“No,” she admitted. “But that hardly matters, does it?”
He squeezed her hand. “Courage, my girl. We Whitcombes don’t run from our choices.”
The church smelled faintly of wax and cold stone. Adrian stood at the altar in dark blue superfine, every line of him composed save for the tension in his shoulders. His eyes found hers at once, the effect as potent as ever—hunger, possession, and perhaps something she didn’t yet dare name.
Her father delivered her with formal brevity. “Your Grace.”
“Mr Whitcombe.” Adrian’s gaze never left her. “Thank you for entrusting me with your daughter.”
“I’m not sure ‘trust’ is the word I’d use,” her father said dryly. “But what’s done is done.”
The elderly clergyman cleared his throat and began. The ancient words blurred past—to have and to hold, for better, for worse, till death us do part.So solemn, for a union born of haste.
When the moment came, Adrian produced a ring—plain gold, circled with tiny sapphires that matched her gown.
“When did you—?” she whispered.
“You’d be astonished how quickly a duke’s request is obeyed,” he murmured, sliding it onto her finger with deliberate care. “It was finished this morning.”
“It’s beautiful.”
His gaze met hers. “So are you.”.
When the final vows were spoken, the clergyman closed his prayer book and inclined his head.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Adrian turned to her. For a heartbeat, he only looked—dark eyes unreadable, the faintest muscle ticking in his jaw. Then he bent and brushed his lips against her forehead.
It was the lightest, briefest touch—chaste enough for the church, yet it sent warmth spiralling through her like sunlight through glass. Her breath caught, and she was absurdly aware of the witnesses, the echoing silence, the steady beat of her own heart.
When he straightened, his thumb traced her jaw, almost absently.
“Mine now,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.
“Your Grace,” she managed, though her voice trembled despite her effort at poise.
The registry was signed with little fanfare. Marianne’s hand shook slightly as she wrote her name for the last time as Whitcombe. When she set down the pen, she was the Duchess of Harrowmere.
The weight of it settled heavy and irrevocable.
“Breakfast?” her mother ventured. “Cook prepared—”
“I’m afraid we must decline,” Adrian said smoothly. “We leave for Harrowmere at once.”
“Truly?” Marianne turned to him. “But my things—”
“Already sent ahead. Your maid packed last night, under my instruction.”
“You presumptuous—”
“Husband,” he supplied mildly. “The word you’re searching for ishusband.”
Her parents exchanged a look.
“Perhaps,” her father said after a pause, “you might allow us a word with our daughter.”
Adrian hesitated, then nodded. “Five minutes. The carriage waits.”
