"Could you wait until we leave the station? My mother is on the platform."Annora Bramwell stared at him. Until this morning in June 1893, she had thought she knew every possible disaster that could attend a wedding.His dark morning coat was unmistakable. So was the white carnation crushed against his waistcoat, and the face she had spent eight weeks attempting to imagine beside her at breakfast for the rest of her life."Your Grace.""Miss Bramwell."Her wedding veil slid off her shoulder and landed between them. For three dreadful seconds, neither moved. Outside, a porter slammed a door. Somewhere along the platform, a woman called for a missing hatbox. The ordinary world appeared determined to continue, although the Duke of Westraden and his bride were sitting opposite one another on a train scheduled to leave the town in which they were supposed to be married that afternoon.Then Annora looked at his valise. "Were you looking for me?""No."There was no gallantry in the answer, no possible misunderstanding. He had packed shirts.She sat down very carefully. "Oh."Piers Tregarth, who had delivered speeches before rooms full of impatient men without once losing his place, discovered that he could not think of a single decent thing to say to a woman in a wedding dress.The engine gave a long whistle. Annora reached for the door handle. Piers stood at the same instant, catching the veil before it slipped beneath her boot. They collided in the narrow space: his elbow against her shoulder, her small traveling bag striking his knee. By the time they had disentangled themselves, the carriage had begun to move.She looked out at the platform sliding away. He looked at the veil in his hand."Well," she said, "we appear to have improved matters."It was the first unkind thing he had ever heard her say. For some reason, it made him feel less like a murderer.The train gathered speed. Bellwick Station disappeared behind a goods shed, taking with it the last chance of stepping quietly down and pretending nothing had happened. Annora leaned back against the seat. Beneath her cloak, white silk spread across the faded upholstery in an absurdly magnificent pool.Piers offered the veil."Thank you. You may put it anywhere. I have developed a dislike of it."He folded it across his valise. Her hands were shaking; she tucked them under her cloak before he could offer sympathy. Sympathy would finish her. She had expected fury from her father, tears from her sister, and perhaps a brief, formal expression of disappointment from the man she was abandoning. She had not prepared for the discovery that he had been making precisely the same mistake.