"I choose you," she said. "Every day, for the rest of my life. I choose you."
Epilogue
Six months later
The wedding of Frederick Hawthorne, Duke of Corvenwell, to Miss Lydia Fletcher was not, by any measure, a fashionable event.
It was not held in London, at St. George's Hanover Square, where society expected dukes to marry. It was not attended by the cream of the aristocracy, by cabinet ministers or foreign dignitaries or anyone whose name regularly appeared in the society pages. There were no ice sculptures, no imported flowers, no orchestra brought in from Vienna at extravagant expense.
Instead, it was held in the village church of St. Michael's, on a warm spring morning, with wildflowers from the meadows arranged in simple vases and the sun streaming through ancient stained glass.
And it was, by every measure that actually mattered, perfect.
Lydia woke on her wedding day to the sound of birdsong.
She lay in her narrow bed, the same bed she had slept in since childhood, in the same room in the blacksmith's cottage, and listened to the world coming alive outside her window. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the familiar sounds of the village stirrin; carts rumbling past, voices calling morning greetings, the rhythmic clang of someone already at work in a forge that was no longer hers.
She had sold her share of the business to Thomas three months ago. It had felt strange, at first, to walk past the forge and not step inside to work, to hear the hammer strikes and know that someone else was shaping the metal. But it had also felt right. She was building a new life now, and that life required her to let go of the old one.
Not completely, of course. She still visited the forge regularly, still helped Thomas with the more complex pieces, and she still felt the pull of fire and iron in her blood. But she was no longer a blacksmith. She was something else now, something she was still learning to define.
Today, she would become a duchess.
The thought still felt unreal, even after six months of being betrothed, six months of wedding planning, six months of navigating the strange new world that Frederick inhabited. She had learned to manage a household staff, to plan menus and approve budgets and handle the thousand small decisions that running an estate required. She had learned to read the social pages without flinching, to ignore the whispers that still followed her in certain circles, to hold her head high when introduced to people who clearly thought she was beneath them.
She had learned, in short, to be brave.
But bravery, she had discovered, wasn't the absence of fear. It was the willingness to act despite fear. And today, standing on the threshold of the biggest change of her life, she was absolutely terrified.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
"Are you awake?" Her uncle’s voice, gruff but gentle.
"I'm awake."
"Good. Because half the village is already at the church, and Mrs Thompson has been downstairs for an hour, threatening to come up here and dress you herself if you don't appear soon."
Lydia laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. "Tell her I'll be down in a moment."
"I'll tell her you're taking your time. This is your day, Lydia. Don't let anyone rush you."
She heard his footsteps retreat down the stairs, and she was alone again with her thoughts.
Her day. Her wedding day.
She rose from the bed and moved to the window, looking out at the village that had been her home for twenty-four years. The streets were already decorated with ribbons and flowers, courtesy of the village women who had spent the past week preparing. TheCrossed Keyshad a banner hung across its facade:Congratulations to His Grace and Miss Fletcher. Even the forge, her forge, Thomas' forge, had a wreath of spring blossoms on the door.
They had accepted her. All of them. Despite the scandal, despite the whispers, despite everything that society said about women who married above their station. The village had closed ranks around her, had defended her against the gossip and the sneers, and they had made it clear that she was one of theirs and always would be.
She blinked back tears, happy tears, for once, and turned to face the day.
***
The dress had been a compromise.
Frederick had wanted to commission something from London, from the modistes who dressed queens and duchesses. Lydia had wanted something simpler, something that felt like her. In the end, they had found a middle ground; a gown of ivory silk, elegantly cut but not ostentatious, with delicate embroidery that had been done by the village seamstress with over three months of careful work.
It was beautiful. More beautiful than anything Lydia had ever worn.
