She had been whisked through an endless round of visits to dressmakers, milliners, bootmakers, and the like. She had stood through hours of fittings, standing until every muscle ached as Madame Dumont pinned and measured and tucked and snipped. Margaret had thought that she had ample clothes. But it seemed that none was suitable for a bride's trousseau, especially the bride of the Earl of Brampton.

When she was not shopping or at endless fitting sessions, there were the numerous visitors to receive, flocking to congratulate her on capturing one of the greatest prizes on the matrimonial market. All seemed to think that she was incredibly fortunate; no one commented that the earl was the fortune one.

Of the earl himself, Margaret saw almost nothing. It seemed that her schedule was too full to allow of something so unimportant as meetings with her betrothed. Margaret was not sorry; she felt shy to the point of gaucheness before her very handsome fiance.

The only person who helped Margaret keep a firm hold on sanity and apparent serenity during those weeks was Charlotte. She was ecstatic over her sister's engagement.

"Just think, Meg," she had said, clapping her hands and twirling around the drawing room, on that first day after the earl had left, "you have been insisting for the last year or more that you are just a spinster. And you have been wearing those stupid caps for the last year, though I told you and told you that you were far too pretty and had far too much character to do any such thing. And now you are to be married! And to the Earl of Brampton. He's ever so gorgeous, Meg, even though he's so old."

Margaret smiled as Charlotte paused for breath, and quietly folded her embroidery.

"You see, Meg, he must have realized what a diamond you are."

Margaret smiled again. "He is an older son, Lottie," she explained patiently. "He must marry soon. Do not make a grand romance out of this, my love."