She gathered herself together, checked her appearance one last time, then went downstairs where Sir Percy awaited her in the hall. “Oh, good. There you are,” he greeted her as she came down the stairs. Then stared at her. “Dear God in heaven, where did those rubies come from?”

“They’re the Granville rubies, Pa. Guy wanted me to wear them. Apparently they’re traditional for Ashton brides.”

“Well, they’re magnificent stones, and they suit you well, m’dear. Come, let us go and get you married.” He offered his arm. Petra took it, smiling. Her father somehow was much easier to be with than her mother.

The barouche, drawn by a pair of splendid grays, their harnesses decorated with orange blossoms, waited in the driveway, the coachman, resplendent in Rutherford livery, sat on the box, a groom at the footstep, holding the door. Petra stepped up, Sir Percy followed, and the carriage moved off for the very short drive to the church at the end of the long driveway.

Diana and Fenella were waiting at the porch, two matrons of honor to follow the bride and her father up the aisle. Jonathan stood just inside, having ushered guests to their pews and seated his mother. The organ, played as always by the village organist, began and Petra and her father began the slow walk up the short aisle to the altar.

Guy stood waiting, his best man beside him. He watched Petra’s steady approach and felt a rush of warmth, a sense that this time in his life he was doing absolutely the right thing. He wanted this woman, he wanted to love her, and protect her, and he was not averse to clashing wills with her either. Petra Rutherford was everything and more than he could have wanted in a bride, his match in every arena. She gave him a radiant smile as she stepped up beside him and he was hard-pressed to refrain from breaking tradition again and kissing her.

Petra let the ceremonial words wash over her, responding as necessary, clearly and without hesitation, and when the last words were spoken she tipped her face up for her husband’s kiss with another radiant smile.

They walked out of the church to the welcoming crowd of villagers, many of whom had known Petra since childhood, and all of whom, Somerset folk as they were, knew plenty about Lord Ashton of Ashton Court, a stately home some ten miles from the Rutherfords’ village.

Confetti showered the couple as they walked to the waiting carriage outside the lych-gate. Petra responded to the congratulations shouted from all sides and stopped several times to receive single flowers offered by individuals who were particularly close to the Rutherford family. Guy, for his part, kept smiling throughout but heaved a sigh of relief when they reached the carriage and he had handed his bride up and climbed in beside her.