She leaned her head back against the hard wood and let out a breath that sounded both like surrender and beginning. Then she smiled—no mask, no pretence—only truth.
“I love you too,” she whispered.
And for that one perfect moment, it was all worth it.
Epilogue
Two months later
The interior of St. George’s Church hummed with the quiet murmur of London’s elite, each footstep across polished stone met with the soft shuffle of silk and lace. Candles flickered along the walls, their light catching the gilded frames and painted ceilings, but it was the figure at the altar who held the congregation’s gaze. Lucas Beaumont stood with an easy composure that was, to anyone observing closely, tempered by a subtle, almost imperceptible tension. His dark eyes followed the main doors with a barely restrained anticipation, and though his posture remained impeccable, a thin tremor in his hand betrayed the depth of emotion beneath his usual reserve.
“You’ve never looked more like a duke,” Frederick murmured beside him. Only he could make such words sound like an insult. Lucas almost grinned. “Though I suspect this is more than a mere ceremony to you.”
Lucas gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod. “It is not the title, Frederick. It is all about her.” His gaze softened as he turned slightly, studying the aisle through the candlelight. “It has always been about her.”
Henry smiled while Frederick frowned as if he could not fathom such a thing. “Then,” Henry said. “I imagine that when she arrives, the five hundred guests in attendance will cease to matter completely. They will all but disappear, I’m certain.”
Lucas nodded, eyes still trained on the doors, impatient. “Yes. Nothing else matters.”
The hush in the church deepened as the great doors at the far end swung open. Sunlight streamed in, falling upon the figure standing at the threshold.
Elowen Tremaine, in a gown of ivory silk that caught the light with the subtlest shimmer, appeared at the end of the aisle, her father’s arm linked firmly in hers. A collective murmur swept through the guests, a sound somewhere between admiration and reverence.
Lucas’s breath caught. He could see every detail—the way her steps were measured, her gaze steady, her hand lightly brushing her father’s sleeve. But above all, he saw her eyes, bright and clear, fixed entirely on him. Henry was right. The world seemed to narrow until nothing remained but those eyes and the pull between them.
Frederick leaned closer again. “It seems the city has forgotten itself in her presence,” he whispered. He seemed confused.
Lucas’s reply was a dry, almost irreverent smile. “I cannot speak for the city, Frederick, but there is certainly one fool within it.”
Step by step, Elowen moved down the aisle. Every turn of her head, every slight smile or flicker of anticipation, drew Lucas closer to a state of careful recklessness he had never known.
He wanted to walk to her, to seize her hand mid-aisle, yet he restrained himself, letting the moment extend, savouring the slow, magnetic draw that had begun in earnest from the first day he’d recognised her mind matched her heart.
At the altar, her father bowed slightly, offering Lucas a nod of quiet approval. Lucas inclined his head in return, eyes unwavering from Elowen’s. She released her father’s arm, stepping into Lucas’s space with a grace that belied the storm of emotions she surely felt.
“You look… beyond beautiful,” Lucas murmured when she finally stood before him. The words were simple, almost understated, but the depth of their meaning carried through the air between them.
Elowen allowed herself a small, unguarded smile. “And you, perhaps for once, are not entirely insufferable in formality,” she replied, her voice low enough that it was for him alone.
The priest standing at the pulpit cleared his throat gently, a signal that the ceremony must proceed, though he said nothing about the heat in Lucas’s eyes or the tremor still faintly visible in his hand. Then his voice filled the church. But Lucas and Elowen’s attention remained almost exclusively on each other.
“We are gathered here to witness the joining of Lucas Beaumont and Elowen Tremaine in marriage—an estate founded in honour and companionship, promising mutual care in all fortunes of life.”
A murmur stirred at the back; then quiet resumed, reverent but expectant.
He continued, “It is not a vow to be taken lightly, nor in haste, but with understanding and respect—considering that this bond is made for comfort, for strength, and for the sharing of all things, both joy and adversity.”
Lucas’s breath came shallow, though his expression betrayed nothing but composure. The priest turned toward him.
“Lucas Beaumont, do you take Elowen Tremaine to be your wedded wife—to live with her in the honourable state of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, remain faithful to her for as long as you both shall live?”
Lucas met Elowen’s eyes. His voice was steady, though emotion thrummed beneath it. “I will.”
The priest turned to her.
“And do you, Elowen Tremaine, take Lucas Beaumont, to be your wedded husband—to live with him in the honourable state of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, remain faithful to him for as long as you both shall live?”
“I will,” she said softly, her voice clear despite the tremor of feeling in it.
