“I’m sorry.” Tom made an obvious effort; he glanced away, took a large sip of champagne and a forkful of grouse. “This is splendid. One would almost think the English could cook.”

“Is something wrong, Tom?” Sophie was not to be put off. But her boy smiled firmly at her.

“No, nothing,” he said. “And no more unpleasant subjects. We will concentrate on the wedding. Where are you to honeymoon?”

“No honeymoon,” Hugh said. “The new firm is too busy; we’ll take a long weekend at my place in Ireland and be back at work on Tuesday morning.”

It was a cold, grey November morning. And Sophie thought it was the happiest day of her life.

She had removed to a hotel for the night, not wanting Hugh to see her in her wedding dress. That was bad luck, and as a wife, she had had enough of that. Tom could hardly dress her; she was totally by herself.

She had bathed and spritzed on a little scent. Then she dried herself, slipped into her Rigby & Peller lingerie, delicate cream silk and lace, and walked to the drawing room of her suite.

The dress was there. Sophie walked across to it, stroked it gently; yes, still gorgeous, still perfect. She was not a vain woman, but there could be no doubt that today she was going to be beautiful.

But that was the least of it. She would be happy. She would finally be able to experience true love. And her son would be there.

There had been wealth and ease in Sophie’s life, but not love—not much love. Apart from Tom, there had only been distance, disapproval, and deceit.

Today that would all change. Today, in the middle of her life, her real life was about to begin.

Quickly, she stepped into the dress; her practiced hand found the hooks and eyes at the back. She applied a light touch of makeup and put the tiara in her hair.

It was her only piece of jewellery. She would never wear a Massot gem again; let Tom give them all to his future bride. But this was special. It was a delicate coronet of ice blue aquamarines and diamonds, and it had been worn by Lady Georgiana Montfort, Hugh’s first wife, on her wedding day.

Sophie touched it softly. She whispered a little prayer for Georgie. And for herself. But she was sure everything would be fine. Hugh giving her the tiara was perfect; he had made his peace with the memory of his first true love. Sophie hoped that their marriage would be as blessed as Georgie’s had been.

She would have taken six months with Hugh over seven years with Pierre, any day. But now, God willing, she didn’t have to choose.

She was forty. But she was still vital, still beautiful. Sophie’s life had been a long wait, she felt, for this moment.