Page 15

There was but one minute to go, perhaps two, before the doors would open. The vestibule was cold and smelled of old stone, and Juliet held the small bunch of white roses Mrs. Priscilla had pressed into her hands that morning and said nothing.

“Penhurst has connections,” her father continued. “Do you understand the position you have placed me in? The man sent me a letter that I would not repeat in polite company. He would have gotten us shares great enough to increase our wealth, but you had to go and ruin it by invoking a marriage with a recluse! Heaven knows if he will do anything for your poor father.”

Juliet managed to keep herself from sighing. More due to the old fear still lodged between her ribs.

“Let us go, Father,” she only responded, her voice low and careful.

The doors swung inward, and Juliet’s heart started to pound even harder against her chest at the reality of her new future unfolding before her eyes.

She would soon be free of her father.

Her wedding dress was infinitely simpler and softer than Penhurst’s expensive monstrosity. This dress, though sourced quickly, fit her skin softly, and its drape was so light she almost forgot it was there. Knowing this was one of her comforts as she crossed the threshold into the chapel.

Adam Townsend, the Duke of Ravenlocke and her soon-to-be-husband, stood at the altar.

He had not dressed to impress. His coat was charcoal, the cravat white and plainly tied, and yet…

The mere sight of him took her breath away, no matter that she knew this was nothing but a marriage of convenience.

The angle of light from the narrow windows caught the line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders, and Juliet realized she was gripping the roses a degree too tightly. Oh no, her heart did not listen; it was already banging against her ribcage, as if seeking escape.

His eyes tracked her as she walked towards him, and it felt as though everywhere he looked was set on fire. She had not expected such an intense stare from him, considering the circumstances of their wedding, but she also didn’t… quite dislike it.

She softened her grip, sucked in a short breath, and kept walking.

“You will smile,” her father ordered, “and you will be gracious, and you will not give anyone reason to pity him for having taken you on.”

Juliet pressed her lips together, impatiently counting the number of steps that remained until he could release her.

Only a few feet more. Just a little more until I’m rid of this.

Finally, at the altar, her father placed her hand in the duke’s. As her father stepped aside, Juliet noticed the duke’s eyes fixed on him, narrowing into a cold, sharp-edged warning.

She felt her face soften. Even in this moment, the duke was still so…

Protective?

The moment his eyes shifted back to her, the hardness vanished entirely, replaced by sudden gentleness.

Every tense part in her body loosened as she met his gaze.

His grip was firm and brief, then he simply held her hand, as one holds something one intends to keep.

The vicar opened his book, and the duke turned away from her.

With that, the service began.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy matrimony…” the vicar started.

She had expected the ceremony to feel long. It did not. The vows were short and clear; she said them without faltering, and the duke spoke each word with attention.

She had not expected it of a man who had described their arrangement as a matter of practicality.

The vicar’s voice droned on, a steady cadence against the breathless hush of the stone chapel.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” the duke’s deep voice murmured beside her.

Juliet kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, staring hard at a particularly intricate patch of plasterwork on the chapel ceiling. A cluster of cherubs peered down from a faded fresco, their painted cheeks rosier than the blood rushing to her own face.