“He’s… determined at least,” Rachel completed her sister’s sentence. “And I suppose one could say that he is also honorable. He didn’t have to go through with this. He simply could have exposed the lie and left me to ruin, but he didn’t.”
“And what if he is truly terrible? What then?” Marina shook her head.
“Then I suppose that will be my marriage,” Rachel sighed.
“You always put yourself last,” Marina lamented, but even she seemed to realize that there was no more arguing with her sister.
She was stubborn after all.
“Come on,” Rachel stepped forward and touched Marina’s shoulders. “Don’t overact like that. I guess we’ll have to plan a wedding then.”
She just felt like throwing up whenever she said the words out loud, but she didn’t want that to be too obvious, for Marina’s sake, who was already pretty anxious. At the ridiculousness of the situation, Marina came up with a half-sob, half-laugh, and then brushed her tears from her cheeks with her hand.
“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” she asked. “Once you’re gone.”
Oh heavens. That was something she did not even want to think about.
“Every week. And if Letitia or Father gives you trouble, you’ll write to me. I’ll handle them no matter where I am.”
“Why does it feel as though you are going off to war?” Marina murmured against her shoulder.
Rachel pulled back, “Marriage, war… they’re not so different.”
It was true. Rachel had never thought she would ever marry. The likelihood of her being sent off to war seemed more likely than her ever willingly deciding to wed.
But there was no use fretting over it now. The decision had been made.
CHAPTER THREE
Servants rushed about Fairfield Manor. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, for there was a last-minute wedding to prepare for.
Seamstresses altered the bridal gown’s fit while Rachel stood in the room’s centre, her hands twiddling anxiously at her sides. It was the first and last fitting as everything had been arranged at the last hour.
Her reflection in the mirror hardly seemed like her own. The dress was simple—there was no time for anything else, given how quickly everything had unfolded.
A week. That was how long it took for her first meeting with the duke to now—the day before her wedding. It had happened so fast that Rachel had processed none of it.
“Stand still, Miss Rachel,” one of the seamstresses chided gently. “We’re nearly done.”
Rachel barely paid her any attention.
Since the duke’s departure, her father had been furiously critical of her, never shying away from reminding her of the dishonor she had brought upon their family.
That morning, his cheeks red with anger, he shouted out, “You’ve humiliated me beyond measure, girl. If the duke weren’t hell-bent on marrying you, I would…”
Rachel was unconcerned that he hadn’t completed the sentence. He did not need to, truly. Christopher had made no secret of the fact that he regretted having her in the first place and that she was just a terrible burden for him to bear.
But frankly, she knew that his opinion would not change whether she married anyone else, either. Therefore, it was best not to worry herself too much over it.
The next moment, Letitia swayed into the room. As expected, she did not even bother to knock, for she felt entitled to enter any room.
Rachel turned to look at her and noticed the dress that she had chosen to wear. It was a bit too loud for the occasion, but Letitia wasted no opportunity to divert all the attention to herself.
Letitia did not smile at the bride. Instead, she scrunched up her nose immediately and cast a dismissive glance at her gown.
“Is that the best you could manage? It’s dreadfully plain. You’re marrying a duke, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps he will see you in this dress, and call off the wedding.”
Rachel gritted her teeth but said nothing.
