“When?” she asked.
“In three days. The same church. Julian’s already agreed to stand as witness, and Lady Eleanor has informed me—at great length—exactly how this ceremony should differ from the first disaster.”
“Oliver?”
“Ring bearer. He’s been practising with Thomas for a week. They’ve developed an entire elaborate processional involving military precision and hand signals.”
“Good heavens!”
“They’re taking it very seriously.”
“We’re going to regret that part of it.”
“Undoubtedly.” He kissed her again. “But we’ll regret it together.”
Three days passed by in no time at all, and it was with her heart beating wildly in her chest that Maribel found herself getting married again. To the same man. Fortunately, this time without the large amount of guests who did not care to know her or Thaddeus.
The chapel looked nothing like it had six months ago.
Flowers covered every surface—roses from the garden, lavender tied with cream ribbon, trailing ivy wound through the pews. Candles burned in neat rows along the windowsills, their light catching in the stained glass and scattering rainbows across the ancient stone floor.
Music played. Real music, not the hurried hymn that had accompanied that first grim march.
Maribel stood in the small antechamber, hands shaking as Eleanor adjusted her gown—the same ivory silk from before, but transformed. Lace at the collar now. Embroidered flowers along the hem. Cream roses woven through her hair.
“You’re fidgeting,” Eleanor murmured.
“I’m nervous.”
“You’re already married to the man. What’s there to be nervous about?”
“What if he changes his mind? Not about being married to me, but… about loving me.”
“Then he’s a fool, and we’ll drown him in the duck pond.” Eleanor stepped back, eyes bright. “But he won’t. I’ve seen the way that man looks at you. Like you hung the moon and stars and possibly invented sunshine.”
“That’s absurd.”
“That’s love, darling.” She squeezed Maribel’s hands. “Your grandmother would burst with pride.”
A knock. Oliver’s voice, high and urgent: “It’s time! Papa says to hurry before the candles burn down!”
Eleanor opened the door. Oliver stood there in his finest suit, the ring cushion clutched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Thomas hovered behind him, equally formal, equally nervous.
“You look beautiful,” Oliver breathed.
“And you look very handsome.” Maribel knelt, straightening his cravat. “Are you ready?”
“I practised seventy-three times.”
“Then you’ll be perfect.”
She took his free hand. Together they walked toward the chapel doors.
The music swelled. The doors opened.
Thaddeus stood at the altar in dark grey, Julian beside him. When his eyes found hers, everything else vanished—the flowers, the candles, the gathered witnesses. Just him. Just that look on his face that said he’d been waiting for this moment, this choice, this beginning that should have been theirs from the start.
Oliver squeezed her hand. “Ready?”
