The priest nodded once, satisfied, then turned his solemn gaze to Edward, his grave voice carrying through the chapel. “Will you, Edward Pembroke, the Duke of Wrexford, take this woman?—”
Edward’s hand tightened at his side. He heard his name echo off stone, heard the faint rustle of silk beside him.
Beatrice stood straight, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the altar. Her veil caught the light, trembling slightly with each breath.
He cleared his throat. “I will.”
The priest turned to her. “Will you, Lady Beatrice Moreland, take this man?—”
She did not even blink. “I will.”
The priest’s final words fell like dust on marble. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
For a heartbeat, the chapel held its breath. Edward became suddenly aware of the nearness of her hand, the pale sliver of skin above her glove, the steady rise and fall of her chest. She smelled faintly of rosewater.
He turned toward her slowly, as though any sudden movement might shatter the brittle calm between them.
Beatrice’s gaze rose to meet his for the first time that day. It was not anger he saw there, nor sorrow. It was something far more immovable. She might have been carved from the same stillness that permeated the chapel.
He leaned in, closing the small distance between them. The world seemed to narrow until there was only the faint scent of rosewater and the brush of silk against his sleeve.
If she had leaned forward just a breath, he might have kissed her, and it would have been done, proper and simple. But she did not move. Not an inch.
The silence stretched, sharp enough to draw blood. A heartbeat passed, then another.
Edward exhaled and let the moment break. He straightened, masking his retreat with a gesture so polished it almost passed for grace. Almost.
He inclined his head in place of a kiss, his voice low and even. “Duchess.”
Her reply came a moment later. “Duke.”
His heart fluttered, and he stepped back, offering his arm because there was nothing else to do. Her hand rested lightly on his sleeve, and they turned, murmurs rising behind them.
Each step down the aisledragged. He could feel her beside him. She was infuriatingly composed. Not once did she look at him.
The scent of lilies was too strong and the air too close. Candle wax clung to the back of his throat. Somewhere, Sebastianmurmured something, likely a jest, but it reached him only as a blur of sound.
The Duke of Wrexford, London’s favorite rake, had done the unthinkable: he got married.
He was a husband. And, if rumors were to be believed, a father.
They had left London before noon, yet the scent of it clung to her still—ink, coal, smoke.
Beatrice turned to look one last time out the carriage window. A small line of carriages waited nearby, loaded with trunks and boxes that had been hastily packed just before the ceremony.
Her mother had stood straight despite her pallor, hands clasped before her. Lady Moreland did not wave, as she would never permit such a breach of etiquette, but her chin lifted in that quiet, commanding way that said,Be steady, child.
Beside her, Cecily had clung to Margaret’s arm, her face blotchy from weeping. She looked so heartbreakingly young that Beatrice nearly opened the carriage door and jumped out.
“Write to me,” Cecily had pleaded moments ago, her voice trembling. “Promise you’ll come back once it’s all over.”
Beatrice had wiped a tear from her sister’s cheek. “I promise,” she had whispered. “And I expect you to keep Mother from worrying herself to pieces.”
Margaret, ever the practical one, had sniffed and adjusted her shawl. “And do send word if he proves utterly insufferable. I have a list of creative ways to torment difficult husbands, and Sebastian would help in carrying them out.”
Beatrice had almost smiled. “I shall keep that in mind.”
Now, as the carriage lurched forward, her mother’s figure grew smaller, and her sister’s handkerchief fluttered like a pale flag in the distance until it, too, vanished in the mist.
