Joan slipped her hand through Damian’s arm, and together they stepped into the cathedral.
The organ swelled into life, playing a triumphant processional that echoed off the ancient stones. Every head turned to watch as Joan began her walk down the aisle.
She barely saw them. Her eyes were fixed on the altar, where Laurence waited.
He stood beside Hugo, who would serve as his groomsman. But Joan saw only Laurence.
He wore a formal evening suit in black and silver, tailored to perfection. The clothes made him look every inch the powerful duke he was, commanding, aristocratic, intimidating.
But his face, his scarred, severe face that had frightened so many people, was transformed by the smile that spread across it as he watched her approach.
It was the most beautiful smile Joan had ever seen. Open and unguarded and full of such radiant joy that it made her own smile widen in response.
His eyes never left her face. Not once. He watched her with an intensity that made her feel like the only person in the world, like everything and everyone else had faded away until only the two of them remained.
He’s beautiful,Joan thought.
Damian walked slowly, giving Joan time to take in the moment. As they passed each row of pews, Joan caught glimpses of smiling faces. Friends and neighbors and students, all of them beaming with genuine happiness.
Finally, they reached the altar. Damian stopped and turned to face Joan. For a moment, brother and sister simply looked at each other, a lifetime of shared experiences passing between them in a glance.
Then Damian carefully lifted Joan’s hand and placed it in Laurence’s outstretched palm.
“Take care of her,” Damian said, his voice carrying clearly through the hushed cathedral. “She’s the most precious thing in the world to me.”
“I will,” Laurence promised, his voice equally clear and steady. “I swear it on my life and honor.”
Damian nodded, satisfied. He pressed a kiss to Joan’s cheek, then stepped back to take his seat in the front pew beside Victoria and Octavia.
Joan turned to face Laurence fully, and the world narrowed to just the two of them. His hands were warm around hers, strong and steady. She could feel the slight roughness of old scars, the gentle pressure of his fingers.
The vicar, Imogen’s father, stepped forward with a warm smile. His voice, when he spoke, was rich with genuine approval.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”
Joan barely heard the opening words. She was lost in Laurence’s eyes, in the way he looked at her as though she was something infinitely precious and miraculous.
The vicar spoke of love and commitment, of partnership and devotion. He spoke of the sacred bond between husband and wife, of the joy and responsibility of marriage.
And then came the vows.
“Laurence Whitby, Duke of Ashcroft,” the vicar intoned, “do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
Laurence’s hands tightened around Joan’s. His voice, when he spoke, was steady and sure and loud enough for everyone in the cathedral to hear.
“I do. With all my heart and soul, I do.”
The vicar turned to Joan. “Joan Sinclair, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
Joan felt tears slip down her cheeks despite her best efforts to hold them back. But her voice was clear and strong.
“I do.”
“The rings, if you please.”
Hugo stepped forward with a velvet cushion holding two gold bands. Laurence took the smaller ring and slid it onto Joan’s finger with infinite care, his eyes never leaving her face.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” he said softly. “With my body, I thee worship. With all my worldly goods, I thee endow. This is my solemn vow.”
