Pulling an engraved handkerchief out of the pocket of his slacks, he took the croissant out of her hand and wiped the buttery remnants off her fingers. Balling it up, he dropped it on the side table that held his silver teapot. “My sweet Rosalina, I think you can agree we’ve been more than generous in supporting your choices. We assumed, once you graduated from university, you’d come home and marry Marcel, but you wanted to continue your education, and we love you very much, we want you to be happy, so we supported that decision. But it’s time, my love. It’s time for you to assume your duties here.”

“Of course. I know that, and I’m absolutely going to marry Marcel. In fact, when I go upstairs, I’ll talk to Fabiana, and she’ll set up a time for me to meet with the wedding planner.”

“This is not the first time you’ve put off this discussion,” her mother said. “Darling, this is your wedding. You must take it seriously.”

Impatience rumbled under her skin. Why would she bother thinking about the details, when they were already set in stone? “What’s to talk about? We’re marrying in the church, and the reception will be held in the grand ballroom.” She shrugged. “I’m being fitted for my dress next week.” A tiny flicker of interest teased her heart.

The designer lived in the United States. An old wild west town, Calamity had cowboys and ranches, saloons and gold mining. It even had a bison preserve.

Imagine that—bison!

“There is much to discuss,” her mother said. “And the top priority is setting a date so we can send out invitations.”

“Honestly, whatever works best for your schedule. It doesn’t matter to me.” Because it would be a performance in front of the entire country.

“Your enthusiasm for this wedding is underwhelming,” her mother said.

“Well, sorry, Mama, but it’s not like I have a say in anything.” Other than the dress and cake, none of the rest reflected her personality at all.

The newspaper rustled, as her father picked it up and sat back down. “Is there something you’d prefer?”

She scanned his handsome features. Does it matter? He gave her a deep nod.

Well, then. “Actually, I’d love to get married in the meadow.” The night-blooming flower used in Nocturne only blossomed for a few weeks in June. “If we could have the service at twilight, then the lyantha would perfume the night air during my reception.”

Her mother’s features tightened. “That would mean waiting a year.”

She watched the silent communication pass between her equally strong and stubborn parents.

“As long as the date is set and invitations go out before the vote,” her father said. “We can wait for the actual ceremony.”