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The rich deep shade of amethyst perfectly complemented her warm brown hair and hazel eyes, bringing out the green and golden flecks in her gaze.

The gown was of the finest silk, catching the light with a soft, elegant sheen. The bodice was delicately gathered to enhance her figure, with a square décolleté edged in intricate lace that drew attention to her collarbone and shoulders. Subtle puffed sleeves sat just off her shoulders, adorned with tiny seed pearls that lent an air of tailored charm.

The high waistline was cinched with a matching silk sash, accentuating her taller silhouette before flowing into a graceful skirt that flared slightly as it reached the floor, embellished with a hint of pearl beading along the hem, enough to delight the eye without overwhelming the gown’s restraint.

Turning, she viewed the back, where a column of small cloth-covered buttons ran down the bodice, allowing the gown to hug her figure in an elegantly understated way.

Miss Dubois sighed in happiness, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

“Oui, it is très élégant, fit for a future baronezz!”

Molly nodded in agreement, reflecting that the change in her lady’s maid’s behavior was rather remarkable. She might even relent to addressing her as Claudette, since she was no longer gritting her teeth every moment they spent together, moments that were now far fewer, since Miss Dubois—Claudette—had her old quarters back. Perhaps she had been just as aggravated by their enforced proximity as Molly had been. Their disparate temperaments were easier to manage with a little space between them.

Miss Dubois brought out a delicate pearl necklace from Molly’s jewelry box and fastened it about her neck, balancing on her tiptoes to reach.

“Ah, pearls … just right for a bride. Zey show purity … to tell Meester Scott he has found ze one he love, forever.”

Molly smiled in acknowledgment, too overcome to respond. Claudette was an artiste, having styled Molly’s hair in a soft chignon at the nape of her neck, allowing a few delicate curls to frame her face and highlight her hazel eyes. This simple yet refined style complemented the squared bodice and intricate lace detailing, while lending an air of quiet dignity befitting a future baroness. Along with a pair of white gloves and a soft, gossamer shawl of sheer silk, this dinner gown was a wondrous choice for a private and romantic wedding.

Sighing with joy at her reflection in the mirror, Molly prepared to leave. As she reached the door, she turned back.

“Would you like to attend the ceremony … Claudette?”

Claudette’s mouth fell slack, her expression stunned.

“Ah, truly … you mean zat, Mees Molly?”

Molly pursed her lips and considered it. She was not one to hold a grudge, and given their altered circumstances, it seemed only right. Considering the other woman’s professional inclinations, attendance at a noble family’s nuptials would doubtless be of interest to someone so fashion-minded, and Molly supposed she did not object if it resulted in animated recounting belowstairs among the servants.

“I do.”

“Zen, oui! I would be honored to bear witness!”

She beckoned for the servant to follow her as she made her way toward the formal drawing room, where she found the baron waiting just beyond the threshold. Smiling with unrestrained happiness, Molly hurried forward to take the arm he offered her. John had asked to give her away, which had touched her deeply.

“Molly, you are … utterly ravishing, my dear!”

With a nod to Campbell, the doors to the formal drawing room swung open, revealing tall windows glittering in the candlelight from flickering beeswax tapers set into silver candelabras, the very candelabras Molly recalled seeing stored in the butler’s pantry only days before. Elegant vases filled with hothouse flowers—soft pink roses, lavender, and white lilies, symbolizing passionate love, loyalty and grace, purity and new beginnings—lent fragrance and warmth to the room’s restrained opulence.

A fire crackled in the grand hearth to fend off the chill, and their guests were seated upon plump armchairs gathered from throughout the house. Molly felt the sting of threatening tears at the sight of so many assembled to mark this occasion, as the company rose in acknowledgment of her entrance.

His Grace and his duchess stood in the front row of the improvised seating, the duke towering over Lord and Lady Saunton. Molly did not know Her Grace or Lady Saunton well, having met them only once in recent weeks, but she was grateful for their attendance, knowing she and Marco would require allies as they entered British society. From the next row, Lord Trafford and his wife smiled broadly in greeting despite the proprieties of the moment. The couple was unconventional and had been instrumental in saving their household only weeks earlier, so Molly returned the warmth with a beaming smile.

Lord Sebastian tugged at his cravat with the faintly nettled air of a man grown unaccustomed to the starched rigidity of English attire, while Mr. di Bianchi leaned against the back of his chair with the languid posture of an artist unimpressed by ceremony. Nicholas gave a curt bow of his head, his recent ill temper absent as he glanced her up and down before inclining his head in approval.

Yet Molly scarcely noticed them, for her gaze was fixed upon Marco, who regarded her with undisguised admiration as she entered. He wore black trousers and a matching cutaway coat that revealed crisp white linen and a luxurious silver silk waistcoat, perfectly setting off his olive skin. His high collar was immaculate, his cravat tied in an intricate style unfamiliar to her, one she presumed to be Florentine. Silver and black onyx secured its folds, echoing the depth of his soulful eyes, and Molly grew light-headed with wonder. This man, with his slightly tousled dark waves and refined Latin features, was to be her husband. She was quite certain she was marrying the handsomest man in England.

John patted her arm and began to escort her up the aisle, giving Molly the chance to note the vicar who had married Simon and Madeline the month before. Clad in simple ecclesiastical robes, he held his Book of Common Prayer and watched her approach with a welcoming smile upon his rounded face.

At last they reached the front, and John placed her hand into Marco’s, whose expression was that of a man entirely content. The vicar cleared his throat and spoke in a voice both gentle and resonant, while Molly struggled to steady the joy that threatened to overflow her composure.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”