“Your Grace,” she said. “You are early.”
“I am on time,” James replied.
Eleanor stood a few paces away, her back straight, her hands folded with unnecessary care. She wore cream, as they had agreed. The gown was simple, elegant in its restraint. No excessive lace. No needless ornament. Her hair was arranged neatly, a bonnet pinned lightly atop.
She looked composed… And stunning.
James’s gaze flicked briefly to Charlotte, whose lips pressed thin, then returned to Eleanor.
“You look very well,” he said.
The words sounded stiff, even to his own ears. Too formal. Too careful.
Eleanor’s eyes lifted to his, surprise flashing through them before she could mask it. Color bloomed across her cheeks, soft and unmistakable.
James let the hunger tighten his core.
Charlotte smiled tightly. “I was merely advising my sister – ”
“You were doing no such thing, Miss Barker,” James said evenly.
Charlotte blinked. “Your Grace?”
He did not look at her. “You will refrain from offering unsolicited opinions today. Particularly those meant to diminish my wife.”
Eleanor’s breath caught.
Charlotte’s cheeks flushed. “Of course. I meant no harm.”
“I am sure,” James replied, in a tone that suggested the opposite. Charlotte said nothing else, but her eyes followed Eleanor with a look too sharp to be dismissed as defeat.
The vicar cleared his throat nervously from the hallway.
James turned to Eleanor. “Shall we?”
She hesitated only a fraction of a second, then nodded. “Yes.”
They all moved together.
The ceremony was efficient. James preferred it that way.
The vicar’s voice echoed through the chapel, steady and reverent. Words James had heard before – at other weddings, other lives – took on a sharper clarity when spoken for him.
When he placed the ring on Eleanor’s finger, her hand trembled faintly. He felt it.
“I, James Montague – ”
The name sounded strange, suddenly public.
“I, Eleanor Barker – ”
She spoke clearly. Steadily.
When the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, there was a pause – an intake of collective breath – before the murmured approval rippled through the small congregation.
They moved to the vestry to sign the license. Roderick signed next, his bold hand unmistakable beneath the title Duke of Wycliffe, before Arabella Barker added her own careful name beside it.
“Congratulations,” Roderick murmured, leaning in. “You look like a man who just set fire to his own house.”
