"When's the bride arriving?" "Think she'll actually go through with it?" "Five pounds says someone objects…" "Ten says the duke faints…"
"I can hear you all," Gabriel said loudly, not turning around. "And for the record, I don't faint. I strategically lose consciousness when overwhelmed by emotion."
Nervous laughter rippled through the church, and Edmund muttered, "Could you try not to antagonize the audience before your bride arrives?"
"They're placing bets on our wedding. They're already antagonized."
"They're invested. There's a difference."
Before Gabriel could argue about yet another thing that was or wasn't mutually exclusive, the church doors opened, and the entire congregation turned as one.
For a moment, there was absolute silence.
Then Clara appeared, and Gabriel forgot how to breathe.
She wore a dress of cream silk that somehow managed to be both simple and stunning, probably because the woman wearing it could have made sackcloth look regal. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style that Mary had probably spent hours perfecting, with small white roses woven throughout. She carried a bouquet of winter roses mixed with, unless Gabriel was mistaken, cuttings from their grafted rose in the garden.
But it was her face that stopped his heart…radiant, confident, and looking at him like he was the only person in the crowded church.
"Good gracious…" someone whispered, possibly him.
Clara began her walk down the aisle, and Gabriel was vaguely aware of reactions around them:
Mrs. Potter crying into a handkerchief while insisting it was dust. Cook nodding approvingly at Clara's appearance. Peter and the other servants beaming with pride. Penelope Ashworth sighing romantically. Various villagers looking stunned that their duke was actually entering into matrimony with his housekeeper.
But Gabriel only had eyes for Clara, who moved toward him with the same determination she'd shown climbing his wall in stolen boots, except now she was walking toward him, not away from propriety.
When she finally reached him, Gabriel realised he was probably grinning like a fool, but he couldn't seem to stop.
"You came," he said quietly.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I thought you might come to your senses."
"I lost those weeks ago. I'm operating on pure instinct and questionable judgment now."
"Perfect. That's my preferred state of being."
The vicar cleared his throat. "Shall we begin?"
The vicar began the ceremony, his voice carrying through the packed church: "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Gabriel Edmund Alexander Hale, Duke of Ashbourne, and Clara Whitfield, in holy matrimony..."
Gabriel tried to focus on the words, but mostly he was focused on Clara, the way her hand felt in his, slightly trembling but firm; the way sunlight through stained glass painted colors across her face; the way she was biting her lip to keep from laughing at something, probably his expression.
"Matrimony," the vicar continued, "is not to be entered into lightly or inadvisably, but reverently and soberly."
"If anyone here present knows of any impediment why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
The entire church held its breath. Gabriel turned slightly, ready to physically fight anyone who dared interrupt.
"Gabriel Edmund Alexander Hale," the vicar said, "Do you take Clara Whitfield to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
"I do," Gabriel said, then because he couldn't help himself, added, "Enthusiastically and repeatedly."
The congregation tittered, the vicar looked pained, and Clara stepped on his foot.
"Clara Whitfield, do you take Gabriel Edmund Alexander Hale to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
