Lady Charlotte caught her eye from the third pew, a bright grin on her face. Trust Charlotte to appreciate the audacity of what she had done, even if she couldn’t understand the necessity that had driven it.
The church doors opened before them, revealing a world transformed by their brief ceremony. She was no longer Lady Isadora Cavendish, spinster daughter of an ambitious earl. She was the Duchess of Rothwell, wife to one of England’s most notorious peers, mistress of an ancient estate and guardian to a girl who needed her protection.
The transformation should have felt momentous. Instead, it felt strangely anticlimactic, as though she had simply exchanged one role for another without fundamentally changing who she was beneath the titles and expectations.
The December air was sharp against her face as they emerged onto the church steps. A light snow had begun to fall whilethey were inside, dusting the assembled carriages and turning London’s grimy streets into something approaching Christmas card prettiness. The crowd that had gathered to witness their exit was larger than the one that had watched their arrival—she could only suppose that word had spread, as it always did, and the onlookers were curious to see the pair.
Edmund’s carriage waited at the bottom of the steps, and she followed him to the impressive wagon silently. The Rothwell crest was emblazoned on the door—a silver wolf’s head on a field of midnight blue, surrounded by Latin words she couldn’t quite make out from this distance. Her traveling trunk was already secured to the back, along with a smaller case containing her most immediate necessities. Tomorrow they would depart for Rothwell Abbey, but today there would be the wedding breakfast, the polite speeches, the careful dance of congratulations and veiled speculation.
The steps were slick with the newly fallen snow, treacherous beneath her silk slippers. She had navigated them successfully on the way up, but now, with her attention divided between the watching crowd and the strange unreality of her situation, her foot found a patch of ice.
Time slowed to a crystalline moment of horror. She felt herself falling, her hand slipping from Edmund’s arm, her body tilting backward toward what promised to be a spectacular and humiliating tumble down the church steps. The crowd below seemed to surge forward, avid for this final touch of drama to complete their entertainment.
Then strong hands caught her, one arm sliding around her waist while the other supported her elbow. Edmund’s grip was sure and steady, his strength evident in the ease with which he arrested her fall and drew her upright against his chest.
For a breathless moment, they stood frozen in an embrace that was both accident and something more deliberate. Her hands had instinctively reached for his shoulders, her fingers gripping the fine wool of his coat while his arm remained locked around her waist. She was close enough to see the individual whiskers along his jaw, close enough to catch the faint scent of bergamot that clung to his skin beneath the sharper notes of winter air.
Close enough to see that the scar running from cheek to chin was not a single clean line but a network of smaller marks, as though whatever blade had marked him had caught and torn rather than slicing cleanly. Close enough to notice that his eyes were not simply green but flecked with gold, like sunlight through deep forest leaves.
Close enough to feel the rapid rhythm of his breathing, to realize that he was not as unmoved by their proximity as his expression suggested.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was rough, lower than usual, and she felt the words as much as heard them.
She shook her head, not trusting her voice to work properly Her heart was acting in a manner she was slowly becoming accustomed to: a fluttering sensation that had nothing to do with her near fall and everything to do with the way he waslooking at her. As though he were seeing her clearly for the first time, as though the careful distance he had maintained was suddenly insufficient protection against whatever force was building between them.
The moment stretched, fragile as spun glass, while snow continued to fall around them and the crowd below waited for them to resume their descent. His thumb moved against her waist, a gesture so small she might have imagined it, but the heat of it burned through the layers of silk and stays to brand her skin.
Then awareness seemed to return to him, and he released her with movements that were almost abrupt in their haste. “We must go in,” he said curtly, offering his arm again with careful formality. “They are waiting.”
The spell—if it had been a spell—was broken. Isadora accepted his support with renewed caution, testing each step as they made their way down the treacherous steps. But she could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands, still see the way his pupils had dilated in those charged seconds when they had been pressed together.
The wedding breakfast was held at Wexford House, its dining room decorated with Christmas greenery and winter roses that should have felt festive but instead seemed to mock the solemnity of the occasion. The guests were a careful selection of London’s most influential families—those whose opinions mattered, whose approval or disapproval could shape a reputation for generations to come.
Father had spared no expense despite his displeasure with the match. The finest china graced the long table, crystal glasses caught the light from the overhead chandelier, and course after course emerged from the kitchens with the precision of a military campaign. Christmas pudding crowned the meal, its brandy flames dancing blue and gold while the assembled company offered polite applause.
Isadora sat at Edmund’s right hand, playing the part of the glowing bride while inside her chest something fundamental had shifted. Every few minutes, she felt his gaze upon her—not the casual attention a husband might pay his wife, but something more intense, more searching. When she turned to meet his eyes, she found them already focused on her face with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher.
The speeches began with the third course. Lord Pemberton rose first, offering the traditional toast to the bride and groom with the sort of flowery rhetoric that said nothing while sounding significant. Others followed—carefully worded congratulations that managed to acknowledge the union while avoiding any direct reference to its unusual circumstances.
Through it all, Edmund remained largely silent, offering only the briefest responses when directly addressed. But Isadora was becoming aware of him in ways that had nothing to do with conversation—the way his fingers drummed against his knee when Lord Ashford began a particularly pompous speech, the slight tightening of his jaw when someone made a veiled reference to his past, the careful control he maintained over every gesture and expression.
He was as trapped by this performance as she was, she realized. As eager for it to end, as conscious of the watching eyes and listening ears that would dissect every word and glance for signs of scandal or weakness.
“You look positively radiant, darling,” Lady Charlotte murmured during a lull in the speeches, leaning close enough that her words wouldn’t carry. “Though I confess I’m dying to know how you managed to snare the most elusive bachelor in London with barely three days’ notice.”
“I didn’t snare anyone,” Isadora replied quietly, though she could feel heat rising in her cheeks. “The arrangements were... mutually beneficial.”
“Mutually beneficial,” Charlotte repeated, her eyes dancing with mischief. “How delightfully practical. Though I notice His Grace has been watching you rather intently for a man engaged in a merely practical arrangement.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Am I being ridiculous? Because from where I’m sitting, the Duke of Rothwell has looked at you no fewer than twelve times during the past hour. Not the sort of casual glances one would expect from a marriage of convenience, if you catch my meaning.”
Isadora did catch her meaning, though she refused to acknowledge it. “You’re imagining things.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps,” Charlotte’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper, “your practical arrangement is not quite as straightforward as either of you believes.”
Before Isadora could form a reply, Edmund’s voice cut through the general conversation like a blade through silk. “Ladies and gentlemen, my wife and I are grateful for your presence here today. However, we have a journey ahead of us tomorrow and must beg your indulgence in bringing this celebration to a close.”
