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obvious relief. “If you had refused, I would have had to ask my other cousin, Rupert, and—”
    “You have another cousin? One you’re passing over in favor of me?” Hugh might not have cared overmuch for the myriad rules and regulations that bound their society, but that did not mean he didn’t know what they were.
    “He’s awful,” she said in a loud whisper. “Honestly, he’s just terrible, and he eats far too many onions.”
    “Well, if that’s the case,” Hugh murmured.
    “ And, ” Honoria continued, “he and Sarah do not get on.”
    Hugh always considered his words before he spoke, but even he wasn’t able to stop himself from blurting half of “ I don’t get on with Lady Sarah” before clamping his mouth firmly shut.
    “I beg your pardon?” Honoria inquired.
    Hugh forced his jaw to unlock. “I don’t see why that would be a problem,” he said tightly. Dear God, he was going to have to sit with Lady Sarah Pleinsworth. How was it possible Honoria Smythe-Smith didn’t realize what a stupendously bad idea that would be?
    “Oh, thank you, Lord Hugh,” Honoria said effusively. “I do appreciate your flexibility in this matter. If I sit them together—and there would be no other place to put him at the head table, trust me, I looked—heaven only knows what rows they’ll get into.”
    “Lady Sarah?” Hugh murmured. “Rows?”
    “I know,” Honoria agreed, completely misinterpreting his words. “It’s difficult to imagine. We never have a cross word. She has the most marvelous sense of humor.”
    Hugh made no comment.
    Honoria smiled grandly at him. “Thank you again. You are doing me a tremendous favor.”
    “How could I possibly refuse?”
    Her eyes narrowed for a hint of a moment, but she seemed not to detect sarcasm, which made sense, since Hugh himself didn’t know if he was being sarcastic.
    “Well,” Honoria said, “thank you. I’ll just tell Sarah.”
    “She’s in the drawing room,” he said. Honoria looked at him curiously, so he added, “I heard her speaking as I walked by.”
    Honoria continued to frown, so he added, “She has a most distinctive voice.”
    “I had not noticed,” Honoria murmured.
    Hugh decided that this would be an excellent time for him to shut up and leave.
    The bride, however, had other plans. “Well,” she declared, “if she’s right there, why don’t you come with me, and we will tell her the good news.”
    It was the last thing he wanted, but then she smiled at him, and he remembered, She’s the bride . And he followed.
    I n fanciful novels—the sort Sarah read by the dozen and refused to apologize for—foreshadowing was painted by the bucket, not the brushstroke. The heroine clasped her hand to her forehead and said something like, “Oh, if only I could find a gentleman who will look past my illegitimate birth and vestigial toe!”
    Very well, she’d yet to find an author willing to include an extra toe. But it would certainly make for a good story. There was no denying that.
    But back to the foreshadowing. The heroine would make her impassioned plea, and then, as if called forth from some ancient talisman, a gentleman would appear.
    Oh, if only I could find a gentleman. And there he was.
    Which was why, after Sarah had made her (admittedly ridiculous) statement about dying if she did not marry this year, she looked up to the doorway. Because really, wouldn’t that have been funny?
    Unsurprisingly, no one appeared.
    “Hmmph,” she hmmphed. “Even the gods of literature have despaired of me.”
    “Did you say something?” Harriet asked.
    “Oh, if only I could find a gentleman,” she muttered to herself, “who will make me miserable and vex me to the end of my days.”
    And then.
    Of course.
    Lord Hugh Prentice.
    God above, was there to be no end to her travails?
    “Sarah!” came Honoria’s cheerful voice as the bride herself stepped into the doorway beside him. “I have good news.”
    Sarah came to her feet and looked