James ignored him, and signed the registry, sliding a pound across the desk to the vicar.
Eleanor signed last. Her hand did not shake this time.
“Congratulations, El,” Arabella said quietly, and planted a soft kiss to her sister’s cheek, then James’s cheek.
“Thank you, Arabella,” James said, with uncharacteristic gentleness.
When Eleanor and James emerged from the vestry and out of the chapel, carriages waited, and they were on their way to St. George Manor.
James stepped into the entry hall and halted.
Flowers.
Everywhere.
Blooms crowded the space in violent abundance. Roses, lilies, peonies – colors clashed and overwhelmed, arrangements competing for attention like children starved of praise. The scent was oppressive, cloying.
James’s jaw tightened.
“This,” he said quietly to Roderick, “is what happens when enthusiasm is mistaken for taste.”
Roderick snorted. “I believe this violates several unspoken laws of decency.”
Eleanor, just behind them, caught the remark.
A soft, involuntary laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
James glanced at her. She pressed her lips together, eyes bright with amusement.
Something warm flickered through him.
Lord St. George approached at once, beaming. “Magnificent, is it not?”
Charlotte stood beside him, radiant with pride. “We wanted it to feel… celebratory.”
James inclined his head. “It is certainly memorable.”
Eleanor and Arabella stood together now, both looking faintly overwhelmed. Arabella’s gaze darted about the room as though she feared the flowers might attack.
Roderick leaned in again. “If one more bouquet appears, I may suffocate.”
James allowed the corner of his mouth to lift. Eleanor noticed.
Their eyes met briefly.
It felt like sharing a secret.
The wedding breakfast passed in a blur of polite conversation and forced cheer. James ate little. He watched.
He watched Eleanor endure.
At precisely one o’clock, the church clock chimed in the distance.
James rose.
“We are leaving,” he announced.
There was a collective pause.
