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spine, and her tummy dipped again.
    A gilt-rimmed bowl was set in front of her, and soup of a soft, spring green was ladled into it. She smelled a light watercress soup.
    Lady Julia was also presented with soup, but didn’t dip in her spoon. Despite all the sumptuous food, she had not touched a bite.
    Julia Hazelton was what must be meant by an English rose—ivory skin, rose-pink cheeks and huge blue eyes. A graceful, demure beauty. Julia had the sort of haunting gorgeousness that was made for austere, lovely Brideswell and the incessant rain, the ordered gardens, the rich green lawns. Sebastian’s sister had been welcoming—the only one in the house who had—but in unguarded moments she looked sad.
    Zoe knew all about being sad. She beamed a bright smile at Julia. She ignored the sharp glance from the dowager, who had the air of the Olympic bearing down on a harbor, if that liner had been dressed in throat-high purple silk with an anchor of amethysts around the neck.
    “Lady Julia, I would like very much to go riding,” Zoe said. “Would you be interested in a morning ride? If the weather lets us. I’m beginning to fear England is located beneath a permanent rain cloud.”
    Julia looked startled. “Oh—oh, I should love to.”
    “I am afraid that will be impossible,” declared the dowager. “You have a meeting with the Women’s Institute.”
    Zoe had known loneliness in New York society and in Julia’s slightly hesitant, then ebullient tone, she sensed a girl happy with the idea of making a new friend.
    She wanted a friendship with Julia. It probably wouldn’t survive the divorce. But she wanted to try, and no ocean liner of a British matriarch was going to stop her.
    “I should be happy to go with you to the Women’s Institute meeting,” Zoe said to Julia. “And see how these things are done.”
    She felt Langford’s glare, but ignored it.
    The dowager harrumphed. “Sebastian told us some nonsense that you plan to be married in America.”
    “That is correct. In New York.”
    She pursed her lined lips. “You should be married here, in England. Sebastian, why did you not insist?”
    Sebastian did not answer. He finished his champagne and touched his glass. At once, the young footman refilled it to the brim.
    “I think it’s perfect that my darling will marry where she’s grown up,” Mother gushed, “where all her friends can be witness to the happy event. We’ll have a huge reception and the wedding will be at—”
    Thump. Even at the table, the dowager slammed her cane on the floor. “Mrs. Gifford—”
    “Every June bride hopes for sunshine,” Zoe broke in cheekily. “I don’t think I could guarantee that here.”
    The two footmen hurried in with another set of silver trays bearing two fish dishes. Their presence did not even slow the dowager as she snapped, “Marrying Sebastian will make you British, Miss Gifford. This will now be your home. It is preposterous to think of holding your wedding elsewhere.”
    “Then I shall embrace being preposterous.”
    “No granddaughter-in-law of mine shall be so poorly behaved. You will listen to me.”
    “I will do as I wish.”
    The dowager’s cane clattered to the floor. Utter quiet fell. Even the servants ceased to move, though the dowager needed her cane back. For a crazy moment, Zoe thought the bubbly pouring into Mother’s glass had stopped in midstream.
    The youngest girl, Isobel, stared in openmouthed shock at Zoe. Mother was apparently attempting to keep pace with Sebastian’s champagne consumption. Sebastian’s mother, Maria, the duchess, was putting all her attention on her dinner and did not even look up. The duchess looked exactly like him, slender, exquisitely beautiful, with golden hair. She was frail and pale, and had said nothing more to Zoe than a stuttered greeting in the drawing room, where they’d had cocktails before Sebastian’s unexpected and dramatic proposal.
    The dowager’s lips moved, but no sound came out, as