And nothing—not scandal, nor society, nor all the whispers in the world—would ever part them again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thornwick Castle had never looked so beautiful.
Fiona stood at the window of her chamber—her old chamber, the one with the water stain shaped like a rabbit—and gazed out at the transformation below. The grey stone walls had been softened with garlands of wildflowers, gathered from the meadows and hedgerows by servants who had worked through the night. Ribbons in pale blue and silver fluttered from every available surface. The fountain in the courtyard, dry for decades, had been coaxed back to life and now sent crystal arcs of water sparkling in the morning sun.
It was as though the castle itself was celebrating.
“Miss Hart?” Molly appeared at her elbow, holding a crown of flowers. “It is time.”
Fiona turned from the window. Her wedding gown lay across the bed—ivory silk, simple in cut but exquisite in detail, with seed pearls scattered across the bodice like stars. Her mother’s pearls waited on the dressing table. And in Molly’s hands, the final touch: a crown of wildflowers, woven from blossoms gathered that very morning.
Just as Christian had imagined, that night in her narrow guest bed, when he had described the future he was too afraid to reach for.
She had made it real. They had made it real, together.
“Help me dress,” she said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “I do not wish to keep him waiting.”
The chapel had been transformed.
Not the ruined chapel on the far edge of the estate—that would always be their private sanctuary, the place where they had dreamt impossible dreams—but the small family chapel within the castle walls. It had been cleaned and polished, its ancient stones scrubbed, its stained-glass windows gleaming with light. Wildflowers filled every available surface, their scent mingling with the beeswax candles that lined the aisle.
Only a handful of guests occupied the wooden pews. Lady Ashworth, resplendent in deep emerald, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she would later deny owning. Fiona’s parents, her mother weeping openly, her father sitting stiff and uncomfortable but present nonetheless. Mrs Blackley and the senior servants, granted special permission to attend the ceremony that would give their master a wife at last. And Adelaide, Fiona’s cousin, who had arrived the day before with wide eyes and a thousand questions and had declared the whole thing “terribly romantic, like something out of a novel.”
But Fiona saw none of them.
She saw only Christian.
He stood at the altar, tall and broad and magnificent in his wedding clothes. He had conceded to formality for the occasion—his coat was impeccable, his cravat perfectly tied—but he had made one deliberate choice that made her heart swell with love.
His collar was open. The birthmark was visible, wine-dark against his skin, displayed without shame or apology.
He was done hiding. Today, of all days, he wanted the world to see him exactly as he was.
Their eyes met across the length of the chapel, and Fiona watched his face transform.
She had seen Christian smile before—rare, precious smiles that she treasured like jewels. But this was something else. This was joy, pure and unrestrained, breaking across his features like dawn breaking over the sea. His eyes glistened. His lips parted. His whole body seemed to lean toward her, as though she were a magnet and he were helpless to resist.
She began to walk.
Her father had offered to escort her down the aisle—a gesture of reconciliation, perhaps, or simply a concession to tradition—but Fiona had declined. She would walk to Christian herself, just as she had chosen him from the very beginning, through every storm and every trial that had brought them here.
The aisle was not long, but the walk felt endless. Every step brought her closer to him. Every step was a choice, a commitment, a declaration.
She reached the altar. She stopped before Christian. And she smiled.
“Hello,” she whispered.
“Hello.” His voice was rough with emotion. “You came.”
“Did you doubt me?”
“Never.” He reached out and took her hand, his fingers trembling against hers. “Not for a single moment.”
The vicar cleared his throat—a gentle reminder that there was a ceremony to perform—and they turned to face him together.
***
