Let him have the comfort. I’ll carry the weight.
Back in her chamber, she took off her robe and slid beneath the cool sheets. Sleep did not come quickly, but when it did, her dreams were empty of faces, only garden paths and moonlight,and the words Mary had left behind:One can only grow from making them.
Rhys stood at the altar of St. George’s, Hanover Square, his navy blue tailcoat crisp, his broad shoulders squared, the weight of the ton’s gaze lighter than the dread coiling in his chest.
The church’s vaulted ceiling soared above, sunlight streaming through stained glass, casting jewel-toned patterns on the marble floor. Jasmine centerpieces—Celine’s touch—scented the air, mingling with beeswax from flickering candles.
The organ’s hum filled the space, the pews packed with peers in silks and satins, their murmurs a low tide—the Wild Duke, tamed at last. Yet Rhys’s polished smile, the one that charmed Paris and Vienna, felt like a mask, his heart racing with a fear he’d buried for years.
The oak doors opened, and Celine appeared on her father’s arm, Lord Woodsworth’s graying hair a contrast to her radiance. Her wedding dress—ivory silk with jasmine embroidery, chosen by her friends’ cunning—flowed like moonlight, its simplicity bold against the ton’s expectations.
Her black hair was pinned with pearls, her blue eyes steady, her posture defiant yet soft.
Rhys’s breath caught, his bravado crumbling as she stepped forward, the organ swelling as she did.
For a fleeting second, fear seized him, sharp and cold.
She’ll see me.
His smile faltered, and he clasped his hands behind his back to hide the tremor in them. Not the Duke of Wylds, with his rakish charm and grand promises, but the broken man.
His bravado, his smile, were a farce, a shield against a world that demanded perfection. Celine, with her fire and wit, would see through it, would deem him unworthy.
The thought choked him.
Lord Woodsworth’s steps were slow, his warmth evident as he patted Celine’s hand, his sallow face bright with pride. Celine’s gaze rose, meeting Rhys’s, and her lips curled into a small, unguarded smile. Not the ton’s practiced simper, but something real, a spark of her defiance.
It pierced through his fear like sunlight through fog, his chest loosening, his smile softening into something genuine.
Another day, he told himself, his shoulders relaxing, his amber eyes holding hers as she walked down the aisle.I’ll face that fear another day.
His inheritance, unlocked by this marriage, would buy him time—time to prove himself, prove what kind of man he would be when free of his father’s hold.
Lord Woodsworth placed Celine’s hand in his, his voice a murmur. “Take care of her, Your Grace.”
Rhys nodded, his grip gentle, Celine’s glove warm against his palm. “I will,” he vowed, his voice low.
The rector began, his voice a solemn drone, the liturgy familiar to the ton: vows of duty, unity, obedience. Rhys’s eyes remained on Celine, her profile sharp, her chin high, her fingers steady in his. She was fire, not ice, as he had told her.
The thought warmed him, pushing his doubts to the shadows.
The ton watched, their whispers hushed—a spectacle, as Celina had promised—but the jasmine, her dress, and her smile made it hers, not theirs.
“Do you, Rhys Alexander Harken, take this woman…” the rector droned.
Rhys’s response was clear. “I do.”
Celine’s voice followed, firm but soft. “I do.”
No kiss followed, the altar no place for such displays, preserving the intimacy of their unwritten future. The rector pronounced them man and wife, and the organ surged. The ton erupted in polite applause, but their glances were curious.
Rhys offered his arm, his smile returning, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Well, Duchess,” he murmured, leading her down the aisle, “shall we face the wolves together?”
Celine’s laugh was quiet, her blue eyes glinting. “Only if you keep up, Your Grace,” she said, her tone sharp but warm, her hand light on his sleeve.
The ton parted, their expressions a mix of envy and intrigue, but Celine’s defiance held. She lookedalive.
The wedding breakfast awaited, a banquet of spiced syllabub and jasmine centerpieces, but Rhys’s focus was on Celine, her presence a balm to his fears.
