Honoria continued to frown, so he added, “She has a most distinctive voice.”

“I had not noticed,” Honoria murmured.

Hugh decided that this would be an excellent time for him to shut up and leave.

The bride, however, had other plans. “Well,” she declared, “if she’s right there, why don’t you come with me, and we will tell her the good news.”

It was the last thing he wanted, but then she smiled at him, and he remembered, She’s the bride. And he followed.

In fanciful novels—the sort Sarah read by the dozen and refused to apologize for—foreshadowing was painted by the bucket, not the brushstroke. The heroine clasped her hand to her forehead and said something like, “Oh, if only I could find a gentleman who will look past my illegitimate birth and vestigial toe!”

Very well, she’d yet to find an author willing to include an extra toe. But it would certainly make for a good story. There was no denying that.

But back to the foreshadowing. The heroine would make her impassioned plea, and then, as if called forth from some ancient talisman, a gentleman would appear.

Oh, if only I could find a gentleman. And there he was.

Which was why, after Sarah had made her (admittedly ridiculous) statement about dying if she did not marry this year, she looked up to the doorway. Because really, wouldn’t that have been funny?

Unsurprisingly, no one appeared.

“Hmmph,” she hmmphed. “Even the gods of literature have despaired of me.”

“Did you say something?” Harriet asked.

“Oh, if only I could find a gentleman,” she muttered to herself, “who will make me miserable and vex me to the end of my days.”

And then.

Of course.

Lord Hugh Prentice.

God above, was there to be no end to her travails?

“Sarah!” came Honoria’s cheerful voice as the bride herself stepped into the doorway beside him. “I have good news.”

Sarah came to her feet and looked at her cousin. Then she looked at Hugh Prentice, who, it had to be said, she’d never liked. Then she looked back to her cousin. Honoria, her very best friend in the entire world. And she knew that Honoria (her very best friend in the entire world who really should have known better) did not have good news. At least not what Sarah would consider good news.

Or Hugh Prentice, if his expression was any indication.

But Honoria was still glowing like a cheerful, nearly wed lantern, and she practically floated right off her toes when she announced, “Cousin Arthur has taken ill.”

Elizabeth came immediately to attention. “That is good news.”

“Oh, come now,” Harriet said. “He’s not half as bad as Rupert.”

“Well, that part’s not the good news,” Honoria said quickly, with a nervous glance toward Hugh, lest he think them a completely bloodthirsty lot. “The good news is that Sarah was going to have to sit with Rupert tomorrow, but now she doesn’t.”

Frances gasped and leapt across the room. “Does that mean I might sit at the head table? Oh, please say I may take his place! I would love that above all things. Especially since you’re putting it up on a dais, aren’t you? I would actually be above all things.”