The Ashworth chapel was a small gem of Gothic architecture, tucked into a corner of the estate grounds.
Cecilia had not seen it before—there had been no time, in the whirlwind of preparations—and she caught her breath as the carriage rounded the final bend and the building came into view. Stone walls, ancient and weathered. Tall windows of stained glass. A bell tower reaching toward the winter sky.
“Beautiful, is it not?” the Dowager observed. “Several generations of Harcourts have been married here.”
“I shall do my best not to disgrace the lineage.”
“I have no fear of that.” A faint smile. “You have already faced down greater terrors than family tradition.”
The carriage halted. A footman opened the door. Voices and candlelight stirred within the chapel.
“Ready?” the Dowager asked.
Cecilia thought of her mother. Of Sebastian. Of every step that had brought her here.
“Ready,” she said.
The doors opened.
Chapter Twenty
The chapel glowed with candlelight and flowers.
Cecilia walked down the aisle on the Dowager’s arm—an unconventional arrangement, perhaps, but one that suited the circumstances precisely. She had no father to give her away, no male relation to perform the customary duty. The Dowager had offered without hesitation, and Cecilia had accepted with quiet gratitude.
The guests rose as she entered—a small gathering, as promised. Sebastian’s brother, Evan, stood among them, along with a handful of close friends and family. Helena sat near the front, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
And there, waiting at the altar, stood Sebastian.
He was, as ever, impeccably dressed—dark coat, crisp white cravat, the restrained elegance that marked everything he did. Yet it was his expression that held Cecilia’s gaze. His features were transformed by something she had rarely seen so openly upon his face: unguarded joy.
He was looking at her as though she were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
She moved toward him, each step carrying her closer to the life they would build together. The pearls lay warm against her throat, and the pearl ring rested upon her finger, hidden beneath her glove, its presence known only to her.
At the altar, the Dowager released her and stepped back to her seat. Sebastian reached out at once, enclosing Cecilia’s hands in his own.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured.
“You are quite acceptable, too.”
He laughed—a quiet sound meant for her alone—and turned to face the vicar.
The ceremony began.
The vows were traditional, the words worn smooth by centuries of repetition.
“Will you take this woman as your wedded wife, to share your life with her in marriage? Will you love her, cherish her, and honour her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, remain faithful to her for as long as you both shall live?”
Sebastian’s voice was steady and certain. “I will.”
Tears pricked at Cecilia’s eyes. Such simple words, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime—briefly spoken, yet vast in promise.
“Will you take this man as your wedded husband, to share your life with him in marriage? Will you love him, obey him, and honour him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, remain faithful to him for as long as you both shall live?”
Cecilia met Sebastian’s gaze. She was not fashioned for obedience, and he had never sought it of her. When they had spoken of this moment, he had been clear: he wished for partnership, not submission.
“I will,” she said, and meant:I will stand beside you. I will challenge you when you are wrong and support you when you are right. I will be your equal in all things, as you have always treated me.
