That night, as she lay in bed, struggling to sleep, she wondered whether she’d made a terrible mistake in agreeing to marry Douglas Barrington. One thing she had not included on her decision-making list was the question of why Douglas had made such an offer in the first place. It now seemed reckless of him – and even more reckless of her in accepting.

Why on earth had he asked her to marry him? And why hadn’t he mentioned he had a daughter? Would the little girl be living with them after they were married? Was he really only marrying her to father a son? Why choose her? He barely knew her.

Veronica’s words kept repeating in her head. How could Evie ever expect to replace the beautiful Felicity? She’d been crazy to think she might. And hadn’t Veronica said that all Douglas’s friends were amazed at his decision – and all of them had adored Felicity?

Tossing and turning on the lumpy mattress, she thought back to the wedding of twelve years ago. The bride had been breathtakingly beautiful and a perfect match for her dashing groom. While Douglas Barrington had indeed danced with the teenage Evie, he’d also danced with almost every woman present that day. She was deluded to imagine that he had retained the memory of her over the years. But she couldn’t help hoping that he had, that he might even one day come to care for her. Then reality struck again. How could she, a woman more at home on a hockey pitch than a dance floor, ever hope to win the love and affection of such a man?

A week later, Evie stood on the quayside looking around, trying to spot the Leightons among the crowd thronging the waterfront. She couldn’t board the ship yet as Mr Leighton was to meet her and hand over her ticket. Most of the people on the dock appeared to be friends and relatives there to wave off passengers. She began to panic.

‘Yoo hoo! Evelyn!’ The call came from above.

Looking up, Evie saw Veronica Leighton leaning over the guard rail on one of the upper decks of the ship, waving a silk scarf as though she were a French revolutionary leading the mob into battle.

A man appeared beside Evie, his hand extended in greeting. ‘You must be Evelyn. I’m Arthur Leighton. Pleased to meet you.’

Evie had to hide her surprise at Veronica’s husband. Her assumption had been that scary Veronica would be married to a handsome lounge lizard. But instead of a suave and elegant roué, Arthur Leighton looked more like a schoolmaster: dishevelled, with a thick mop of sandy hair that flopped over his brow until he brushed it away with his fingers. He appeared to be younger than his wife, but Evie had never been good at guessing people’s ages. With one finger he pushed up his spectacles from where they had slipped down his nose, and grinned at her with a wide and genuine smile. Arthur Leighton reminded her of a Labrador puppy and Evie knew at once she was going to like him.