“No.” She chuckled. “You are just like your father once he married, my dear, and he is the person she loved the most. So you see? There is not a world in which you could have let her down.” She hugged Evelyn lightly, mindful of the dress. “She did not live to see your wedding day, but I know she’s here with us. Now off with you before I cry. Nate will think me such a silly goose.” She smiled as she spoke, though her eyes brimmed with tears. “Welcome to the family, dearest. We are delighted to have you.”
Chapter Sixteen
The wedding was held in the small chapel on the grounds of Havercroft. Traditionally, it was where the family would have taken their services, although they now attended the village church. Still, it felt right to stand in the dim, cool stone building, the weight of his inheritance behind him. As children, he and Evelyn had sneaked inside and hidden amongst the pews as his tutor searched for him, a birch rod in his hands.
In the decades since, he had lost himself and found himself again. And yet when he turned to see Evelyn enter the doors at the end, snow blowing in with her, he felt as though no time had passed at all. In her face, he saw the child she had been, young and eager. Afraid of him at first—afraid of everyone. Then his tentative friend, then someone he could not have forgotten even if he had wanted to. A steady point in his tumultuous life.
He smiled widely at the sight of her approaching, fabric rustling with every step, her face upturned to his, blue eyes warm and dark eyelashes wet. A necklace he recognised as being his mother’s rested at the hollow of her throat.
His bride. Not just the woman he loved, but his wife.
He reached out a hand for her as she approached, squeezing her fingers, and her own smile firmed.
“Seems odd to be here causing good instead of mischief,” he murmured to her, and she tilted her head back so she couldlook at him through her veil. Silvery curls decorated her temples and forehead, her usual austere bun exchanged for a gentler style, braided around her head. He would take great pleasure in undoing those braids, letting her hair tumble over her shoulders.
“I never caused mischief,” she murmured back.
“Liar. We were frequently in trouble.”
“You frequentlygotme in trouble.”
“We ought not to begin married life on a disagreement.”
“Then you ought to agree with me,” she whispered back, and turned to face Reverend Walters, who glowered at Charles. An older man, his back stiff with age and his face creased with a lifetime of declaring the Lord’s word from a pulpit, the reverend was a familiar figure. One that was not particularly fond of Charles. After all, Charles had once sneaked into the rectory and set fire—accidentally, mind you—to Reverend Walter’s table runners.
His father had dragged him back to apologise, and to pay for the damage, but that had set Charles’s reputation in Walters’ mind. Almost thirty years had not been enough to change his opinion.
Charles didn’t mind. And it seemed fitting that after so many years drifting off in his family’s pew, sometimes with Evelyn by his side pinching him to stay awake, Walters would be the one to officiate his marriage.
“Dearly beloved,” Walters began. “We are gathered here today . . .”
Charles let the words drift over his head and leant down to whisper in Evelyn’s ear. “You look beautiful.”
“Hush.” Still, under the dim winter light through the stained glass, he saw a flush spread across her cheeks. Perhaps she was not a great beauty by the eyes of modern standards, but he adored every line of her face. Deep, serious eyes; a small, lovely mouth; a gentle chin; skin a fraction too tanned for society’s preference; a thoughtful brow.
Tonight, and every night for the rest of his life, he would remind her of all the things he loved so she never forgot.
Reverend Walters performed the service with aplomb, not stopping to glare at Charles more than once or twice. And even Charles, slipping his ring on Evelyn’s finger, felt as though he was in the presence of somethingsacred. As Walters proclaimed them man and wife, Charles tipped her chin back and bent to kiss her mouth.
His wife.
Evelyn laughed, her fingers sliding through his, and after signing the wedding register, they walked down the aisle together and out into the frigid cold.
“I should have planned you a June wedding,” he said, shuddering on the short walk to the house. “Far more fitting.”
“Oh, but then you would have had to wait four long months,” she said slyly.
“True, that would have been an impossibility. I am but a man.”
She raised teasing eyes to his. “You are a future duke—can you not change the seasons to suit your mood?”
“I fear, my darling, you are destined to be disappointed when you become the Duchess of Norfolk.”
She nudged his side as she giggled, the sound spilling out like champagne from a bottle. “Disappointed, Charles? Oh no. I think I will beanythingbut disappointed.”
The wedding breakfast—though considering the hour, could it not be called a wedding dinner?—stretched on for several hours. But finally, perhaps sensing Evelyn’s dwindling tolerance for large groups of people, Charles had made their excuses, leading her through the rambling old house to his suite of rooms.
Theirsuite of rooms. As his wife now, she would share his bedchamber. His bed.
