#i already had about 60% of the banquet part 2 written

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the banquet begins.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,620. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: brief mention of murder/decapitation, very close to the end.)

Chapter 24: The Banquet - Part 1

Trevelyan’s dress was not plum.

Her plum dress, sent oh-so-specially by her mother, was currently indisposed.

‘Indisposed’ here meant that it was, at this moment, being washed—quite thoroughly—by the laundresses. Because after it had been pressed and prepared yesterday, it had gone mysteriously absent—only to be discovered hours later, by Trevelyan herself, stuffed inside a sack of sugar.

And so, while the Baroness wore a sleek golden gown, and Lady Erridge one of ruffled green gossamer, and the Lady Samient an outfit of breeches and doublet—black, with striking red panels—Trevelyan wore simply her silk shift, and burgundy surcoat.

“You’re sure you saw her?” Lady Samient questioned, as Trevelyan recounted what had led to this. It was certainly one way to pass the time, whilst they waited to enter the Great Hall.

“It was her,” Trevelyan confirmed, “that Sera.”

Because whilst scouring for the dress her ladies’ maids had failed to find, Trevelyan had seen someone. Certainly, it was dark, and they were dressed like any other servant—but she swore, in that glimpse, she recognised her. Sera.

“You ought to report it!” said Lady Erridge, who had strangely been the most furious about the matter—even more so than Trevelyan. “Tell Lady Montilyet!”

“No,” said Trevelyan. “If this is her response to one act of disclosure, then I should hate to find out the consequences of a second.”

Because it all fit too well, the idea of Trevelyan having told about the swapped sugar and salt being met with a dress covered in a such a substance, hours before it was due to be worn.

Besides, the only injured party was Trevelyan herself, rather than the dozens it would have been for the salt and sugar swapping. The laundresses did have some extra work now, but they were happy to do it, by way of apology for letting the dress out of sight in the first place.

“That is for the best,” the Baroness said. “You shall not stoop to her level. Play with the mabari, and you shall win only fleas.”

Trevelyan was suddenly quite grateful Sera had not resorted to covering her dress in fleas. But there was little time to think of that:

“Presenting Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne; Lady Samient, daughter of Duke Samient; Lady Erridge of West Coldon; and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

The crier’s call was their cue to enter. One last look of understanding passed between the Ladies. No matter how it had started, they would enjoy the rest of tonight.

The door opened, they entered. The frown was wiped from Trevelyan’s face, and replaced with awe.

It seemed not only they knew how to dress for an occasion—the Great Hall had been decorated to perfection, under the guiding wisdom of Lady Montilyet.

Every other candle had been left unlit, resulting in an ambient warmth like a campfire’s glow. Tapestries and banners were of a rustic weave; mounted game became focal points of the scenery. This grand space, which had once played the role of an opulent ballroom, now transformed, to an intimate country manor.

The guestlist reflected such intimacy. Only thirty attended—including the Ladies themselves—which the Great Hall made seem an even smaller number, with its size. Their gazes felt as intimidating as a hundred, however, as they applauded the Ladies’ entrance.

Trevelyan cast her eyes across this congregation in turn, seeking faces she recognised; the anchors of safety she would cling to.

Naturally, it was Dorian she saw first. He sported a black tunic, laden with gold embroidery, and stood beside the Inquisition’s flame-haired Spymaster, who wore a contrasting blue gown. It was so tight to her body, Trevelyan wondered how she concealed the doubtless many weapons she had hidden within.

Varric, meanwhile, wore half a very nice shirt, and was entertaining a few fans. Lady Montilyet glided on by, ever the consummate professional. Her dress was of a muted blue-grey, that almost blended with the stone—intentionally so, most likely. She would not outshine her guests.

And that was all Trevelyan recognised, having done dreadfully little mingling in these sorts of circles (and more in the mage kind of Circles).

Apart from, of course, the Commander. She spied him standing awkwardly, as was his wont, beside a chattering noble (whom he appeared to pay little attention to, as was his wont).

It was the first Trevelyan had seen him in a day. Lady Erridge had told her, of course, that his stubble had grown, but it appeared he must have trimmed it back since then, for he looked delightfully like his normal self.

Not so pale, not so weak. Normal.

Good, even, for he was finely dressed. He wore a sort of doublet, sleeveless, to expose the arms of the fine shirt beneath. Odd, though. Trevelyan struggled to find any other word to describe the colour of this waistcoat than… plum.

How fortunate that Sera had played her prank, then. Trevelyan chuckled to think of what might have happened, had she attended wearing that dress her mother had sent. They’d have matched! How embarrassing it would have been. She’d have to thank Sera for the favour.

If only she could have tricked the Commander instead, into staying away somehow. For as well as he looked, Trevelyan still did not think it best for him to be in attendance. More and more, she was drawn to the suspicion that the person he treated with most contempt, was himself.

“Lady Trevelyan,” the Baroness said, stealing her attention away, “look over there.”

She nodded towards a small group of nobles—clearly Orlesian, going by the elaborate fashion—and indicated in particular a woman in a mask of turquoise, and a ballgown of silver. With pale yellow lace? Definitely Orlesian.

“That, is Comtesse Bervard.”

Ah.

Trevelyan had been told much of the Comtesse before their arrival. Like how one might learn all the types of wild animal that stalked a road, before travelling down it. And just as that information might make one terrified to leave their home, so did the Ladies’ warnings of Bervard make Trevelyan nervous now.

The Comtesse, she had been told, was a skilled player of the Great Game. Translated, that meant that she was callous, quick, used others for her own entertainment, and gossiped more than the Randy Dowager. Anyone who didn’t like it, would have a nice little visit from a bard.

“Why invite her?” Trevelyan wondered, very, very quietly.

“Because should this banquet be a success, all of the Heartlands shall hear of it within a week,” Touledy explained. “Everyone has their uses, your Ladyship. Though, to that point: do not say anything to her you do not wish the entirety of Thedas to know.”

Lady Samient smirked. “Do not say anything to her at all,” she corrected.

Trevelyan nodded. Like a bear, then. Do not look at it. Do not get close. Do not make eye contact. And if it sees you, pray.

Gladly, however, chamberlains arrived to lead them away from the Comtesse Bervard, and towards their seats.

The banquet was to take place across two long tables, that flanked the Great Hall’s central walkway—and like the Hall, they had been decorated with care. Evergreen wreaths made up the centrepieces. Ripe red fruits—possibly candied—nestled betwixt them. Pewter dishes lined the edges; precisely-laid cutlery surrounded them. Rustic enough for Fereldans and Marchers, quaint enough for Orlesians. Montilyet was good.

To her relief, Trevelyan and the Ladies were escorted together, to the leftmost table. However, upon their arrival, their respective chamberlains split apart, and they were each seated two or so spaces away from the others. So, perhaps Montilyet wasn’t that good.

At least Trevelyan was placed at the end of the table, her back to the garden door. In case of emergency, she could make a run for it.

But she would at least wait to see who sat beside her, first. A chamberlain pulled out the neighbouring chair, with a scrape so quiet it was barely a ‘scra’. Still, the movement caught Trevelyan’s eye, and she watched as a devastatingly handsome, incredibly clever man, took his seat.

“Dorian?” she said, quite gladly. “I see you made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he lied, already reaching for his glass. “Reminds me of home.”

Oh, she quite understood that. “Well, it’s lucky we’re sat together, at least.”

“Luck...” Dorian muttered, “or a direct request.”

“Ha! I’m flattered.”

“As you should be.”

Trevelyan smiled and left him to his drink, giving her attention instead to the arrival of further guests. A couple of Banns, one Arl, some Baron. And of course, the Commander.

Where he sat, and indeed, where all of the guests at this particular table sat, though tedious to describe, would be important for events to come. Therefore:

Lady Samient was to the far left of Trevelyan, at what might be considered as the ‘top’ of the table. Two places down from her, was the Baroness Touledy; and near-opposite Touledy, was the Commander.

Two places down from Touledy sat Dorian. Opposite him was Lady Erridge, and next to Lady Erridge, there was an empty chair.

The empty chair was to be surprisingly important, in the farce that followed. And it started with Baroness Touledy.

“Lady Trevelyan?” she called. “May I exchange seats with you? I need more space, for my leg and cane to rest.”

Though reluctant to abandon Dorian after he had so specifically sat with her, Trevelyan would not leave a friend in pain. And she was at least confident that he would not find the Baroness a dissatisfactory conversational partner.

“Of course,” she said, rising from her chair.

Dorian sighed. “Well, that lasted.”

Trevelyan laughed and walked away, passing a grateful Baroness on her journey. Now seated more centrally, she took in the new landscape of faces around her. Most notably, the Commander’s, right in front of her.

She gave him a little smile. He reciprocated, and began to ask, “Lady Trevelyan, are you—?”

“Commander,” came Lady Montilyet’s hurried voice. She appeared behind him, and leant down to whisper something Trevelyan fully intended to hear: “The Marquis du Vert refuses to sit next to Bann Royton. Would you be able to sit in his place?”

There was a barely-contained look of exasperation on the Commander’s face. But nevertheless, he rose, nodding once to Trevelyan as he did so, and went to the empty chair beside Lady Erridge.

She seemed quite startled by this. Quite startled indeed.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called down the table. “Would you switch places with me? I cannot speak to Lady Samient from here.”

Trevelyan considered it for a moment. A long moment. But dutifully, she nodded, and got up from her seat.

“Thank you,” said the giddy Lady Erridge, as they passed each other by. Trevelyan smiled, and went to her new seat.

Quite by coincidence, she was now sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the Commander. She looked to him, with a smile and a shrug, and a little laugh that escaped her mouth. He managed a smile in return.

“Are you well?” he asked, seemingly retaining some of that shyness from their previous encounter.

“I am,” she told him. “Are you?”

He nodded, and let the thread of the conversation dangle there. It was like talking to him for the first time, again. But Trevelyan was practiced in this by now:

“That is a nice waistcoat,” she said, indicating the plum doublet.

“Ah—er, yes. Lady Montilyet chose it—or, rather, the one she chose was in green. This one was brought to me by mistake.”

“Then a happy mistake it is. I think this colour suits you quite well. Certainly better than green would have.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you, you… too?”

“What?”

“You, you look nice. As well.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Trevelyan brushed her skirts so they hung correctly over her legs, which was certainly not an excuse to escape eye contact. “Though I think—”

“Commander,” came Lady Montilyet’s voice once more, even more frazzled than the last time. “The Comtesse wishes to switch tables, and the Marquis now says he would rather sit with the Bann than near her. Would you..?”

Trevelyan held her mouth to stop herself from laughing, because this had to be a joke.

And yet, deadly serious, the Commander rose again. “Forgive me,” he muttered, as he followed Montilyet back to his original seat. The one he left behind was soon taken up by a man in a fanciful white mask.

And not long after, Lady Erridge leant forward. “Lady Trevelyan, would you—?”

Trevelyan sighed. “Lady Erridge, unless it is a matter of life and death, I shall not move from this spot.”

Erridge relented, and sank back into her seat. “Never mind.”

And so, it ended, with Erridge in the centre, and the Commander opposite her. The Baroness sat where Trevelyan first had, at the end of the table, next to Dorian. Trevelyan sat opposite, relieved that she was still, at least, not far from the garden door. Lady Samient had not moved at all.

Yet there was one seat left, across from her in particular. And the arse it waited for finally arrived.

Turqoise mask, silver dress, yellow lace. The Comtesse Bervard settled into her chair. Poor Lady Samient.

“Top of the table,” said the Comtesse, her voice dripping with Orlesian glamour, “as it should be.”

The Baroness snorted into her goblet. Trevelyan rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long banquet.

“Friends and allies of the Inquisition!” Lady Montilyet called. She stood between the two tables, and addressed all upon them. “Thank you all for coming, to solidify our bonds, and to forge new ones. The Inquisition has much to give to Thedas, and we hope to demonstrate that tonight, with warmth, mirth, and good food. Please, enjoy!”

She clapped her hands, and doors opened. An army of kitchen staff filed into the room, each one carrying a plate of steaming food. Well-rehearsed rows were formed around the tables and, all at once, the plates were laid.

Pleasant sounds came from the guests. The first course appeared to be some kind of baked fruit—but presented in fine slices, and with cuts of meat and cheese. A balance of Orlesian tastes, and Fereldan simplicity.

Any conversation quieted, as people began to eat. Polite mouths kept closed, the only sounds those of hummed approval. Until, that was, a fork clinked down onto its plate at the other end of the table.

The Comtesse Bervard leant forward, and gazed down its length. “Who am I eating with, hm?” she asked. “I see new faces here. Introduce yourselves to me.”

The Baroness shot Trevelyan a look, but she needed no prompting. She sank back into her chair, hopeful that the extravagant mask of the Marquis du Vert next to her would do enough to hide her face.

And it did. Because it was not Trevelyan whom the Comtesse spotted first. “You there,” she said, pointing at Erridge. “Your Ladyship, is it?”

It was clear Lady Erridge was nervous, to anyone who knew her. For anyone who knew her, knew she did not miss an opportunity to speak. And yet, when the Comtesse addressed her, she merely nodded in reply.

“Well, what is your name? You must have one.”

Erridge tried to straighten. “I am Lady Erridge, of West Coldon.” When the Comtesse continued to stare at her, Erridge added: “In Ferelden.”

“Ah, I see why you were so keen to hide it. You need not be so embarrassed to be Fereldan here. We are all easy company, I am sure.”

Lady Erridge nodded.

“But I admit, I have never heard your family name before. How delightful to increase one’s knowledge of the world.”

“Well, you might have heard of us,” Erridge muttered, gaining a little sense of pride. “My family are quite prolific traders, in stained glass, particularly.”

The Baroness grimaced. Lady Samient tensed. The Comtesse’s stare narrowed.

“Oh, I see,” she said, speaking as one does to a toddler, “you are in trade. How sweet.” Addressing the table more generally, she went on: “This is why I am so grateful to the Council of Heralds. In Ferelden, they give titles to anyone.”

Chuckles rippled through the other Orlesian guests at the table. The mocking little chorus was cut short, however, by the screech of Samient’s fork against her plate. Accidental, of course.

The Comtesse turned on her. “Lady Samient, you have forgotten your manners.”

“Oh, have I?” Samient replied. “I suppose we left them in the same place.”

The Comtesse laughed. “Still a little spitfire, just like your mother.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and muttered, “And I hear you like the stables, just like your mother.”

Oh no. If she was referring to what Trevelyan believed she was referring to, then it was best to brace for whatever would come next.

Yet to Trevelyan’s surprise, Lady Samient chuckled along. “Yes, the ones in Skyhold are very well-kept for their location.”

A Bann nearby agreed, and began to talk fondly of the Inquisition’s horsemaster. Trevelyan exchanged a glance with Touledy, all too relieved that was over. They both turned their attentions to Erridge.

The ever-cheerful and bright Lady Erridge sagged as if a candle that had been snuffed. Her food was half-eaten, currently being idly pushed around her plate. Had Trevelyan not already been disposed to intensely dislike this Comtesse Bervard, she would certainly hate her now.

Servants came to clear plates, providing enough distraction for the Baroness Touledy to see to Lady Erridge’s mood. Through whispers behind Dorian, and a little blown kiss, she managed to put a smile back on dear Erridge’s face.

But Trevelyan was not quite satisfied with this. ‘You ought to be loosing fireballs upon the sky’. She waited for the servants to return, and for the second course they brought with them.

Plates were set before the guests—some well-cooked meat with a selection of fine vegetables, in a rich sauce. Everyone, naturally, reached for their cutlery. And as the Comtesse reached for hers, Trevelyan performed just a teensy-weensy bit of magic.

“Oh!” gasped the Comtesse, dropping her knife the moment she touched it. “It gave me a shock!”

Trevelyan bit her lip to conceal the absolute smugness with which she wished to smile. Though she expected a reprimanding glare from Dorian, when she caught his eye, it seemed he suffered the same struggle.

And Maker, if only that had been the end of it. But there were still two more courses. And the Comtesse Bervard was determined to talk through each of them.

“How does your gracious father find the increased Chantry tithes?” she asked Lady Samient, in the midst of riveting discussion about how healthy the Bervard finances were. “My people have been whining, despite all the Chantry does for us in these uncertain times.”

“If there has been complaint,” said Samient, “I haven’t heard of it.”

Nothing to entertain her in that answer. So she turned on Touledy.

“I would ask you, Baroness,” she called across the table, “but you do not have a Chantry to tithe. I expect your people don’t even pay tax.”

What bait! Touledy composed her response carefully: “My people do pay tax, and gladly. For unlike the Chantry tithe, it has some use to them. The roads are well-kept, the commerce flows, no child goes hungry, and my guard is strong.”

The last part in particular caused an unpleasantly confident tip of the Comtesse’s head. “Really? For I have heard your guard was put quite to the test, recently. A skirmish on your land.”

“And they saw it off, did they not? That is proof, I would say.”

The Comtesse had no answer to this, it seemed. She relaxed back in her chair, and continued speaking to a nearby Baron.

With her distracted, Trevelyan whispered to the Baroness: “A skirmish?”

“Bandits,” Touledy replied, reassuringly nonchalant, “though more organised than the usual louts.”

“That shouldn’t be allowed,” Dorian commented. “If they’re smart enough to organise themselves, then they’re smart enough to do something more useful. Become a dancing troupe, perhaps.”

The Baroness laughed. Trevelyan had been quite right that the pair would get along; they’d been doing so famously for the last two courses.

Smiling, she decided to leave them to it, but felt an odd sense of cold as she withdrew. Like a stare.

“And who might you be, on the end there? I do not recognise you.”

Well, shit.

Trevelyan turned, and saw the Comtesse Bervard leaning over the table, her piercing mask pointed directly at her.

There was no escaping this now: “I am Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick.”

“Really?” Though her eyes were nearly concealed, her glare was petrifying. “I have met all the Trevelyans of Ostwick, and I don’t recall your face. I am a regular attendee of Lady Lucille Trevelyan’s balls, you know.”

Touledy swept in: “Lady Trevelyan is the Bann’s seventh child; she attended the Circle in Ostwick for some years.”

There was a laugh from that mask. A cold, wicked laugh.

“Oh, you’re the little apostate. How intriguing to meet you here.”

Trevelyan put on her best smile. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Naturally,” said the Comtesse. “Though I wonder, if you were truly there, could you tell me something about Ostwick Circle?”

“What is it you wish to ask?”

The Comtesse leant further forward, and in a voice that echoed a thousand times through Trevelyan’s head, asked: “Is it true that the Templars sent the heads of mages to the First Enchanter as trophies?”

The candles began to flicker.

Oh, no.

#unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #commander cullen #so despite struggling with the original part 1 of the banquet #i already had about 60% of the banquet part 2 written #(across like 5 different docs lol that was fun to stitch together) #so as a dragon age day treat i gave myself the day to just write #and see if i liked it more if we started here #and i did #but dont worry #the ideas from the unseen chapter are already being threaded through these ones #and the premise has a chance to return in a future chapter #anyway that comtesse bervard huh???

[allsaintsbanquethallrental]

8 Bollywood Actresses Who Made Us Believe That Age Is No Bar For Marriage

India is sure progressing and so are we. But one thing that will remain a bone of contention is a woman’s marriageable age. Because, despite breathing in the 21st century, the most criminal thing an Indian woman in her late 20s or 30s and single can declare to her folks is – “I have no idea when I want to get married!” 

Try saying this once and you will hear all sorts of ridiculous as well as lame things like, ‘having babies will be a problem’, ‘people will think you can’t adjust’ or even worse, ‘society will think you are a divorcee or something’.  

This, by far has all the ingredients to become the most alarming thing for your parents as well as relatives (whom you barely meet once in a blue moon) to worry about. But the point is who decides a woman’s ideal age of getting married or who decides how late is okay? Well, neither do women have an answer to this nor their parents.  

If you are touching 30 or have already crossed 30, and still waiting for your Mr Right or busy shaping your career (while hell is almost breaking loose at home), here are 6 charming Bollywood ladies who broke every bit of stereotype and got married, ‘late’. We mean the ‘late age’ set by the society!

#1. Suhasini Mulay found love at 60

She is one actress who is equally famous in the Indian tele world, Bollywood as well as Marathi film fraternity. Though she is always known for playing strong characters, but one thing that got her all the possible attention is, when she got married at the age of 60. She tied the knot to Atul Gurtu, a doctor on January 16, 2011. While Suhasini has never been married before but for Atul, this was his second marriage. He lost his first wife to cancer. Suhasini met her future husband on Facebook.

Yes, people did judge her (including the panditji) but, she chose to stick to her decision of marrying Atul. She fondly recalls this incident from her wedding in an interview with Brunch: 

When we told the pandit that we were the “to-be-married bride and groom”, he was stunned and stammered, ‘Ji, aap dono? Very good, very good’. We cracked up laughing? We got a similar reaction at the court too. But who cared… We were happy!

#2. Farah Khan said ‘qubool hai’ when she was 39

Image Courtesy: Facebook 

This extremely witty director, choreographer and producer made a few heads turn when she got married to editor-turned-director, Shirish Kunder, who is also 8 years her junior. The couple tied the knot on December 9, 2004, and became proud parents to two beautiful daughters and a little prince in 2008.  

Image Courtesy: Facebook 

The immediate thing everyone associates with late marriages is age gap (if any) and trouble having babies. But Farah brilliantly breaks both the myths here. It’s been 11 and half years, and Farah and Shirish just make us believe that there’s no ‘right’ age of getting married. And looking at them, we agree that there’s nothing like marrying late, what’s important is what you do to stay happily ever after.

#3. Urmila Matondkar said ‘I do’ at the age of 42

Out of all the people, we have mentioned till now, Urmila Matondkar stands out for a lot of reasons. Firstly, she was not in news for anything in particular. Neither was she seeing someone nor was she intending to do any more movies. But as they say, good things happen when you least expect them. And one fine morning, everyone woke up to this sweet yet astounding discovery that Urmila Matondkar gets married in a private ceremony at the age of 42. Mir Mohsin Akhtar, her husband who is a model by profession is believed to be younger to this Rangeela girl. With Urmila, we can totally say that you are never too old for love. And looking at her wedding pictures, we sure can say that she looks like the happiest bride. 

#4. Preity Zinta walked down the aisle with Gene Goodenough when she was 41 

When Preity was in a steady relationship with Ness Wadia, we all thought they will eventually get married. But then, the couple fell apart and marriage didn’t happen. But Bollywood’s bubbly ‘Liril’ girl found love in Gene Goodenough and the couple got married on February 29, 2016 in Los Angeles. Looking at her reception photographs, we might toil with the idea of a late marriage if this is how confident and happy a bride can be of her choice! What we can learn from this dimpled beauty is even if you have been through a failed relationship; never lose faith in the institution of marriage. And, also at the same time, do not rush into another hasty relationship, take your time, take the plunge only when you feel ready. 

#5. Lisa Ray married at 40 

Lisa Ray who impressed everyone in Bollywood with her fabulous acting in the movie Kasoor, walked down the aisle with ex-management consultant Jason Dehni when she was 40. Lisa mentioned how happy she was that she didn’t get married at 20.

In an interview, she said:

In your 20s, you want someone who’ll do everything for you; you want that person to solve all your problems, which I don’t think should be expected. 

And looking at her, we totally believe it was a wise thing on her part to wait for some time, mature a bit before deciding to share her life with someone. And we guess it works that way.

#6. Rani Mukerji got married when she was 36

Everyone knew Rani was dating Aditya Chopra, but neither Rani nor Aditya ever acknowledged it openly. But this overtly written-about couple surprised everyone with a hush-hush wedding on April 21, 2014, in Italy. The couple even welcomed their first daughter in December 2015. Looking at them, all we can say is, when you are sure about something, the age factor should not come into the picture. You should take the next steps whenever you both feel comfortable.  

#7. The most beautiful woman, Aishwarya Rai made it official with Abhishek Bachchan when she was 34

While everyone was busy speculating about this light-eyed beauty’s personal life, Aishwarya Rai Bachchan announced her wedding to Junior Bachchan in 2007. Despite the barely 3 year age difference and disparity in their respective career growth, their marriage is one of the strongest in Bollywood.

In fact, when the stunning couple was invited to the Oprah Winfrey Show in September 2009, Oprah quipped that Aishwarya and Abhishek were perhaps more powerful than Hollywood’s Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. And, now with the little princess Aaradhya’s arrival, this family looks gorgeously complete. 

#8. And last but not the least, Neena Gupta found love at the age of 42

After having twists and turn in her love life, Neena Gupta is an inspiration for every woman with a liberal mind. After her short-lived affair with Alok Nath, after getting engaged to Shaarangdev to get married, things didn’t work and Shaarangdev called off their wedding. Later, she was blessed with a daughter, Masaba Gupta after being in a relationship with West Indian Caption Richard. After her daughter grew up, Neena started feeling lonely and gave a thought again about marrying.

It was then in 2002 when 43-year-old Neena met a Delhi-based Chartered Accountant, Vivek Mishra. The two met on a flight and clicked instantly. While Vivek was also separated from his wife, the two were in a relationship for over 6 years before they tied the knot. In July 2008, the duo left for the US to attend one of Vivek’s relatives wedding and he proposed to her in the US and instantly, married then and there. He already planned everything on his own in the states and just needed a ‘yes’ from his lady-love. 

Most of these actresses have had their share of relationships, but none of them ever felt or gave into the pressure of getting married. And, looking at them, we are assured that age has got nothing to do with a happy married life. 

from banquet hall rental https://www.allsaintsbanquethallrental.com/8-bollywood-actresses-who-made-us-believe-that-age-is-no-bar-for-marriage/