“I do,” he said, the words landing like a stone in his chest.
His princesse would have felt great compassion for Lady Hannah. She might even have approved of this marriage, in the abstract.
He had done all he possibly could for Ambrosia. She would be fine—more than fine. She was strong, intelligent… beautiful. But even now, the ghost of her presence remained with him, unbidden.
“I do.” Lady Hannah’s voice—so soft he might have missed it—pulled him back.
He barely knew his bride. But that didn’t matter. If not for him, she wouldn’t be in need of his protection.
Her father wanted a duke, and a duke he would have.
“Do you have the rings?” the vicar prompted.
Gideon “Hawk” Rothmoor, Baron Hawkins, stepped forward bearing the rings on a small velvet cushion.
His friend’s dark hair was combed back neatly, his black coat cut to perfection, his cravat a crisp, immaculate white. Yet for all his polish, there was no judgment in his eyes—only the quiet loyalty Hawk had carried since their days in the infirmary. They had stood shoulder to shoulder more times than Dash could number.
The weight of the moment pressed hard, but Hawk’s presence lent a steadiness, a silent vow that Dash’s sacrifice would matter, that he wasn’t alone.
And he wasn’t. There were only five men alive who knew the truth, and they were all in this very room. Each had accepted the grim necessity of it, their silent presence a kind of muted absolution. This was for the best, they had agreed… and perhaps, in time, he would come to believe that too.
Dash accepted the two gold bands, but when he glanced down, he saw it—the slim circle of silver still on his finger. The one Ambrosia had chosen. The symbol of their false marriage which, in another life, perhaps they might have made real.
Discreetly, he eased it off and slid it onto his right hand.
He couldn’t very well keep it on his left, a bittersweet reminder of the woman he’d betrayed.
Ambrosia had believed in him—more than anyone—and he had failed her.
Miserably.
Perhaps he could salvage some scrap of honor here, with this poor girl beside him. He would take her to Dasborough Park, far from the cold dictates of her parents. His mother and Beatrice would keep her company. Befriend her. From all he’d heard, she had been kept shuttered away from the world, denied even the simplest joys.
He would do his best to give her comfort. To protect her.
Maybe, just maybe, he could atone—one dutiful act at a time—for the debt he could never repay.
The rings were exchanged, vows spoken, and a quiet murmur of approval drifted through the small assembly. No cheering, no grand display—only the solemn acknowledgment of a union bound before God and man.
Not long after, the wedding breakfast was set out in the earl’s ballroom to celebrate their union—although, “celebrate” was perhaps an overly cheerful term, as the occasion was marked with a modest arrangement of minimally decorated tables, polished silver, and polite conversation dulled to a hush.
At the head table, Lady Hannah sat beside Dash, her hands tucked beneath the tablecloth. She had hardly touched her plate, and though he noticed, he made no comment.
With Ambrosia, he would have coaxed a bite or two, teased her into eating with a smile or a shared jest.
But Hannah was not Ambrosia.
Where his princesse had looked at a meal with quiet, almost guilty longing, Hannah regarded her plate as though it were a mountain she had neither the strength nor the will to climb.
“I hope this isn’t too much,” he said quietly, angling his body toward hers. “If you’d prefer somewhere quieter, we can move to one of the smaller drawing rooms.”
Her lips curved in a faint smile. “You are kind, Your Grace, but you mustn’t concern yourself. Although, perhaps if I could…” She glanced around. “Lark?” There was noticeable strain in her voice.
Before he could respond, the companion appeared—Miss Lark Montague, a young woman with watchful eyes and an air of calm competence. “Shall we take some air, my lady?” she asked, her tone gentle but decisive.
Lady Hannah looked back to Dash. “Forgive me,” she murmured.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, meaning it. None of this was her fault.
