Margo thought disgustedly that he would look elegant in cardboard. He was still the golden boy, though his face had lost its innocent boyishness. It was shrewd, with his father's gray eyes and his mother's lovely mouth. His hair had darkened to bronze, and a late growth spurt in his last year of high school had shot him to six two.

She wished he was ugly. She wished looks didn't matter. She wished he would look at her, just once, as if she wasn't simply a nuisance.

"I was thinking," she told him, but stayed where she was, on the stairs, with one hand resting casually on the banister. She knew she'd never looked better. Her bridesmaid's dress was the most glorious creation she'd ever owned. That was why she'd dressed early, to enjoy it as long as she possibly could.

Laura had chosen the summer blue to match Margo's eyes, and the silk was as fragile and fluid as water. The long sweep of it highlighted her frankly lush figure, and the long, sheer sleeves showcased her creamy ivory skin.

"Rushing things, aren't you?" He spoke quickly because whenever he looked at her the punch of lust was like a flaming fist in his gut. It had to be only lust because lust was easy. "The wedding's not for two hours."

"It'll take nearly that long to put Laura together. I left her with Mrs. T. I thought they… well, they needed a minute or two alone."

"Crying again?"

"Mothers cry on their daughters' wedding day because they know what they're getting into."

He grinned and held out a hand. "You'd make an interesting bride, duchess."

She took his hand. Their fingers had twined hundreds of times over their years together. This was no different. "Is that a compliment?"

"An observation." He led her into the parlor, where silver candlesticks held slim white tapers and sumptuous arrangements of flowers were decked. Jasmine, roses, gardenias. All white on white and heady with scent in the room where sunlight streamed through high, arched windows.

There were silver-framed photos on the mantel. She was there, Margo thought, accepted as part of the family. On the piano sat the Waterford compote that she had recklessly spent her savings on for the Templetons' twenty-fifth anniversary.

She tried to take it in, every piece of it. The soft colors of the Aubusson carpet, the delicate carving on the legs of the Queen Anne chairs, the intricate marquetry on the music cabinet.

"It's so beautiful," she murmured.

"Hmm?" He was busy tearing the foil off a bottle of champagne he'd snatched from the kitchen.

"The house. It's so beautiful."

"Annie's outdone herself," he said, referring to Margo's mother. "Should be a hell of a wedding."

It was his tone that drew her gaze back to him. She knew him so well, every nuance of expression, every subtle tone of voice. "You don't like Peter."

Josh shrugged, uncorked the bottle with an expert press of I thumb. "I'm not marrying Ridgeway, Laura is."