Pull yourself together man. This is your wedding day.
Forcing himself back into the present, William admired his wife-to-be’s figure in her soft blue gown that shimmered silver in the gentle light. Her hair was rich and made her skin glow.
Strangely, his breath caught as he glanced across at her, solemnly reciting her vows. She meant them, the look in her eyes showing him that she was not merely repeating as the ceremony demanded but giving herself into his care.
For a woman like her, independent, courageous, and capable, he felt oddly humbled. She could have chosen someone else, but while he had offered her more than any other could, he felt unworthy.
“Your Grace,” the priest asked, “May I have the rings?”
Colin handed the box over and the priest unlatched it to reveal inside a ring with a frame shaped like a delicate golden rose, its body a pink faceted diamond.
“I, William Hartwell, do give you this ring as a symbol of my vow, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you,” William repeated after the priest, before slipping the ring onto Bridget’s slender finger. It was a perfect fit.
She took the plainer version of the ring from the box, a flat sedate gold band with a thin diamond sliver running through the middle, and slid it onto his finger.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Those whom God has joined together, let no one put asunder.”
Reminiscing the heat from earlier that morning, William ached for a scintillating kiss from his new wife. Unfortunately, he had to settle for a tame, barely-there kiss that only made him hungry for more.
He drew away a touch, before finding himself unconsciously whispering in her ear, “Forgive me for being distant. I am exhausted.”
And in disbelief. Marriage is something I have been running from my whole life and now I am a husband.
Bridget’s smile was sweet and forgiving, which only made the guilt in his gut grow worse. He forced a smile and extended his arm, leading her to the room for the wedding breakfast. “You’re gorgeous, Duchess Arlington.”
“I’d say the same for you, Your Grace.”
“William, please,” he corrected, biting back the reason he felt unfit to be called a duke.
In the hallway, he paused. “If you want to skip breakfast, I will oblige you. My friends are a bit… like a stiff drink, hard to swallow at first.”
“No,” she shook her head vehemently. “I would like to meet your friends and I would like for you to meet mine. I will be alright, I promise.”
The side tables were all covered with delicate foods, cakes, pies, coffee and tea kettles, and even to the side, a separate table of whisky, brandy, and scotch. Colin and Andrew were already working on the spirits and William bit back a warning. He didn’t think his friends would get apple-pated at his wedding… but he wouldn’t put it past them.
“And the ill-fated groom approaches,” Colin lifted his glass to his lips before murmuring.
“Thank you, Lightholder,” William replied wryly, “I often find myself in need of reminding that you matured at the age of ten.”
Raising his glass higher, Colin grinned. “I turn eleven tomorrow.”
He introduced the two to Bridget, and Andrew bowed with a flourish as she curtsied. “I must say, Your Grace, you have worked a veritable miracle with this pile of scruff. You’ve turned him into a gentleman with worthy ambitions.”
One of Bridget’s thin brows arched. “Worthy meaning… marriageable?”
“Getting him to the altar at all,” Andrew smirked. “It was something unheard of. I am sure minstrels a hundred years from now will say it never happened.”
“Enough,” William grunted. “You can jest all you want later on, at your homes or when you take the pedestal at Whites, but not on my wedding day.”
“I see,” Bridget smiled warmly. “Would you please excuse me, my lords?”
As she went off to her friends, a striking blond—who happened to be his friend’s younger sister, and a demure brunette, he admired her with a lingering stare, then faced his two friends. “Don’t start.”
“On what, precisely,” Colin teased. “The other miracle that you’re falling in love with h—”
“Bite your tongue.” William huffed, pouring a glass of brandy. “If you utter that word, you shall meet me at dawn.”
“It might not be that, but it is definitely something,” Andrew added, sticking a hand in his trouser pocket. “You care for her.”
