“We should take our seats,” Hugo said, clearing his throat with suspicious roughness. “Can’t have the bride’s family arriving after the ceremony begins.”
They settled into the front pew, Hugo’s hand finding Sybil’s. Around them, London society filled the remaining seats—lords and ladies, politicians and merchants, all come to witness the union of the Duke of Vestiaire’s daughter.
“Lord Pemberton looks terrified,” Sybil whispered as Thomas took his place at the altar.
“Good,” Hugo replied. “A man should be terrified when he’s about to promise to cherish someone so precious.”
Someone so precious. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching.
“Were you terrified when you married me?”
Hugo turned to study her face. “Absolutely. Though not for the reasons I should have been.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was terrified of the arrangement failing, of the convenience proving insufficient. I should have been terrified of how completely you would transform my life.”
Transform his life. As he has transformed mine.
The organ music swelled, and conversation ceased as all heads turned toward the back of the church. Rosalie appeared in the doorway on her uncle’s arm, radiant with joy and hope.
This is what love looks like. Pure, uncomplicated, brave enough to promise forever.
As they watched Rosalie glide down the aisle toward her future, Hugo leaned close to Sybil’s ear.
“Do you remember our wedding? How terrified you looked when I lifted your veil?”
“I was certain you were having second thoughts.”
“I was having third and fourth thoughts. But not about marrying you—about whether I deserved such good fortune.”
Such good fortune. That’s what we’ve become for each other.
The ceremony began, the familiar words of the marriage service filling the sacred space. When Thomas and Rosalie exchanged vows, their voices clear and strong, Sybil felt Hugo’s hand tighten on hers.
“I love you,” he whispered, so quietly only she could hear.
“And I love you,” she whispered back.
Here, in this church where we promised ourselves to each other, we can promise it again.
When the newly married couple kissed, the congregation erupted in applause. Hugo stood to embrace his daughter, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Be happy, my darling girl,” he said against her hair. “Be gloriously, outrageously happy.”
“I intend to be, Papa. Just like you and Sybil.”
Just like us. Yes, we are happy, aren’t we?
The wedding breakfast at Vestiaire House buzzed with conversation and laughter. In the conservatory Thomas had designed, guests wandered among exotic blooms while footmen served champagne and delicate pastries.
“Your Grace?” A familiar voice made Sybil turn. Mrs. Thatcher—Marge—approached with two children at her side. The woman who’d once been a cook at the orphanage now wore the comfortable dress of a respectable widow, her face bright with contentment.
“Marge!” Sybil embraced her warmly. “How wonderful to see you. And these must be Emma and James.”
The two children—now ten and eight—had grown tall and healthy in Marge’s care. They curtsied and bowed with the manners she’d taught them.
“They wanted to thank you again, Your Grace,” Marge said proudly. “For arranging their adoption, for giving us all a second chance.”
