Septimus remained unmoved. "I will not marry a woman because her father owns three boroughs and a house in Mayfair."

"Then pray that the woman you have chosen understands the burden she is taking upon herself."

"She understands, Grandmother."

Millicent believed she did, yet wealth was beginning to alter her understanding of herself. Septimus ordered new gowns for her from a fashionable London dressmaker. She received gloves from Paris, a pearl necklace, a gold lorgnette, and a horse selected from the Wycliffe stables. Her parents were given a more comfortable house, and invitations that once disappeared into the postman's bag without notice now arrived bearing aristocratic seals. People who had barely acknowledged the Stricklands began bowing when Millicent entered a room. She noticed, and she enjoyed it.

One afternoon, Thomasina visited her at home and found Millicent examining herself in a long mirror while a dressmaker adjusted the waist of a pale silk gown.

Thomasina smiled. "You look beautiful."

Millicent turned. "You still dress rather simply." 

Thomasina glanced at her own modest wool gown. "I wasn't aware we were competing."

"We are not. I merely thought you might wish to understand that life has changed."

Thomasina's smile faded slightly. "Your life has changed. Ours has not." 

"That is precisely my point." Millicent lifted her hand, admiring the diamond. "Do you know what this represents?"

"A very expensive ring."

"Opportunity."

Thomasina looked at her quietly. "And happiness?" 

Millicent's expression hardened for a moment before she smiled again. "Happiness is considerably easier when one has options."

The conversation might have ended there, but Millicent soon turned her attention to Reginald. "You still intend to marry him?" 

Reginald nodded. "Why wouldn't I?"

Millicent gave a small, incredulous laugh. "Because he cannot offer you anything." 

"He offers me himself." 

"That sounds wonderfully romantic when one has never had to worry about money."

Thomasina's eyes narrowed. "And what exactly did money offer you that friendship did not?" 

Millicent's smile disappeared. "Everything."

Later that evening, Thomasina walked Reginald home beneath the glow of newly installed gas lamps. 

"You are defending her again," he observed. 

"She is my friend." 

"She was your friend before the servants, the horses, and the diamond."

Thomasina looked at him. "You think she has changed?" 

"I think the money has merely given her permission to show you what she already believed." 

Thomasina disliked the thought. "She is excited, that is all." 

Reginald gently squeezed her hand. "I hope you are right."

At Valecourt, preparations for the wedding accelerated. Printers were commissioned for invitations, florists were consulted, and seamstresses arrived with bolts of silk and boxes of ribbons. Millicent studied the guest list one evening and paused at a familiar name: Thomasina Trevelyan. 

Her mother looked over her shoulder. "Are you inviting her?" 

"Of course." 

Harriet smiled. "Why?" 

Millicent closed the letter. "Because I want her to see what my life has become." 

The invitation was sealed with the Wycliffe crest. To Thomasina, it still looked like an invitation from her dearest friend. To Millicent, it was becoming something else entirely.

The wedding at Valecourt was to be the grandest event the county had seen that year. For weeks, Millicent spoke of little else. Her wedding gown had been ordered from London, fashioned from ivory silk with delicate lace at the sleeves. A jeweler from Bond Street had delivered a collection of ornaments for her approval, while florists arranged baskets of white roses, lilies, and greenery for the ceremony. Even the wedding breakfast had become a subject of discussion.

"There will be three hundred guests."

"Three hundred?"

"Three hundred and twelve, according to Mother's latest count."

Thomasina smiled. "I hope the bride has enough time to meet all of them."

"Oh, I shall have time for the important ones."

Thomasina understood the remark. Millicent had begun dividing people into categories: those who mattered and those who did not.

Thomasina received her invitation with genuine happiness. Whatever had changed between them, she still wanted to believe there was some part of their old friendship left. She attended the wedding in a carefully made sage green dress, modest but elegant, with a small pearl brooch that had belonged to her mother. Reginald accompanied her. He wore a dark morning coat, a neatly tied cravat, and gloves that clearly saw better days. He looked respectable, but nothing about his appearance suggested immense wealth.

When Thomasina entered the reception room, Millicent made her cruel remarks, mocking the sage green dress and the ordinary man standing beside her. She paraded her superiority, entirely confident in her triumph. 

The ceremony proceeded beneath the high arches of the estate chapel. The organ filled the church while the guests watched Millicent walk towards Septimus in her ivory gown. After the vows, everyone returned to Valecourt for the wedding breakfast. Champagne was served. Silver cutlery gleamed beneath the candlelight. Servants moved silently between tables carrying roast pheasant, glazed ham, delicate pastries, and silver dishes of seasonal fruit.

Millicent sat beside Septimus, basking in the attention.

Then, the doors opened. A distinguished gentleman entered with several members of the aristocracy. He was older, imposing, and dressed in black evening clothes with a discreet but unmistakable insignia upon his breast. His eyes moved across the room, then they stopped on Reginald. The man's expression changed instantly.

He crossed the room. "Your Grace."

Reginald rose. The gentleman bowed deeply.

Conversation ceased. Millicent stared. Septimus slowly placed his glass upon the table.

The older man straightened. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not expect to find you here under an assumed name." 

A murmur passed through the room. Millicent's face tightened. "Your Grace?"

The gentleman looked toward her. "Yes. His Grace, the Duke of Caldemere."

Silence.

Thomasina stared at Reginald. "Reginald?"

He looked at her, his expression filled with regret. "My name is Reginald Mowbray, Duke of Caldemere."

Millicent's hand froze around her wine glass. The man she had mocked for being unable to afford a carriage was not merely wealthy; he was the head of one of the most powerful ducal houses in Britain, with vast estates, London property, influential connections, and a fortune that surpassed even the Wycliffe wealth.