He held out another red-sealed envelope.
Eleanor did not take it.
“Not that sort of message,” Colin said, eyes warming by a hair. “Home Office gratitude—pompous lines, proper seals, and one rather gratifying sentence about your father’s name being cleared in full.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. She refused the tremor.
“Give it to me after,” she said.
Colin tucked it away again with theatrical obedience and glanced toward the nave. “He is waiting.”
Eleanor’s pulse jumped.
Colin lowered his voice. “For what it is worth… this is the only contract that has ever frightened Rathbourne.” He smiled. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“I took it as one,” she said, rising.
He offered his arm with exaggerated solemnity. “Shall we ruin his composure?”
She took his arm, then cast a glance to her mother. “With pleasure,” Eleanor said as Colin led her from the room.
The church was sparsely populated with no hint of spectacle, only a handful of witnesses. Lady Ainsworth, one of Colin’s discreet men near the side aisle, and, near the front, a woman Eleanor recognized from Colin’s circle.
At the altar Graham waited in dark broadcloth, his expresion severe, but the moment his gaze found Eleanor something in him shifted—quiet, unmistakable—as though he had stopped bracing for loss and begun, cautiously, to allow for keeping.
Eleanor walked the aisle with measured steps, not because she trembled, but because she refused to hurry.
When she reached him, Graham took her hands and Colin retreated.
Graham’s thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, where cord had once bitten. “Are you certain?” he murmured.
Eleanor smiled up at him. “I choose the risk.”
He gave her hands a gentle squeeze, his gaze warming.
The clergyman began. The words familiar—vows as old as London’s stones—but they sounded different in Eleanor’s ears. Not commands. Not cages. Commitment, freely given.
When it came time to speak, Graham’s voice did not falter.
“I, Graham Sinclair,” he said, and the way he said her name next—Eleanor—was a vow in itself. “I take thee to be my wedded wife.”
“And I, Eleanor Hargrove,” she answered, “take thee to be my wedded husband.”
Rings were produced.
Graham’s was plain gold. Eleanor’s was gold as well, with a tiny ruby set into it.
When Graham slid it onto her finger, his hand shook, slightly. Only enough that Eleanor understood he feared this.
She leaned in and whispered, too low for anyone else. “Partners.”
Graham’s mouth curved—barely, but it reached his eyes. “Always.”
The clergyman declared them married.
There was no roar of applause, only a soft exhale from the small assembly and the sudden, astonishing finality of it.
Colin’s smile was smug.
