CHAPTER3
Three weeks later…
The days had crawled by, each filled with fittings, wedding planning, and the tightening noose of inevitability. Now the wedding gown chafed where the whalebone pressed tightly against her ribs, its stiff silk layers suffocating. Frances sat motionless, her hands clenched in her lap, wondering how lace could feel so much like chains.
The bells tolled.
They echoed through London like a death knell, their mournful chime rolling across rooftops and cobbled streets, shaking the soot from chimney stacks and cutting through the morning mist. They did not sound like celebration. Not to Frances. Each toll rattled in her bones like a sentence passed, echoing the stern voice of her father when he had announced her engagement—cold, final, leaving no room for argument or appeal. Her fingers twisted anxiously in her lap, betraying the fragility of her composure. She clenched them tightly, nails biting into her palms, but even that sharp sting could not dispel the chill of dread crawling up her spine. A heaviness settled in her stomach, thick and cold, twisting with each reverberation. A dreadful rhythm marking the countdown to surrender.
From her vantage point in the antechamber of St. George’s, she could see the spires rising high into the grey April sky, their stone facades wreathed in damp fog. The windows of the chamber were latticed and grimy, casting the room in a muted, distorted light. A fire crackled in the hearth behind her, too warm for the closeness of the room, and yet her fingers felt cold.
Her wedding gown—pale pink with silver embroidered lilies—was beautiful, chosen not by her, but by her mother and Lady Cranford in a well-meaning flurry of silk swatches and eager consultations. It was meant to flatter, to impress, to display Frances like a prized gem to the ton. But as she stared down at the delicate embroidery, all she could see was constraint. The gown had never been hers. It had always belonged to someone else’s vision of her destiny—stitched with their hopes, not her own, each thread pulling her further from her own desires. She shifted on the worn bench, restless as the seconds ticked toward a future she had not chosen. Would never choose.
The maid behind her tightened the final button of her gloves with a solemnity more fitting for a funeral than a wedding.
“You’ll do, my lady,” she said softly.
Frances nodded but said nothing. What could she say? Thank you for making me into an ornament? I am terrified? That the dress chafed, not just at the seams but at her soul? Words crowded her throat, all of them too raw, too real. So she remained silent, swallowing every unspoken truth and wondering when, or if, she would ever be allowed to speak freely again.
Somewhere outside, the crowd was gathering. Nobility. Society. Her father’s allies. Cranford’s future friends and family. None of them had come for love. They had come for spectacle, for the strategic merger of power and wealth wrapped in the illusion of matrimony.
A soft knock at the door drew her out of her trance.
“Ten minutes,” came the footman’s voice.
Frances turned toward the mirror, the movement instinctive. Her mother had once stood behind her in this very posture, years ago, brushing out her hair for an afternoon picnic, humming softly to calm Frances’s nerves. That woman—the one who whispered that a girl must smile no matter how stiff the stays, how unwanted the partner—was long gone, buried beneath layers of duty and disappointment. But the memory rose now, unbidden, brushing against her heart. She studied the reflection in the glass, searching for the girl she used to be. But even her defiance felt threadbare, her courage thinned to near transparency.
Johnathan had refused her. And though she had left his estate with fire in her eyes, it had dimmed with each passing hour. There had been no word. No carriage racing to her rescue. No footsteps echoing through the night. Just silence.
She rose, not out of duty, but something quieter—resignation, yes, yet threaded with a defiant sorrow that steeled her spine as she moved. If she could not halt what was coming, she would at least meet it standing tall.
Each step felt heavy as she walked to the door. One of her father’s footmen waited to escort her to the front of the chapel. Not a friend. Not her mother. Just a hired man, meant to ensure she did not flee. The symbolism was not lost on her.
The corridor outside the antechamber flickered with dim light from iron sconces, their flames wavering in the draughty passageway. Elongated shadows danced, across faded tapestries depicting saints and martyrs—silent witnesses in sorrowful hues. Frances’s footsteps rang softly against the cold stone floor, each step drawing her closer to the altar, to the life being chosen for her.
The organ began to play.
Frances’s throat tightened.
The doors opened.
She stood framed in the doorway, bathed in sunshine, face unreadable. A dozen heads turned. And at the far end of the aisle, Viscount Cranford waited.
He was dressed impeccably, of course. A dark coat with tails, an ivory cravat, a carnation in his lapel. His expression was pleasant. Controlled. Possessive.
She took one step forward.
Something tugged at the edge of her awareness. A tremor in the air… then the doors at the back of the church burst open. A gust of wind tore through the chapel, scattering rose petals. Guests turned, startled cries ringing through the chapel.
Johnathan Seton stood there—his chest rising with labored breath, hair damp with sweat and wind, his cravat askew, and eyes blazing with barely contained emotion. The fury etched across his face was not reckless; it was purposeful—a man come to war.
Frances’s heart stopped. Then surged. Her breath caught painfully in her throat, and her fingers curled around the bouquet she had not realized she was still holding. A thousand thoughts crashed into one another—was it real? Was she imagining him?
He must have bribed the servants, or trailed the invitations. However, he found her—it no longer mattered.
Her breath caught. This was real. He had come.
She felt herself sway, then still, the force of his presence anchoring her to the moment.
