In a few moments, the law and the church would give her to him. But as his eyes devoured her, she realized she was already his.
“Ready?” her father asked softly.
No, she thought.
“Yes,” she answered with the smallest nod.
Then they walked.
She felt her body with a terrifying, raw clarity: the heavy drag of her gown, the frantic thud in her ribs, the heat of the morning light. She had expected a riot of joy; instead, she felt a solemn, heavy ache. And beneath it, a dark, pulsing thrill she was ashamed to name.
The Duke stood like a statue, his iron restraint acting as a catalyst for her own trembling.
When they reached the altar, her father placed her hand in the Duke’s. The contact was a jolt. His skin was a brand, his grip steady and possessive even in its formality.
Lord Weston lingered for a fraction of a second before he stepped back, leaving her alone with the Duke. Emmeline didn’t look at her father. If she broke her gaze from the Duke’s, she would shatter.
The vicar’s voice droned on, a rhythmic hum against the silence of the stone walls.
“Rowan Huntley, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?”
“I will,” the Duke said.
The depth of his voice vibrated through the floorboards, hitting Emmeline in the center of her chest. He looked at her, his gray eyes fixed on hers.
“Emmeline Greene, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband?”
The silence stretched. Emmeline felt the weight of her father’s stare, the sharp prickle of Margaret’s anxiety in the front pew. She swallowed, her throat tight.
“I will,” she whispered.
The Duke reached for her hand then, his fingers broad and calloused as they slid the gold band home. The metal was cold, but his skin was a furnace. He squeezed her hand. The brief pressure made her gasp before the vicar made the final sign of the cross.
“I pronounce that they be man and wife.”
Rowan turned her toward him. The church felt like it was shrinking, the high ceilings pressing down until there was only the scent of his cologne and the hard line of his body.
Then, he bowed his head slightly. “Your Grace.”
The title sounded absurd from his mouth, directed at her. A faint, helpless warmth moved through her.
“Your Grace,” she returned.
They drove back to his London house for the wedding breakfast in a blur of motion and congratulations. Everything remained deliberately modest: only the necessary guests, a quiet meal and the handful of toasts politeness demanded. No orchestra. No crush of well-wishers. No public spectacle.
It should have made the whole thing feel smaller. Instead, it seemed to sharpen every feeling because there was less noise to hide inside.
By the time they entered Ironford House again, Emmeline had become too aware of the strangeness of each new movement. A servant bowed lower to her than anyone had before. The very air of the place seemed to tilt toward her.
It was unnerving. It was also, she could not deny, relieving.
Because her father was now safe. No matter what the marriage did or did not become, no matter what she would one day learn of Rowan’s heart or her own, the immediate terror that had shadowed her for so long had loosened at last.
The wedding breakfast had scarcely begun when she saw the first small disturbance.
Aaron had drifted a little apart from the others. One of the guests—Lord Vale—had cornered him near the edge of the room and was bending toward him with what was no doubt intended as kindness.
“And are you pleased to have a new mama, eh?”
