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By the time the ceremony concluded, Phoebe was weeping softly on Mr. Tremont’s arm, George was looking serious, and Charles and Sophronia were apparently hatching up some plot involving decorations on the Montmarche traveling coach.

The chapel had become a busy place in recent weeks. Helena and Mr. Prescott’s nuptials had begun the festivities. Mrs. Cavanaugh had made Mr. Offenbach the happiest of men thereafter, and now Daphne and Lysander had spoken their vows as well.

Phoebe and Mr. Tremont had chosen an autumn date, though Daphne suspected they’d anticipate their vows—or she rather hoped they would. Life was short and love should be enjoyed.

“Don’t I get to kiss my bride?” Lysander asked, as the organist’s recessional thundered through the little chapel.

“I am certain there’s a tradition, or there should be, about kissing the bride.

” He offered his arm, and smile to go with it that assured Daphne more than kissing would be involved in the nuptial celebrations.

“It’s the bride who does the kissing,” she said, leaning close.

She paused for a moment on the altar steps, savoring the joy.

The children were on their best behavior and turned out in their Sunday best. Mr. and Mrs. Gavineau were indeed looking as proud as if they’d brought the happy couple together—this happy couple too—and Montmarche retainers of longstanding took up the remaining pews.

Lysander led her down the aisle and out in the bright sunshine. The party would walk back to the house for the wedding breakfast, followed by an open house for neighbors and friends.

“Why didn’t we do as sensible couples do, and leave for the honey month directly after the wedding breakfast?” Daphne asked.

“Because we did not want to be exhausted by travel on our wedding night,” Lysander said, pausing at the top of the church steps. “We did choose a beautiful wedding day, didn’t we?”

He was doubtless thinking of his first wedding day, as Daphne had thought of hers. How could she not? That day had been full of joy and sunshine too, though viewed from the church steps, the memory was wistful.

One could not really embark on a second marriage without truly, absolutely ending the first. That was a sad thought, and one she knew Lysander would understand. She found him more than once in recent weeks sitting in solitude by the family plot.

“James would have liked you, Montmarche. He would have pronounced you a capital fellow.”

“Maria would have approved of you too. Sophronia has already asked if she can call you mama.”

“She told you that?”

“While we were riding yesterday. You were very wise to suggest I take her out regularly on horseback. She’s a different girl when she starts the day with some fresh air.”

Charles too, seemed to benefit from having a step-papa.

The two fellows played cards in the library after supper most evenings, with Lord Killoway sometimes joining them.

Daphne left the menfolk to their conversation and philosophizing, more grateful than she could say that Charles had the benefit of Lysander’s wisdom before going up to university.

Daphne would have started up the path toward the house, but Lysander drew her to a halt. “About that kiss, Lady Montmarche.”

“Lady Montmarche. I suppose that would be me.” Now , that was her, though for years, the title had belonged to another. “I suppose I had best be about it.”

She hesitated, and for no good reason at all, tears welled. On this beautiful day, on this happy occasion, she was about to bawl like Sophronia in a taking.

Lysander’s gaze was patient and tender. “I know,” he said, “I know the feelings are complicated, but today is a day to rejoice. My lady, look.”

A pair of blue butterflies, anything but common, danced around Daphne’s shoulders. One lit for a moment on her sleeve, then fluttered around Lysander, before winging away with its mate.

“If we were sentimental people,” Daphne said, “we might consider that an encouraging sign.”

“I wasn’t sentimental. For too long, I denied myself that pleasure, but I am ready to make up for lost time now. Might you kiss me, my lady?”

She kissed him, and he kissed her, and the wedding guests clapped and whooped and made unseemly suggestions, and when the wedding night finally arrived, neither Lysander nor Daphne was exhausted, but they were both very, very sentimental.

And also quite fierce.