It was not the dress—though the dress was simple and pale and right in a way that occasional wear would not have been. It was not the flowers Cecily had pressed into her hands at the last moment, soft and informal, nothing like the elaborate arrangements for weddings.
It was the way she moved—measured and deliberate, her chin up, her gaze forward. She wore her usual composure like armor, except this morning it had a different quality to it. It felt more… honest.
She was frightened.
He could see it because he knew how to look at her by now. He knew from the slight tension at the corners of her mouth, from her grip on William’s arm.
She was frightened, and she was here anyway, walking toward him with her chin up and her eyes clear. And that hit him somewhere he had not anticipated.
Eventually, she stopped before him.
William looked at him for a moment, and James held his gaze unflinchingly until he nodded, released her arm, and moved to stand beside Cecily.
James offered Isadora his arm, and she placed her hand on his sleeve. Her fingers were cool even through the wool. He felt them but did not look at them.
“All right?” he asked, his voice low enough so that only she could hear.
She looked up at him briefly, and something flickered across her face.
“Ask me again in ten minutes,” she replied.
He almost smiled. Then they turned to face the vicar.
The vows were short, but that had been the agreement anyway. There would be nothing elaborate, nothing that required more than was strictly necessary. The vicar was a sensible man who had received James’s request with equanimity.
James heard himself say the words. Heard her answer, her voice clear and even, each word placed with deliberate care. Her hand remained in his during the exchange, cold still, or perhaps his skin was too hot. He could not tell, yet he held her hand with the careful steadiness of a man who was paying attention to everything he was doing because the alternative was thinking about what it meant.
He did not look away from the vicar. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her profile, the slight bob of her throat when she swallowed before saying her vows, the way she quickly looked at their joined hands and then away.
The ring.
He had given it considerable thought. He had not wanted to give her something from the Ashbourne collection, some heavy heirloom that belonged to a history she had no part of. So he had commissioned a ring from a jeweler in London. The result was simple and bright, a single stone that caught the church light without demanding attention.
He put it on her finger.
She looked at it. The emotion that moved across her face was gone before he could decipher it. Then the vicar spoke the final words, wrapping up the ceremony.
The small congregation shifted behind them. Someone—Cecily, probably—made a small sound that well-mannered people made at the conclusion of ceremonies to fill the moment before applause became excessive and silence became uncomfortable.
Isadora turned toward him.
A kiss?
James saw the subtle tilt of her chin, the barely perceptible pause, as if she were expecting it. He knew it was natural and instinctive, the thing that happened at the end of a wedding regardless of the circumstances.
He thought about what he had told Henderson. About what he had promised himself in the corridor two nights ago. About giving himself time, givinghertime, keeping the distance she deserved.
So he straightened and stepped back.
He offered her his arm again, watching her face receive the decision. She quickly smoothed her expression, lifted her chin a fraction, and rested her hand on his sleeve with the exact same light pressure.
She said nothing, and neither did he.
They walked back down the aisle together, her hand cool on his arm, the morning light spilling in long pale strips across the stone floor. James looked straight ahead, aware with a clarity that surprised him of precisely how much that half-step back had cost him.
Outside the church, William shook his hand.
“Take care of her,” he grunted.
