Madame Carême had outdone herself. Charlotte’s dress was quintessentially French, constructed in the empire style. But it was made of heavy, heavy silk, not of madame’s usual light fabrics. It had a classic small bodice, caught up just under Charlotte’s breasts. But the skirt was impossibly narrow, rather than light and floating. The heavy silk fell and fell; it made Charlotte appear to be all legs and bosom. In the back there was a tiny train, the weight of which gave a dip and sway to Charlotte’s walk. And, most surprisingly, woven into the creamy silk, sewn so tightly that they seemed part of the woof and the weave of the fabric, were small emeralds. Charlotte looked deliriously beautiful. Emeralds shone in her hair, and sparkled from her dress. Madame Carême herself had shed tears when she attended the final dressing that morning. Her future was assured; she wept because she was certain she would never dress such a lovely bride again.

Charlotte had a moment of panic, walking under the heavy stone archway that marked the entrance to St. George’s. What if Alex had changed his mind? What if he didn’t want to marry her after all? But there he was, standing far off, at the top of the aisle. She took a deep breath and began the long walk to the altar.

The organ music became light and joyful, announcing the entrance of the bride. And the ton gasped as one when they saw Charlotte.

Alex stood at the front of the church, his eyes fixed on Charlotte. He had never seen such a beautiful woman in his entire life. It took all his control not to bound down the aisle and sweep her into his arms. He stayed rigidly still. Lucien Boch, who was acting as best man in the absence of Alex’s brother, Patrick (still traveling in the Orient), drew in his breath sharply. Alex glanced at him.

“You are a lucky man,” Lucien said simply. “The stars shine on you.”

Alex smiled. Lucien had a wonderful ability to shrink complexities down to a succinct truth. Indeed, the stars were shining on him. Everything he had ever wanted was being delivered into his arms—and as an extra bonus, Pippa was in the front row, quietly nestled in the arms of a nanny found by Charlotte. In the weeks before the wedding Charlotte had even managed to tame Pippa’s fearful reaction to strangers.

Charlotte was nearing the front of the church. She hadn’t yet had the courage to look up and meet Alex’s eyes, although she could feel him looking at her. The duke gave his daughter’s hand a squeeze.

“All right?” he said roughly.

“Yes.” A look that has passed between fathers and daughters ever since weddings began passed between them. Charlotte leaned forward and gave him a fleeting kiss. The duke put her hand into Alex’s.