Some had come to celebrate. Others had come to gawk and whisper behind their fans about the baker who had caught aviscount. Let them all see. Let them witness what love looked like when it refused to be defeated.
Nell waited in the vestibule while the guests settled, Oliver standing solid and steady at her side. Through the closed doors she could hear the murmur of the crowd, the rustle of silk, the first strains of music.
The doors swung open.
Lily went first, scattering rose petals with the serious concentration of a child performing a holy task, her brow furrowed as she ensured the path was perfect.
Then Nell and Oliver stepped through the doorway, and the world fell away.
She saw Dominic at the altar, and nothing else existed. He stood tall and straight in a dark blue coat and cream waistcoat, his dark hair brushed back from his face. The candlelight caught the silver of the scar on his jaw, and his grey eyes fixed on her with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs.
His friend, Alistair, stood beside him, grinning broadly as he nudged Dominic’s arm. Catherine dabbed at her eyes in the front pew. Philippa was already openly weeping. Near the back, Edmund stood with his arms crossed, watching with a quiet, resigned peace. None of it registered beyond a faint awareness. There was only Dominic.
The walk down the aisle felt endless. The walk down the aisle was over too soon.
Oliver placed her hand in Dominic’s, his small fingers steady as they transferred her from son to husband. “Take care of her.” The request fractured, catching on a wave of emotion he was fighting to contain.
“Always.” Dominic’s hand closed around hers, warm and strong. He met Oliver’s eyes with the solemnity of a soldier’s vow and gave a short, firm nod. “I swear it.”
Oliver stepped back to stand beside his sister. His hand found Lily’s, and they watched together — the children Nell had borne and raised and protected, witnessing their mother pledge herself to a man who had earned their trust with blood and bullet and promise.
The vicar began to speak, the familiar words of the marriage service washing over Nell like music.
The vicar turned to Dominic, prayer book open in his weathered hands. “Do you, Dominic James Westmore, Viscount Westmore, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” Dominic spoke without a trace of doubt, the words ringing through the rafters as he squeezed her fingers.
The vicar shifted his attention to her, his expression softening. “And do you, Eleanor Whitmore, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.” She lifted her chin and held his gaze without hesitation. The gold band slid onto her finger beside the ruby, a perfect circle that completed the promise.
The vicar raised his hands in a small gesture of blessing. “You may kiss the bride.”
Dominic leaned in, one hand cradling her face, the other settling at the small of her back. “Finally.” He pressed the word against her lips so softly that only she could feel it.
Their kiss deepened, full of promise and relief. She pressed into him, her hands fisting in the lapels of his coat, and when they parted the church erupted in cheers and applause. Lily’s delighted squeal of “They are married!” bounced off the rafters.
Nell laughed through tears, and Dominic laughed too, pulling her against him and holding her the way a man holds something he never intends to let go.
He pressed a warm kiss into her hair, murmuring her name against the strands.
She tipped her head back to look at him. “Take me home.”
Bramwell Park had transformed into a vision of light and colour. Flowers and candles filled every corner, casting warm glows that chased away the grey of winter. Musicians played in the gallery, the strains of violin and pianoforte drifting through the halls. Nell moved through the crowd in a happy daze, shaking hands and accepting congratulations, but her hand never left Dominic’s. He stayed close, fingers threaded tightly through hers, shadowing her with a steady, protective presence.
When the crowd thinned for a moment, he leaned toward her, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the back of her hand.
She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, inhaling the scent of sandalwood.
He pressed a teasing hand lower on her back, leaning close until she felt the warmth of his chest against her. Her cheeks flamed, and he laughed quietly — a low, delighted sound that made her heart ache.
Daphne rose from the head table, a glass of champagne held high in her good hand. The splinted wrist rested in her lap, but her eyes were clear and fierce and bright. Silence fell over the room.
“A toast.” She gestured toward the couple with the glass. “To the woman who survived everything life threw at her and found love anyway. To Nell — Lady Westmore now — the bravest person I know. And to Lord Westmore, who had the good sense to recognise a treasure when he found one.” She winked, mischief sparkling. “May you have the happiness you deserve. Both of you. Always.”
Alistair Thorne, the Marquess of Waverly, was watching Daphne with an expression that made Nell’s breath catch. There was something sharp and hungry in his gaze, a look that felt entirely too familiar. He was the only son of the Duke of Patterson and the sole heir to one of England’s oldest titles, yethe watched Daphne Wells the way a starving man watches a locked kitchen.
“Your friend is staring at Daphne.” Nell murmured the words to Dominic, nodding subtly in Alistair’s direction.
