“Indeed. Now, before we can start celebrating, let’s finish the final details. I have all the documents from my solicitor regarding Grace’s inheritance, her dowry, and settlement.”
Ramsey couldn’t care two figs about whatever dowry and such Grace added to the marriage. His coffers were quite full. Yet as he read through the documents, the realization struck him that he was marrying quite the properly dowered, properly English, and properly innocent—ish—lady that his father had always held on such a pedestal. It was ironic, how when he was looking for such a lady, he’d found the opposite. And now, when he couldn’t care less about the “proper” nature of a wife, he’d found the perfect one. And none of those details mattered, because he was in love with who she was, not what defined her on paper.
When the final details were settled and the ink had dried, Heathcliff offered his hand in a final agreement.
Ramsey shook his hand firmly. It was done.
Almost.
The ink was dried on the paper, but like so much in life, the most important things lived and breathed.
Ink meant nothing until the words were whispered: I do.
