Chapter 16
T he morning of the wedding dawned clear and golden, as if London itself had decided to bless them.
St. George’s, Hanover Square, was a cathedral of blossoms. Florals cascaded from railings and windowsills, spilling down the steps in waves of cream and blush.
The blossoms exhaled a rich perfume—roses, jasmine, lilies—all mingling in the golden light.
Sunlight dappled the petals and painted shifting shadows across the stone steps, giving the entire entrance the look of a garden.
A soft breeze stirred the blooms, and petals drifted like whispered blessings onto the cobblestones below.
Inside, the crème of the ton packed the pews, their whispers a hushed counterpoint to the music that floated through the vaulted ceiling. Feathered fans fluttered. Jewels sparkled. Anticipation shimmered.
Crispin stood at the altar, his hands tight behind his back, his heart unmoored. Edward gave him a steady look of support.
In the front pew, Lady Oakford sat with her back straight, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with tiny violets.
Her smile was radiant with pride, her gaze fixed firmly on Crispin.
Across the aisle, Lady Shipley sat upright in full lavender satin, her expression a rare combination of regal composure and maternal joy.
The music shifted. Every breath in the church stilled.
Clara appeared at the back of the aisle.
She wore silver silk embroidered with gold, the fabric catching the light like moonlight on water.
The gown shimmered with each step, whispering scandal and elegance in equal measure, the hem brushing the aisle with a soft swish that echoed through the expectant hush.
Her hair was gathered in loose curls, crowned with pearl-dotted pins.
She walked not like a sacrificial lamb but a sovereign queen, her gown sweeping regally across the aisle as candlelight gilded her curls and cast soft shadows on the ancient stones.
Her gaze locked with his, unwavering and fierce, as if she saw not just the man he was but the life they were about to begin.
Crispin’s breath caught.
As she reached him, he reached for her hand and laced their fingers together.
“You came,” he whispered, his voice rough with awe.
He brushed his thumb across her knuckles as though to ground himself in the reality of her presence.
His chest ached with the sheer force of feeling—relief, wonder, and something perilously close to disbelief that this moment, this woman, belonged to him.
Clara smiled. “Always.”
The ceremony passed in a golden blur. Their vows were simple, devastating. Clara’s voice shook only once—when she said his name.
Crispin’s vow was a promise wrapped in reverence: “I have wandered, and I have played the devil. But in you, I found home.”
Their kiss was not chaste. It was raw, reverent, real. Scandalous.
And for one breathless second, Crispin remembered the vow he had made weeks ago that the next time he kissed her, it would be in public, and she would hate him for it. But now, with her lips on his and her fingers threading into his hair, she didn’t pull away. She didn’t hate him at all.
She kissed him back, fearless and free, and he, who once relished being the rake whispered about in salons and scandal sheets, stood humbled, grateful, wholly undone. The ton would whisper the tale for weeks, and neither of them cared.
Later that day, Oakford House’s garden transformed into a festive ballroom beneath the cerulean sky. Tables shimmered with crystal and silk. Music lilted through the air.
Lady Oakford beamed as she danced with Edward, the joy in her son’s happiness lighting her face with every step.
She occasionally dabbed her eyes, laughing with delight.
Lady Shipley made a gracious toast, her voice full of fondness and veiled relief.
Her gaze softened whenever it landed on Clara, and Clara saw not expectation, but pride, startling in its simplicity, and all the more powerful for being unspoken.
Clara stepped away from the crush of guests, her skirts whispering over the manicured grass.
Summer blooms perfumed the air, sweetened by the lingering scent of wedding cake and champagne.
Her chest rose with a quiet breath, grounding herself in the moment.
She did not search long before Crispin found her, his expression soft with something that had nothing to do with possession and everything to do with awe.
He took her hand.
“Dance with me.”
There was no orchestra here, just the rhythm of their joined hearts and the faint echo of strings from the other side of the hedges.
They moved slowly, the world a blur around them.
Crispin’s hand was warm in hers, anchoring her to this new, luminous reality.
Each step drew them deeper into the hush of the garden, where the shadows danced between the hedges.
She tilted her face up to him. “Do you ever think about the first time we danced? At the masquerade?”
Crispin’s eyes searched hers, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Every night. You wore a silver mask. I thought you were untouchable. Turns out you were just unforgettable.”
Clara’s breath hitched. “That kiss... it began everything. And it terrified me.”
He brought her fingers to his lips. “It terrified me, too. I was still the devil then. I did not expect you to look behind the mask and stay.”
She leaned her head on his chest, her voice barely a whisper. “I stayed because the man behind the mask was the only one who saw me.”
Crispin wrapped his arms around her as the soft strains of music drifted from the main celebration. The warmth of the afternoon pressed close, laced with rose and jasmine, but all Clara noticed was the steady beat of his heart, strong, unwavering, and impossibly real beneath her cheek.
And when she looked up again, the world no longer blurred—it crystallized around the only truth that mattered: they had chosen each other.
Together, they turned onto the path, steps unhurried, as if daring time itself to pause.
The soft music threaded through the hedgerows, its notes rising and falling like a gentle tide, mingling with the distant laughter of guests and the clink of glasses carried on the warm air.
Clara let the rhythm wrap around her, the delicate strains brushing against her skin like a whispered promise.
The garden, bathed in lantern light and scattered with shadows, pulsed with a quiet intimacy.
Clara’s hand rested lightly in Crispin’s, their fingers brushing with every slow turn.
Her breath hitched, a flicker of anticipation tightening in her chest, sharp and sudden, as if her body already knew the shift in the air.
His steady palm grounded her, even as her heart fluttered with something unnamed and fragile.
“You surprised me,” she said.
“I am afraid I need you to expound, Lady Oakford?”
Clara grinned. ”With the fact that you meant it. Every word.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “I meant every heartbeat.”
“I used to think I had to pretend to survive this world. But with you… I’ve never felt more like myself.
” Her voice trembled, not with fear but with the fragile weight of truth.
“Let them call it scandal,” she whispered, echoing the words she’d once buried in silence.
“I shall call it freedom. Because with you, I do not have to hide. Not even from myself.”
He kissed her. It was soft and steady, a kiss that lingered like a vow. A promise pressed to her lips, sealing the truth that had lived between them all along.
They parted only when footsteps approached.
Edward, arm-in-arm with Lady Juliana, raised a glass from a distance.
Close behind, Alice joined Eden and Gabriel, her eyes lingering on a tall, dark-haired gentleman across the garden—Samuel Baldwin, Viscount Crewe, with a wicked gleam in his eyes and a crooked grin.
Her gaze held for a beat too long before she leaned toward Eden and whispered, “Remind me never to wager with him. He smiles like he has already won.” Both women laughed, the sound low and conspiratorial.
Gabriel arched a brow but said nothing, and Clara could not help but wonder if Alice’s story was just beginning.
Clara looked toward the laughter and light, then back at Crispin. Her voice dropped. “I do not want to go back. Not just yet.”
“Then let’s not.”
Hand in hand, they stepped deeper into the garden. Her fingers curled tighter around Crispin’s, breath catching—not from fear, but from the sweet ache of anticipation, of the life they had yet to claim.
The day was theirs, and the future was unwritten.
Around them, the world hummed with life.
And in each other’s arms, they had found their place.