Everyone was beaming at her as Dara came downstairs in a wedding  gowns that is  simple and elegant  that is radiated, its bottoms part of the dress flowed and widened in width was truly remarkable.
 

Penrose opened the door for her as he had done thousands of times in her life, but today, as she prepared to leave for the huge gothic church where she and Youngbae were to be married, his kindly old face was wreathed in smiles, and he bowed deeply from the waist.

Filbert's shortsighted eyes swam with tears as Dara turned and reached around his neck to give him a hug. "Take care now," he whispered to her, "and mind you don't soil your frock." He had been admonishing her thus forever, and Dara felt tears of affection blur her own eyes.

These two old men, and Uncle Monty, were the only family she had in all Korea. Her mother had sold their home in Morsham and left for a long sojourn in the islands, so she couldn't be here to see Dara marry; Han Byul and  Choi Dong-wook  were expecting their first baby to be born at any hour, so they couldn't come to London either. But at least Uncle Monty was here to give her away. And although Bom Choi had just discovered she was with child, her pregnancy wasn't yet apparent, so she was able to be Dara’s maid of honor.

"Are you ready, my dear?" Uncle Monty beamed, offering her his arm. "See that you don't step on Sandara's train," Yejin admonished him sharply, casting a critical eye from the top of his white head to the tips of his highly polished black slippers. For the last three days, she'd been lecturing Sir Montague on his general conduct, his duty at the wedding, and the merits of sobriety so unmercifully that he was now cowed by her. Suddenly her eyes narrowed on the suspicious tint of his round cheeks. "Sir Montague," she demanded with snapping eyes, "have you been at the claret this morning?"

"Certainly not!" Uncle Monty boomed, appalled. "Can't abide claret. No bouquet, no body," he said, puffing up like an offended rooster, even though he'd been liberally imbibing Madeira all morning long. "Never mind all that," Yejin interrupted with brusque impatience. "Just remember what I said to do: After you Sandara to the altar, you are to leave her there and return to our pew. You will take your seat there, beside me, and you will not move a muscle until I arise, after the ceremony is concluded. Do you understand? I will signal you when it is time for us to arise and step out into the aisle. Everyone else must remain seated until we do so. Is that clear?"

"I ain't an imbecile, you know, madam." "You'll be a dead and dishonored one if you make a single mistake,"  Yejin promised as she pulled on the long silver-grey gloves that Penrose handed her. "I'll not countenance another odious display of irreverence such as the one you gave last Sunday." The diatribe continued all the way into the coach. "I could not believe my ears when you dozed off in the middle of the service and began to snore in that appallingly loud fashion."

Uncle Monty climbed into the car and cast a long-suffering look at his niece, which clearly said, I don't know how you've managed to reside with this old harpy, my girl.

Dara smiled. She knew, and he knew, that the high color at his cheekbones testified to his having consumed the better part of a bottle of Madeira. Settling back against the luxurious car bearing her toward her future husband, she looked out the windows at the sights and sounds of the Seoul streets. Bom was riding in the car just ahead of this one, along with Wooyoung Jang, who was acting as Youngbae's best man.

Behind and ahead of the two vehicles bearing the bridal party was a veritable sea of elegant equipages all bound for the same church. They were, Sandara realized with a wry smile, causing a huge tie-up in traffic several miles long.

How odd, she thought, that she had felt so nervous, so jittery and excited about her wedding to Jiyong. Fifteen months ago, when she had walked into that silent drawing room to join her life with Jiyong's, her legs had been shaking and her heart nearly bursting with each thunderous beat.

Yet here she was, about to be married to Youngbae in one hour before three thousand people and she felt totally, utterly calm. Serene. Unafraid. Unexcite.

Dara hastily cast the disloyal thought aside.

"What's slowing us down?" Jiyong demanded of the driver of the taxi which was bearing him with infuriating slowness to his house on Upper Brook Street.

"I don't know, sir. 'Pears to be somethin' happenin' at that church back there." Jiyong glanced at the sun again, trying to ascertain the time. He had not enjoyed the luxury of a timepiece in over a year, yet he owned at least six solid-gold ones that he had never fully appreciated. He had taken everything he had for granted. After a year and a quarter of deprivation, however, he doubted if he would ever take anything for granted again.

The sights and sounds of Seoul, which had pleased him so much since entering the city an hour ago, began to fade from his consciousness as he considered the shocks he was about to cause to those who loved him.

His grandmother was still alive that much Jiyong had learned from the captain of the army. With any luck she was staying at her own town house and not at his, Jiyong thought, so that he could send word to her first, rather than walk in on her without warning. Youngbae, if he was in Seoul, would naturally be staying at Jiyong's house on Upper Brook Street, believing it to be his own. More than once, it had occurred to Jiyong that Youngbae might resent having him return and dispossess him of being the heir of Kwon Company, but that possibility was nearly as repugnant as the idea that Youngbae was involved in a plot to have him murdered. Jiyong refused to believe either, until he had reliable proof.

He refused to believe it but unfortunately he could not banish the nagging suspicion from his mind any more than he could silence the memory of the thug's voice on the wharf the night he'd been knocked unconscious: "The bloke paid us t' kill 'im, Jamie, not t' send him off on no ship"

Jiyong pushed all that aside. It was perfectly possible that some enraged husband like Sohee’s husband was responsible for the plot to have Jiyong killed. There were ways to find out who his enemy was. For today, however, he wanted to revel in the joy of coming home.

He thought about his impending arrival in Upper Brook Street, and he wanted to do everything at once to walk into the house and shake Higgins' hand, to pull his grandmother into his arms and soothe away the tears of relief and gratitude he knew she and the old butler would shed when they realized he was alive. He would clasp Youngbae's shoulders and thank him for doing his best to manage the Kwons holdings. No matter how badly Youngbae had bungled Jiyong's complex business affairs and Jiyong was discouragingly certain he had, he would always be grateful.

After that, Jiyong wanted a bath and his own clothes. And then he wanted Dara. Of all the things that lay before him, his interview with his young "widow" was the only thing Jiyong was truly worried about. No doubt her childlike devotion to him had caused her to suffer an extreme form of prolonged grief after she learned of his death. She had been thin as a reed when he last saw her, by now she was probably gaunt. God, what a miserable life she had lived from the day she encountered him.

He realized that she would have changed during his absence, but he hoped the changes had not been too many or too drastic. She would have matured into a woman now, one who was old enough to have the responsibilities of a husband and children. He would bring her to Seoul and introduce her to Society himself.

They would not stay long in Seoul, though. He had lost more than a year of his life, but he'd had plenty of time to decide how he wanted to spend the rest of it. He knew now what mattered and what didn't, and he knew what he wanted what he had probably always wanted. He wanted a life that had meaning, and a real marriage, not the shallow, empty arrangement that passed for marriage in his set. He wanted more of the love Dara had tried to give him the love that had given him a reason to fight to survive. In return, he wanted to pamper her and pleasure her and keep her with him, safe from the corrosive effects of the outside world. Perhaps love was immune to the outside world. Or was that where trust came in? Was a man supposed to trust his wife not to change and to remain loyal to him no matter where she was, or with whom? Obviously, that was the case, Jiyong decided. He didn't know much about trust, and he knew even less about love, but Dara was the embodiment of both, and she had volunteered to teach him. He was willing to let her try now.

He tried to imagine how she would look, but all he could see was a laughing face, dominated by a pair of magnificent eyes. A face that was almost, but not quite pretty. His "funny-face." She would have spent one year in mourning, he knew, then another six months learning the ropes of Society with his grandmother. She would only now be preparing to make her entrance into Societ, assuming his grandmother had posthumously carried out his wishes to see her "polished."

It was far more likely, and far more alarming, Jiyong thought grimly, that Dara might have been so grief-stricken and desolate that she had returned to her run-down house in Morsham or shied away completely from people or, God, lost her mind after everything she'd been through! The taxi pulled up before No. 3 Upper Brook Street and Jiyong got out, pausing on the front steps to look up at the elegant three-story stone mansion with its graceful ironwork and bow windows. It seemed so familiar, and yet so strange.

He lifted the heavy polished knocker and let it fall, bracing himself for Higgins to open the door and fall upon him in a frenzy of joy.

The door swung open. "Yes?" an unfamiliar face demanded, peering at him through wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Who are you?" Jiyong demanded, perplexed. "I might ask the same question of you, sir," Filbert haughtily replied, looking around for Penrose, who hadn't heard the knocker. "I am Jiyong Kwon," Jiyong replied brusquely, knowing that he would only be wasting his time if he tried to convince this unknown servant that he, and notYoungbae, wasthe owner of this house. Brushing pastthe servant, Jiyong stalked into the marble foyer. "Send Higgins here to me."

"Mr. Higgins has gone out." Jiyong frowned, wishing Higgins or Ramsey were here to help prepare his grandmother for his sudden appearance. Walking quickly forward, he looked into the large salon to the right of the foyer and the smaller one on the left They were filled with flowers and empty of people. The whole downstairs seemed to be filled with baskets of white roses and greenery. "Are we giving a party later?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's about to become a 'homecoming party,' " Jiyongn predicted with a chuckle, then he said briskly, "Where is Sandara?" "At church," Filbert replied, squinting at the tall, deeply tanned gentleman.

"And Your master?" Jiyong asked, meaning Youngbae.

"Also at church, of course."

"Praying for my immortal soul, no doubt," Jiyong  joked. Knowing that Youngbae surely would have retained the services of Mathison, Jiyong's superior valet, Jiyong said, "Is Mathison  here?" "He is," Filbert averred, then he watched in amazement as this unknown member of the Kwon family began walking up the staircase, issuing orders over his shoulder as if he owned the place. "Send Mathison to me at once. I'll be in the gold suite. Tell him I want a bath and a shave immediately. And a change of clothes. Mine preferably, if they're still around. If not, I'll wear Youngbae's, or his, or anyone's he can steal."

Jiyong walked swiftly past the master bedroom suite, which Youngbae would undoubtedly be occupying, and opened the door to the gold guest suite. It was not quite so lavish, but at that moment seemed like the most beautiful room he'd ever beheld. Pulling off the ill-fitting jacket that the captain of Korean army had lent him, he flung it on a chair and began ing his shirt.

He stripped it off and tossed it atop the jacket, and was in the process of ing his pants when Mathison bustled into the suite like an outraged penguin, his black coattails flapping behind him. "There seems to be some misunderstanding as to your name, sir, good God!"

The valet stopped short and gaped. "Good God, your grace! Good God!"

Jiyong grinned. This was somewhat more like the homecoming he'd envisioned. "I'm sure we're all very grateful to the Almighty for my return, Mathison. However, at the moment, I'd be nearly as grateful merely for a bath and a decent change of clothes."

"Certainly, your grace. At once, your grace. And may I say how extremely happy, how very delighted I am to GOOD GOD!" Mathison exploded, this time in horror. Jiyong, who had never seen the indomitable manservant exhibit any sign of fluster even under the most trying circumstances, watched in some amazement as his valet sprinted across the hall, disappeared into the master bedroom suite, then came dashing out again with one of Youngbae's shirts floating from his fingers and a pair of Jiyong's own boots. "I discovered these at the back of the wardrobe only last week," Mathison panted. "Quickly! You must make haste," he gasped. "The church!" he uttered wildly. "The wedding!"

"A wedding. So that's why everyone's at church," Jiyong said, about to toss the trousers Mathison had at him aside and insist on a bath. "Who's getting married?"

"Master Youngbae," Mathison panted in a strangled voice, holding up the shirt and trying to physically force one of Jiyong's arms into its sleeve. Jiyong  grinned, ignoring the shirt that was now being flapped at him like a flag. "Who is he marrying?" "Your wife!"

For a moment, Jiyong was unable to absorb the full shock of that. His mind was grimly preoccupied with the fact that, if Youngbae were getting married, he would already have also signed a betrothal agreement as the owner of Kwon Company and made pledges to his fiancee and her family that he could not keep now.

"Bigamy!" Mathison gasped. Jiyong's head jerked around as the import of what he was hearing slammed into him. "Get out in the street and flag down anything that moves," Jiyong commanded shortly, snatching the shirt and pulling it on. "What time are they doing it and where?"

"In twenty minutes at St. Paul's." Jiyong flung himself into a hired hack he snatched from beneath the nose of an outraged dowager in the middle of Upper Brook Street. "St. Paul's," he snapped at the driver. "And you can retire for life on what I'll give you if you get me there in fifteen minutes."

"Ain't likely, guv," said the driver. "There's a wedding goin' on there that's had traffic tied up all mornin'." During the ensuing minutes, a dozen conflicting thoughts and emotions whirled through the chaotic turbulence of Jiyong's mind, the foremost being the need for urgent haste. Left with no way to control the flow of traffic, he had no choice but to sit back and grimly contemplate this enormous debacle. Occasionally, during his absence, he had considered the unlikely possibility that when the required one-year mourning period had passed, Youngbae might have met someone and decided to marry her, but somehow he hadn't really expected it. Youngbae had never been any more anxious than Jiyong to bind himself to a woman, not even with the tenuous ties of modern matrimony that left both spouses free to do as they wished.

Jiyong had also considered the possibility that Dara might meet someone someday and wish to marry him, but not this damned soon. Not while she had supposedly been in mourning! Not when she had supposedly been wildly in love with Jiyong.

But the one thing he had never imagined even in his worst nightmares about the possible complications associated with his return was that some misguided sense of honor might cause Youngbae to feel duty-bound to marry Jiyong's poor widow. Dammit! Jiyong thought as the spires of St. Paul's finally came into view, what could have possessed  Youngbae to do such an idiotic thing?

The answer came to Jiyong almost instantly. Pity would have made him do it. The same pity Jiyong had felt for the cheerful little waif who had saved his life and looked at him with huge, adoring eyes. Pity had caused this entire near-catastrophe, and Jiyong had no alternative but to stop the marriage at whatever stage it was in when he entered the church, otherwise Dara and Youngbae would be committing public bigamy. It dawned on him that poor Dara was about to have her groom snatched from her for a second time, and he felt a brief pang of regret for destroying her peace yet again.

Before the hack had come to a full stop at St. Paul's, Jiyong was already bounding up the long flights of steps leading to the doors, praying he might still be here in time to stop the damned wedding before it began. That hope died the moment he yanked open the heavy oaken doors of the candlelit church and saw the bride and groom standing with their backs to the crowded church.

Jiyong stopped short, a long string of colorful oaths running through his mind, and then left with no choice, he started walking up the aisle, his booted footsteps echoing like sharp cannon shots in the crowded church.

Near the front, he stopped walking waiting for the approaching moment when he would have to speak out. Then and only then, as he stood between the rows of lavishly dressed guests who had been his family and friends and acquaintances, did it finally dawn on Jiyong that he had not been much mourned and that, if he had been duly mourned, he would not be forced to play this absurd part in the dramatic comedy that was about to unfold in this damned church. The realization sent a sudden surge of cold fury through him, but his features were impassive as he stood in the aisle between the second row of pews, his arms crossed over his chest waiting for the moment that was nearing.

On both sides of him, guests were beginning to recognize him, and loud whispers were already racing through the crowd, bursting out like a brushfire. Dara heard the growing disturbance behind her and glanced uncertainly at Youngbae, who seemed to be concentrating on the archbishop, who was intoning: "If there be any man present who knows any reason why this man, and this woman, should not be joined in matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace"

For a split second there was total silence the taut, tense quiet that always follows that ancient challenge but this time the challenge was answered, and the silence was exploded by a deep, ironic baritone voice: "There is one reason"

Youngbae spun around, the archbishop gaped, Dara froze, and three thousand guests whirled in their seats. An agitated babble of voices broke loose and swept through the church like a tidal wave. At the altar, Bom bouquet of roses slid through her numb fingers, Wooyoung  grinned broadly, and Dara stood there, convinced this was not really happening to her, this was a dream, she thought wildly, or else she had gone mad.

"On what grounds do you protest this marriage?" the archbishop finally barked. "On the grounds that the bride is already married," Jiyong replied, sounding almost amused “to me."

This time there was no denying the reality of that achingly familiar deep voice, and shock waves roared up and down Dara's spine, buffeting her entire body. Joy exploded in her heart, obliterating all memory of his treachery and deceit. Slowly she turned, afraid to look for fear this was some cruel trick of fate, and then she raised her gaze to his. It was Jiyong! He was alive. The sight of his handsome, ruggedly chiseled face almost sent her to her knees. He was standing there, looking at her, a faint smile lingering on his firm lips.

Her entire being aglow, Dara mentally reached out to touch his beloved face and assure herself he was real. His smile warmed as if he felt her touch; his eyes shifted over her face, registering the changes in her appearance, and then, for no comprehensible reason, Jiyong's entire expression froze, and he looked sharply, accusingly at Youngbae.

In the front pew, Yejin was immobilized, staring at Jiyong, her right hand pressed to . In the cataclysmic silence that ensued, only Uncle Monty seemed capable of speech or action undoubtedly because the full bottle of Madeira he had secretly imbibed had impaired his ability to recognize Jiyong's profile. He did, however, vividly recall about Yejin’s necessity for decorum at this wedding, and so he took it as his duty to remonstrate with the newcomer. Leaning toward the intruder standing in the aisle, Sir Montague warned in a booming voice, "Take a seat, man! And don't move a muscle till the archbishop walks off otherwise, there'll be hell to pay from Yejin!"

His voice seemed to break the spell holding everyone in thrall. The archbishop suddenly announced that the ceremony could not continue and walked off; Youngbae took Dara's trembling hand in his and started down the aisle; Jiyong stepped aside to let them pass; Yejin slowly rose, her gaze clinging to Jiyong. In his muddled state, Uncle Monty assumed the wedding was happily complete and, following his previous instructions to the letter, he offered his arm to Yejin and escorted her proudly down the aisle in the bride and groom's wake, beaming benignly upon the gaping spectators who had come to their feet and were staring in mummified amazement.