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mounting to a clamor. Thomas was having cold feet at the altar.
    What sort of woman let this happen to her twice ?
    She pivoted back to Thomas. Sandy hair and a ruddy complexion grown ruddier for his sudden, slack-jawed madness. “I will,” she hissed. “Say I will.”
    His lashes fluttered rapidly. Someone in the audience called out, “Say it!”
    From the audience ! It was beyond humiliating; their wedding had turned into a sideshow! Yet all he did was stand there like some gawking chicken!
    She cleared her throat. Her knees were trembling. “Viscount,” she managed. Oh dear Lord only make him say it and I will knit a hundred sweaters! And never again sleep till noon, or think a single unkind thought about anyone— “Will you not answer the vow?”
    Thomas stumbled back a pace. “Forgive me,” he choked, and turned on his heel. Turned— away from her .
    Mr. Shrimpton made a lunge for his arm, but Thomas shoved free and bolted past his groomsmen, then leapt the rail into the nave.
    The crowd rose amidst a great communal shriek. “Swine!” someone shouted, and “Catch the cad!”
    Thomas sprinted across the nave and cut a sharp left toward the arcade. Someone made a grab for him; he ducked into a somersaulting roll, shot to his feet, and bounded out of sight behind a row of pillars.
    At her side, Mr. Shrimpton gave a low whistle. She turned, the world trailing sluggishly past her eyes, to look at him.
    His brows were at his hairline. “Had no idea he could run like that,” he said.
    Vises clamped onto her arms. She glanced down. Hands, they were—pale, slim fingers, wrists bound in fluttering ribbons and white tea roses. Oh , she thought. Her bridesmaids were trying to draw her away from the altar. Again.
    God above. It had happened again.
    He actually let me walk up the aisle.
    Even Lord Trent didn’t do that.
    “Oh,” she said, and the sound startled her. “Oh,” she whispered, as she tripped over her train and the candles seemed to brighten and the scent of flowers sharpened, pricking her eyes and making her nose run. She shook off the grasping hands. This was new; it really was. At least Lord Trent had the decency to have jilted her before the wedding day, to let her cry off the betrothal. A terrible mess, informing four hundred guests that their attendance would not be required; the number of notes she’d penned had left her hand cramped for weeks. But this?
    Oh, this was quite different. Twice , now.
    She stumbled back a pace, and then another.
    The altar began to recede.
    There could be no recovery from this.



Chapter Two

    “Please, miss. Madam is determined that you come downstairs.”
    Gwen pulled her knees closer to her chest. She was buried beneath the covers, with a pillow atop her face, but it still wasn’t enough. What she needed was a shell. Then she could crawl into it and hide, no matter where she found herself. How lucky turtles were, in that regard. “Once again,” she mumbled, “I send my regrets.”
    “Miss, she insists! There is company!”
    It was only the Ramseys, who would forgive her. Nevertheless, the maid’s wheezing voice made her lift the pillow for a peek. An unhealthy flush blotched Hester’s cheeks. No wonder! Aunt Elma had sent her scrambling up the staircase five times in the last half hour.
    Gwen threw off the pillow and sat up. “The next time my aunt sends for me, you’re to pay her no heed. Just wait a bit in the hall, then tell her I refused again.” When Hester looked hesitant, she rose to her feet for the added air of authority. “I assure you, that’s exactly what I’d do if you came anyway.”
    The maid gave a little panting moan, then ducked a curtsy and withdrew. As the door closed, the room sank again into darkness.
    Gwen swayed indecisively. There was no desire in her to do anything. Her whole body ached. But she did not think she would manage to go back to sleep now.
    She crossed to the window and pulled open the curtains.
    Surprise