“I know what you’re thinking. Poor widow catches a duke. How convenient. How calculated.” Margaret’s voice went hard. “But I’ve spent three weeks trying to decide if I could bear this—his world, his title, his aunts who look at me like I’m something they scraped off their shoes.”
Aunt Agnes sputtered. “How dare you?—”
“How dare I what? Tell the truth?” Margaret laughed, the sound bitter. “I’ve been performing for too long to please women like you. No more hypocrisy for me! I’m done pretending.”
She turned to Henry. His eyes blazed with an intensity that made her chest tight.
“Henry asked me to marry him weeks ago. I said no—not because I don’t want him, but because I was terrified of being trapped again. Of making another mistake. Of marrying someone who’d regret me.” Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. “Tonight, kissing him, being with him, I realized something. I’m not trapped. I’m choosing. For the first time in my life, I get to choose. And I choose him.”
She turned back to the women. “So yes, we’re engaged. The wedding will be soon. You’re all invited if you can be civil about it. If not, you can gossip all you like. I don’t care anymore.”
Silence hung in the garden like a held breath.
Then Henry was beside her, his hand finding hers and squeezing. “What she said.” His voice carried a ducal authority that made people listen. “Though I’ll add that if anyone speaks ill of my future wife, they’ll answer to me. And I can be considerably less civil than Margaret when provoked.”
Mrs. Henderson’s eyes were wide, as she doubtless calculated how to spin this story for maximum drama.
The vicar’s wife cleared her throat. “Well, this is certainly unexpected.”
“Is it?” Henry asked. “I’ve been courting her openly for weeks. The only unexpected part is that you all thought you could stop it.”
Aunt Agnes’s face turned purple. “Your Grace, this is highly irregular?—”
“Then we’ll be irregular together.” He pulled Margaret closer. “The wedding will be in three days. You’re welcome to attend or not. Your choice.”
He looked down at Margaret. “Shall we go inside? I believe we have a wedding to plan.”
She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
They walked past the three women, heads high and hands clasped. Behind them, she heard Mrs. Henderson whisper something to the vicar’s wife, the beginning of tomorrow’s gossip.
But for the first time in her life, Margaret didn’t care.
She’d chosen. Finally, completely chosen.
And it felt like freedom.
CHAPTER 9
Margaret insisted on a small church—no grand cathedral, no crowds of judgment. Just the vicar, her siblings, and a handful of people who actually cared whether she and Henry found happiness.
She stood in the vestibule, smoothing her hands over her simple cream silk dress. Not the elaborate gown his aunts had tried to commission, but something she’d chosen herself.
“You look beautiful,” Tessie whispered, adjusting the flowers in Margaret’s hair.
“I am terrified.”
“The good kind.” Her sister grinned. “The‘I’m marrying a man I actually love’kind.”
Matthew appeared in the doorway, tall and serious in his best coat. “They’re ready.”
Her siblings filed out, and Matthew offered his arm. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. “Because if not, we can leave right now.”
Her heart squeezed. “I’m sure. This time, I’m choosing.”
They stepped into the church. Morning light streamed through stained glass, casting jeweled patterns across the stone. And there, at the front, stood Henry. He turned as she entered.
The breath left her lungs. He looked at her like she was the only person in the world, as if he’d been waiting his entire life for this moment.
