She grinned. “Sounds like any Tuesday in Mayfair.”
More notes followed in the days after. Some polite. Some pointed. A few scandalously bold. One simply said, Is there any truth to what is being said?
Johnathan scrawled on the back in Frances’s hand: Yes. And more.
The Society pages printed a full column on their return by Thursday.
By all accounts, the Duke of Hargate has returned from the northern wilds with a bride most improper—and most determined.
Frances laughed over it at breakfast. “Most determined? I will have that engraved on my tombstone.”
Johnathan kissed her wrist. “Not before I put it on your stationery.”
On Friday evening, they dressed in full evening attire.
Frances’s gown was a rich forest green silk, understated but commanding. She wore no diamonds, no feathers, no showy family heirlooms—only the sapphire ring he had given her, and the quiet confidence of a woman who owed nothing to anyone.
Johnathan’s valet had laid out his finest black tailcoat, pressed and perfect. He donned it with a sigh, glancing into the mirror.
He recognized the man staring back.
But the difference now?
He did not detest him.
As they rode to Lady Brunsford’s in the carriage, Frances reached across the seat and laced her fingers with his. “There is no-one I would rather?—”
He turned to her. “Step into the beehive with.”
She nodded once. “Precisely.”
When they stepped into the bustling parlor, the entire crowd turned.
It was not a metaphor. Conversations stopped. Heads swiveled. Fans fluttered violently.
A sea of satin and velvet gave way to the Duke of Hargate and his scandalous runaway bride.
Johnathan smiled as if nothing were amiss. Frances smiled as if she were being welcomed.
And they moved forward together.
The buzz started before they even reached their hostess, Lady Brunsford.
“She is wearing green.”
“The duke actually brought her back.”
“I heard she threatened her father with a pistol.”
Frances kept her chin high, her fingers curled loosely around Johnathan’s arm. She had been stared at before—but never like this. This was not a debutante’s appraisal. This was something hotter, more charged.
“The bishop was none too pleased,” Frances murmured from the side of her mouth, keeping her smile serene as they passed a cluster of gawking matrons. “But he eventually conceded that Gretna Green or no, we are quite thoroughly married.”
Johnathan smirked. “A signed license and a Scottish blacksmith have a funny way of making that point stick.”
“Especially when your barrister delivered it in triplicate to every legal office in London,” she added dryly.
A ripple of laughter danced in her voice, but the edge beneath it was real. They were here not because they had begged forgiveness—but because they had made it impossible for society to deny them.
