, too; most of the gentlemen stood to stretch their legs, then gathered in small groups, discussing this and that, passing the time — getting out of the ladies' way.

One gentleman left a group and came to meet Amelia. She smiled and held out her hand. "Michael! I'm so glad you could come. Honoria tells me you've been very busy these last months."

Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, Honoria's brother, grimaced as he pressed her hand. "The way she puts it, I feel like an old man, buried among files and papers in the depths of Whitehall."

She laughed. "Isn't that true?" Michael was a Member of Parliament, one expected to go far; involved in numerous committees, he was widely tipped to step up to the ministry sooner rather than later.

"The papers and files unfortunately are. As for the age, I'll thank you not to be a minx."

She laughed; he smiled and glanced about, giving her a glimpse of the silver at his temples, glinting through his otherwise thick brown hair. Michael was handsome in a quiet, inherently strong way. A quick calculation told her he must now be thirty-three. And still unmarried, yet to advance in his career as everyone fully expected — and as he was backed by both the Cynsters and his grandfather, the redoubtable Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby, that seemed a foregone conclusion — then he would have to bestir himself on the matrimonial front. Cabinet ministers were expected to be married.

"Magnus is over there." Michael directed her gaze to the old man grumpily still at the table — Magnus was a martyr to gout and could not stand for long; he had Lady Osbaldestone beside him, to keep him in line. Amelia waved; lifting his huge head, Magnus nodded, bushy brows drawn down as they almost always were. Amelia grinned and turned back to Michael.

He was studying her. "You know, I can remember both you and Amanda when you first put up your hair — at your first informal ball."

She thought back; the memories made her smile. "Honoria's first informal family gathering in the music room at St. Ives House. How long ago that seems."

"Six years."

"A bit more." Her gaze went to her twin, leaning, laughing, on her husband's arm. "How young Amanda and I were then."

Michael grinned. "Six years is a long time at this stage in your lives. You've both blossomed, and now you're moving on. Amanda to the Peak District, and I hear you'll be in Rutlandshire?"

"Yes — Calverton Chase isn't far from here."

"So you'll have your own establishment to run — I know Minerva's more than ready to hand over the reins."

Amelia acknowledged that with a smile, her thoughts shifting to the future, to what now lay before her. To the next stage. "I expect there will be quite a lot to do."

"Indubitably — I'm sure you'll handle it wonderfully. But now I fear I must leave you. There's a matter I must deal with in Hampshire, one I must attend to in person."