The vows were simple.
They had discussed writing their own words, pouring their hearts onto paper and reading them aloud. But in the end, they had decided against it. What they felt for each other was too vast, too complex, too deeply woven into the fabric of their beings to be reduced to pretty phrases. The traditional vows would suffice. The meaning they carried would be their own.
“I, Christian Edward Hale, take thee, Fiona Rose Hart, to be my wedded wife.”
His voice was steady, but Fiona could feel the tremor in his hand where it held hers. She squeezed gently, offering reassurance, and saw his shoulders relax.
“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”
He slid the ring onto her finger—a band of gold set with a single sapphire.
“With this ring, I thee wed. With my body, I thee worship. And with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”
His eyes never left hers. In them, she saw everything he was not saying:I love you. I will always love you. You have saved me, and I will spend the rest of my life being worthy of that salvation.
Then it was her turn.
“I, Fiona Rose Hart, take thee, Christian Edward Hale, to be my wedded husband.”
Her voice did not waver. She had never been more certain of anything.
“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, till death us do part.”
She paused on the wordobey—a tradition she had always found somewhat ridiculous—and saw the corner of Christian’s mouth twitch with suppressed amusement. He knew her well enough to know that obedience would never be her strong suit. He loved her for it.
She slid the matching ring onto his finger, her hands steady, her heart full.
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
The vicar spoke the final words of the ceremony, closed the prayer book, and pronounced them husband and wife.
Christian released a breath he had not realised he had been holding. His hands closed gently around Fiona’s.
“At last, you are mine,” he murmured.
***
The wedding breakfast was held in the great hall.
It was a modest affair by aristocratic standards—no towering cakes or elaborate entertainments, no orchestra or endless courses. Just good food, fine wine, and the company of people who genuinely cared about the couple at the head of the table.
Fiona sat beside her husband—her husband, the word still felt unreal—and watched him navigate the celebrations with a grace she had not expected. He smiled at the toasts, laughed at Lady Ashworth’s pointed remarks about finally seeing sense, and even managed to exchange a few civil words with her father, who had thawed enough to offer grudging congratulations.
“You look happy,” she murmured during a lull in the conversation.
“I am happy.” He turned toward her, his eyes warm. “Impossibly—ridiculously—happy.”
“Ridiculously?”
“And a little afraid.” His voice was low, meant only for her. “I have never had so much to lose before. It makes me want to hold on very tightly indeed.”
“Then hold on.” She laid her hand over his. “I am not going anywhere.”
The afternoon wore on. Guests mingled and laughed. Adelaide monopolised Lady Ashworth, peppering her with questions about London society. Mrs Blackley bustled about, ensuring that everyone’s glass was full and every need was met. Even Fiona’s mother seemed to be enjoying herself, her earlier tears replaced by something that looked almost like contentment.
And through it all, Christian stayed close. His hand on her back, his shoulder brushing hers, his presence a constant reassurance that this was real, this was happening, they were truly married at last.
By the time the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, the guests had begun to disperse. Lady Ashworth announced her intention to retire early, citing exhaustion from “all this excessive sentiment.” Fiona’s parents departed for the guest wing, her mother pressing a tearful kiss to her cheek and whispering something about being proud of her. Even Adelaide, usually irrepressible, yawned and declared herself ready for bed.
