Only time would tell.
Chapter 6
The ivory silk had belonged to her mother twenty-three years ago, when hope still lived in the Richmond household and marriages began with love rather than ended with it. Victoria stood still as Margaret pinned another alteration along the bodice, the fabric hanging loose where her appetite had vanished in recent weeks, leaving her feeling hollow. Each adjustment felt like an accusation; this dress that had witnessed vows spoken in joy now bearing witness to her shame.
“Hold still,” Margaret murmured, though Victoria had not moved. Her sister’s fingers trembled against the silk, betraying the cheerful mask she wore. At seventeen, Margaret understood enough to know this wedding was wrong, that something terrible had necessitated it, though their parents had shielded her from the worst details.
Anne, two years younger, worked at Victoria’s dark hair with determined focus, weaving pearls through the elaborate coils their mother had insisted upon. “You look beautiful,” she said, the words ringing false in the weak morning light that crept through the curtains. “Mr. Harcourt will not be able to take his eyes off you.”
Victoria’s reflection stared back from the looking glass—a stranger with shadows beneath her eyes, cheeks gaunt from nights spent weeping into her pillow until dawn brought temporary reprieve. The pearls in her hair caught what little light existed, each one a small lie about the bride who wore them. She was no innocent maiden going joyfully to her wedding bed but damaged goods wrapped in borrowed finery, about to bind herself to a man who despised her very existence.
“There,” Margaret said, stepping back to survey her work. The dress fit better now, though nothing could disguise how it hung on Victoria’s diminished frame. “Mama will be pleased.”
Their mother appeared in the doorway, her face a study in forced optimism that cracked at the edges when she saw Victoria fully dressed. For a moment, her expression crumbled, revealing the grief beneath—grief for the wedding her eldest daughter should have had, with flowers and music and a church full of well-wishers instead of this hasty ceremony that reeked of scandal.
“My darling girl,” she whispered, crossing to adjust the veil with hands that would not quite steady. “You are doing the right thing. For all of us.”
Victoria nodded, not trusting her voice. The carriage wheels on cobblestones outside announced her father’s return from checking the arrangements one final time. The church—St. Mary’s, small and discreet—lay only ten minutes away. Ten minutes before she belonged to Rees Harcourt forever.
The ride passed in a blur of London morning—servants beginning their day, merchants opening shops, the world continuing its rhythm while Victoria’s life fractured into before and after. Margaret held her hand, squeezing periodically as if to remind her she was not alone, though Victoria had never felt more isolated. Through the carriage window, she glimpsed other young ladies walking with their maids, futures still bright with possibility, and wondered if they could smell the scandal on her like smoke from a fire.
St. Mary’s stood gray and imposing against the pale sky, its doors open like a whales mouth waiting to swallow her whole. The gathering inside was small—her immediate family, the Harcourts, and two witnesses her father had procured. No flowers adorned the altar, no music filled the air. This was not a celebration but a transaction, and everyone present knew it.
Rees stood at the altar in dark blue superfine that emphasized his broad shoulders and athletic build, his appearance so composed he might have been carved from marble. His dark blond hair caught the weak light from the stained glass windows, his distinctive gold-flecked eyes fixed on some point above her head as she approached. He was devastatingly handsome, and the irony of it made her stomach twist—in another life, another circumstance, she might have been thrilled to marry such a man.
But when their eyes finally met as she reached the altar, she saw nothing in his gaze. Not anger, not disgust, not even resignation—just emptiness, as if he had retreated so far inside himself that only his body remained present. He took her hand when prompted, his fingers cold through her gloves, his touch so light she barely felt it.
The vicar’s words washed over them, ancient promises about love and honor that felt like mockery. When he asked if Rees took Victoria to be his wife, the response came steady and clear, each word pronounced with the same detachment one might use to read a shopping list. When it was Victoria’s turn, her voice cracked on the vows, trembling so badly that the vicar had to lean forward to hear her confirmation.
“You may kiss the bride,” the vicar announced, and Victoria saw Rees’s jaw tighten—the first sign of any emotion since she had entered the church. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers for the briefest moment that could still qualify as a kiss. No warmth, no pressure, just the quick discharge of an obligation. When he pulled back, his face had already returned to that terrible blankness.
The wedding breakfast at her parents’ home was excruciating. Her mother had tried to create some semblance of celebration—there was champagne, delicate sandwiches, and a small cake that nobody seemed to have any appetite for. Conversation limped along, everyone desperately avoiding any topic that might brush against the circumstances that had necessitated this union.
Rees’s mother, a handsome woman with graying hair and her son’s distinctive eyes, watched them both with concern. She attempted several times to draw Victoria into conversation about household management, about her preferences for the townhouse, but each effort faltered against Victoria’s monosyllabic responses and Rees’s pointed silence.
“The weather has been uncommonly fine,” her father said during one particularly painful lull, and Victoria wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it—discussing weather while her life collapsed around her.
Finally, Rees stood. “We should depart. The household will be expecting us.”
The farewell was stilted, her mother clinging a moment too long, Margaret’s eyes bright with unshed tears. Anne, still young enough to believe in fairy tales, whispered, “It will get better,” but even she sounded uncertain.
In the carriage, Victoria sat as far from Rees as the seat would allow, staring at the passing buildings while silence stretched between them. The weight of her new wedding ring felt foreign on her finger, the gold band catching the afternoon light in a way that seemed to mock her.
“I know this is not what you wanted,” she began, unable to bear the silence any longer.
“Let us not discuss it.” His voice was flat, final. “What is done is done.”
The words felt like a door slamming shut on any possibility of understanding between them. Victoria turned back to the window, watching London blur past through eyes that burned with tears she would not let fall. She had saved her reputation, saved her sisters’ futures, and saved her family from complete ruin.
But as the carriage rolled toward her new home—toward a lifetime with a man who could barely stand to look at her—she wondered if the price of salvation had not been too high after all.
***
The townhouse on Grosvenor Square stood as a symbol of respectability, its Portland stone facade concealing the reluctant union within. Rees led Victoria through the entrance hall, aware of her presence behind him, the whisper of silk and the soft tread of her feet on marble echoing his own emptiness. The servants had gathered to greet their new mistress, and he introduced them with mechanical precision—Mr. Larkin, the butler, and Mrs. Pembridge, the housekeeper, stood at the fore—watching as Victoria’s voice faded with each acknowledgment, as if she were disappearing into herself.
“Your chambers,” he said, opening the door to rooms his mother had prepared years ago, back when he imagined bringing home a bride of his choosing, one who would smile at the pale yellow walls and delicate furniture. Victoria stepped inside, her movements careful, as if afraid of disturbing the air.
The suite was elegant, a sitting room with windows overlooking the square, a dressing room lined with empty wardrobes, and a bedchamber dominated by a canopied bed dressed in cream and gold. Fresh flowers adorned every surface, their perfume heavy in the afternoon light, a mockery of romance in this arranged prison.
