The priest inclined his head. “Join your right hands and repeat after me.”
Lucas took her hand, his thumb brushing her fingers as he began. “I, Lucas Beaumont, take you, Elowen Tremaine, to be my wife—to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—to love and to cherish, for the rest of our lives.”
She returned his gaze and repeated the same words, her tone sure and tender.
“I, Elowen Tremaine, take you, Lucas Beaumont, to be my husband—to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—to love, cherish, and honour, for the rest of our lives.”
The priest gave a small nod. “You may present the ring.”
An attendant stepped forward, a small velvet cushion in his hands. Upon it rested a single gold band, simple but rich with history—the Beaumont family ring.
Lucas took it, feeling the weight of it as though it carried not only lineage but every moment that had led them here. His hand trembled slightly as he placed it on her finger.
“With this ring,” he said quietly, “I bind my life to yours—all that I am, and all that I have, I share with you.”
The ring caught the light as he spoke, the gold gleaming like promise itself.
The priest inclined his head again. “These vows, spoken freely, are the foundation of your union. May you find within them companionship, courage, and peace.”
He paused, letting the words linger, and then said with quiet finality, “I pronounce you husband and wife.”
A soft ripple went through the congregation—an audible sigh, the rustle of gloves and handkerchiefs.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Lucas lifted her hand and kissed it, his breath unsteady. It was a kiss that spoke of battles fought and won. Of deep devotion and trust forged in shared danger.
Elowen smiled, a tremor of emotion still in her lips. “I cannot wait to see what comes next,” she whispered.
Lucas’s answer was soft, almost lost in the hush. “Neither can I, my love.”
And with that, the organ began its low, swelling notes, and the newly married Duke and Duchess of Beaushire turned toward the aisle—hand in hand, the weight of the past behind them, and the golden light of morning ahead.
***
At Tremaine House, the wedding breakfast unfolded with all the gentle chaos and splendour of celebration. The grand dining room had been transformed for the occasion—garlands of white roses wound about the marble columns, sunlight streamed through tall windows to strike the silverware aglow, and the air was rich with the mingled scents of honeyed pastries and fresh blooms. Footmen moved discreetly among the guests, refilling crystal glasses and replacing empty plates, while laughter rose and fell like music.
Elowen thought she could not possibly be happier than she was in that moment.
Catherine, seated a few places down, was radiant with irrepressible cheer. “Henry! Henry, I still cannot believe it,” she cried, tugging at his arm with girlish enthusiasm. “After witnessing Lucas and Elowen, how could anyone be expected to wait even a day longer for their own turn? Truly, how did we allow them to marry before us?”
Henry’s answering laugh was low and warm. “We are in very fine company, my dear,” he said, casting a look down thetable. “Though I must admit, seeing them today, I suppose I understand why even the most cautious hearts may surrender. Their happiness seems to invite one’s own.”
Catherine clasped her hands together with mock solemnity. “Then I must begin at once to practise composure, for I am certain I shall disgrace myself at our own ceremony.”
Charlotte leaned toward Margaret, a shared smile softening both their faces. “It is rare to see such contentment on my son’s face,” she murmured, her voice full of quiet pride.
Margaret inclined her head, her eyes on Elowen. “And rarer still to see it in my daughter,” she replied. “There were times I thought peace would never find her again. But she has found it—and with your son, no less. That is joy enough for any mother.”
Charlotte’s gaze swept the gathering, taking in the mingled families, the harmony restored. “And to think,” she said, her tone touched with wonder, “that not long ago all this might have seemed impossible. Reputation can be destroyed in a day—but it takes courage, and love, to rebuild it so beautifully.”
Across the table, William lifted his glass, catching the light. “To new beginnings, then,” he declared, and several guests echoed him with soft assent.
Lord Trenton was on the other side of the room, his colour restored, his bearing once again that of the man he had been before scandal and illness. Around him, old friends spoke with renewed warmth; his name, once whispered in suspicion, was now spoken with esteem.
“I must agree with you, Mother,” William said with an easy grin. “To see Elowen as she is now—it is more than I dared to hope for.”
Elowen, hearing him, turned slightly. “You all speak as though we were not present,” she said with gentle reproach.
“Were you?” Catherine teased. “You seemed far too absorbed in whatever His Grace was whispering just now.”
