Sarah gritted her teeth. If this were anyone else, she would have thrown up her arms and stalked off. But Honoria wasn’t trying to play the matchmaker. She wasn’t that sly, and even if she were, she would never be that obvious. Rather, the bride’s bliss was such that she wanted everyone to be just as happy as she was, and she could not imagine that anyone could be happier than they were right here in this very room.

“I am sorry, Lady Chatteris,” Lord Hugh murmured, “but I fear I must rest my leg.”

“Oh, but then you must make your way to the drawing room,” Honoria replied instantly. “We are serving cake there for guests who do not wish to dance.”

“Sarah hasn’t had cake!” Frances exclaimed. “I was supposed to get some for her.”

“It’s all right, Frances,” Sarah assured her, “I—”

“Oh, you must have cake,” Honoria said. “Mrs. Wetherby worked with the cook for weeks to get the recipe just right.”

Sarah did not doubt it. Honoria was mad for sweets; she always had been.

“I’ll come with you,” Frances said.

“That would be lovely, but—”

“And Lord Hugh can come, too!”

At that, Sarah turned to Frances with suspicion. Honoria might simply be trying to make the entire world as ecstatic as she was, but Frances’s motives were rarely so pure.

“Very well,” Sarah acquiesced before she realized it was really Lord Hugh’s place to do so.

“Marcus and I will be going to the drawing room soon to greet people there,” Honoria said.

“As you wish, my lady,” Hugh said with a little bow. Nothing in his voice betrayed irritation or impatience, but Sarah was not fooled. Strange that she’d got to know him well enough in the last day to realize that he was absolutely furious. Or at the very least, mildly annoyed.

And yet his face was as stony as ever.

“Shall we?” he murmured. Sarah nodded, and they continued toward the door. Once in the hall, however, he paused and said, “You need not accompany me to the drawing room.”

“Oh, I do,” she muttered, thinking of Iris, who was rubbing it in, and Honoria, who was not, and even Frances, who fully expected her to be there when she arrived with cake. “But if you wish to leave, I shall make your excuses.”

“I promised the bride.”

“So did I.”

He looked at her for a moment longer than was comfortable, then said, “I don’t suppose you’re the sort to break your promises?”

He was lucky she’d released his arm. She’d probably have snapped his bone in two. “No.”

Again, he stared at her. Or maybe it wasn’t a stare, but it was very strange the way he so frequently let his eyes linger on her face before he spoke. He did this with other people, too; she’d noticed it the night before.