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tomorrow, Alice.”
    “And so will I.” She smiled at him. “You are not happy about this marriage, are you, Falloden? You have been very cross all week. But you can always come to me.”
    The bed looked warm and untidy and inviting. The outline of her body, curled up beneath the blankets, was alluring. He would have liked nothing better at that moment than to join her beneath them once more and spend the day in lovemaking and sleep and forgetfulness.
    But it was his wedding day.
    He got to his feet, shivered in the chill of the early morning, and reached down for some clothes with which to warm himself.
    S HE WAS TIRED . H ER maid had clucked her tongue at the paleness of her cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes and had tried to make up for the fact that she was not in her best looks by curling her hair more elaborately than usual. It was a good thing, she had said, that Miss Ellie was wearing pale blue—and such a lovely, simply styled dress with matching cloak—and not a brighter shade to sap even more color from her face.
    But she was glad she was tired, Eleanor thought as she walked downstairs to join her father in the parlor. Perhaps she would see her wedding day as if through the haze of drugs. And then she discovered on entering the room that the earl was there already. He was early. And he was magnificent, looking twice as handsome as she remembered him, clad all in shades of blue as if he had known what she was going to wear. He looked as if he were on his way to an audience with the king or Prince Regent. And yet totally unappealing to her. She turned colder at the sight of him and inclined her head unsmilingly. She still refused to curtsy.
    And then they were in the carriage and on the way to church and Papa was talking—somehow, through some miracle of willpower, he had succeeded in getting up from his bed that morning despite her protests. The Earl of Falloden was as silent as she.
    And then they were at the church and her future husband was introducing another immaculately dressed gentleman—his friend Sir Albert Hagley. If it were possible to turn colder, she did so as he bowed to her and she inclined her head to him. She recognized him instantly and knew that he recognized her too, though he was far too well bred to say anything, of course. He had been the first to try flirting with her at Pamela Hutchins’s country party—if flirting were a strong enough word.
    “I am charmed to meet you, ma’am,” he said now.
    “Good morning, sir,” she said.
    And then the cold, empty church and the smiling rector. And Papa giving her hand into that of the earl, and the earl’s voice repeating the responses dictated by the rector. And her voice doing the same. And then her husband’s lips, briefly, motionless, against hers. And the rector’s smiles and bows. And Sir Albert’s kiss on the cheek and her father’s hug, which she could not prevent. And the outdoors again and the earl’s carriage.
    Her husband’s carriage.
    Her husband.
    They drove to the Earl of Falloden’s house on Grosvenor Square—to
her
house. To her new home, where she was bowed to and curtsied to and smiled at by rows of liveried servants and led by her husband to the grand dining room, where the wedding breakfast for four was set out. As befitted her new status as Countess of Falloden, she was seated at the foot of the table, opposite her husband. Her father and Sir Albert Hagley sat at either side of the table.
    There was conversation. There must have been. She did not afterward remember any awkward silences. But she did not participate in the talk. She could not remember afterward if she ate or not. But finally the meal seemed to be over. Her father got to his feet, a wineglass in his hand, and she began to stretch out a hand to stop him. But she returned it to her lap.
    “A toast,” he said, beaming around at the other three occupants of the table. “To my beloved daughter and my son-in-law. To the Earl and Countess of