Chapter 5
The morning of her wedding dawned grey and bitter, with frost painting the windows of Cavendish House in delicate patterns that reminded Isadora of prison bars.
She stood before her looking glass while Jenny fussed with the pearl buttons running up the back of her wedding gown, each fastening feeling like another link in the chain that would bind her to a future she could scarcely comprehend.
Three days. That was all the time that had passed since Edmund Ravensleigh had walked into Father’s library and turned her world upside down with six simple words: your daughter has accepted my proposal.
Three days of frantic preparations, hastily arranged contracts, and Father’s barely concealed fury at having his carefully laid plans demolished by a man whose rank made opposition impossible.
Three days to prepare for marriage to a stranger.
The wedding gown had belonged to her mother—ivory silk that had yellowed slightly with age, its high neck and long sleeves speaking to a more modest era.
Jenny had worked miracles with it, taking in seams and adding fresh trim, but nothing could disguise the fact that it was a relic from another time.
Like the marriage itself, it spoke more of duty than celebration.
“There now, my lady,” Jenny murmured, stepping back to survey her handiwork. “You look beautiful. Truly.”
Isadora studied her reflection with the detached interest of someone examining a portrait of a stranger.
The woman in the glass was pale but composed, her chestnut hair arranged in an elaborate chignon threaded with the Cavendish pearls.
The dress fit well enough, though its austere lines did nothing to soften her angular features.
She looked exactly what she was—a well-bred lady prepared to do her duty, regardless of the personal cost.
“Beautiful,” she repeated, the word tasting strange on her tongue. “Yes, I suppose that’s what matters today.”
Jenny’s reflection frowned in the glass. “My lady, you seem... if you don’t mind me saying... rather calm for a bride on her wedding morning.”
Calm. An interesting choice of words. Inside her chest, her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird, and her hands trembled despite her best efforts to control them.
But perhaps that was what calm looked like when one had accepted the impossible—this strange marriage to a man who promised nothing beyond honesty and respect, who wore his scars like armor and spoke of his buried heart as though it were a matter of simple fact.
“What would you have me be, Jenny? Weeping with joy? Aflutter with romantic anticipation?” Isadora turned from the mirror, gathering her gloves from the dressing table with steady fingers. “This is not that sort of wedding.”
Before Jenny could respond, a sharp knock interrupted them. Father entered without waiting for permission, resplendent in his finest morning coat, his expression carved from granite.
“The carriages are ready,” he announced, his tone clipped. “The Duke’s party has already departed for St. George’s. We mustn’t keep them waiting.”
St. George’s, Hanover Square. The most fashionable church in London, where every marriage of consequence was solemnized before the eyes of society.
Edmund had insisted upon it, overriding Father’s suggestion of a quiet ceremony in the family chapel.
If we must do this, he had said during their brief meeting to discuss arrangements, we will do it properly.
Let no one say the Duke of Rothwell was ashamed of his bride.
The memory of his words sent her heart racing. Not ashamed. Such a small thing, yet it meant more than she cared to examine.
The carriage ride was quiet. Father was simply staring out the window while she herself, clutched her prayer book and tried to steady her breathing.
The entire London proved that Christmas was upon them.
Holly wreaths adorned doorways, and she caught glimpses of servants stringing garlands, their breath forming white clouds in the cold air.
In a few weeks, families would gather around their Yule logs, exchanging gifts and sharing feasts while she.
.. what would she be doing? Learning to be a duchess?
Helping Lillian navigate the treacherous waters of society?
Discovering what manner of man she had bound herself to?
The questions multiplied like winter snowflakes, each one more impossible to answer than the last.
St. George’s loomed before them, its imposing stone facade decorated with tasteful Christmas greenery that did nothing to soften its austere grandeur.
Carriages lined the street—curious onlookers drawn by the prospect of witnessing the Dangerous Duke’s unexpected nuptials.
Isadora recognized several crests among the assembled vehicles: Lady Pemberton’s baroque monstrosity, the Fairfax family’s more modest conveyance, even the distinctive burgundy and gold of the Blackwood equipage.
All of London had come to gawk at the scandal.
“Remember,” Father said as their carriage drew to a halt, “you are representing this family today. Conduct yourself with dignity, regardless of your... circumstances.”
Circumstances. Such a delicate way to describe the fact that she was marrying a man she barely knew to escape a fate she could not bear. Isadora nodded, not trusting her voice, and allowed him to hand her down from the carriage.
The church steps stretched before her like a mountain to be climbed.
At the top, the heavy oak doors stood open, revealing glimpses of candlelight and flowers, the murmur of voices within.
Somewhere beyond those doors, Edmund Ravensleigh waited for her—this stranger who would soon be her husband, whose ring she would wear, whose name she would bear until death claimed one of them.
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, she found herself thinking of the shape of his lips and the way he had spoken her name, the careful courtesy he had shown despite the practical nature of their arrangement.
He had promised her honesty, respect, the freedom to be herself.
After years of Father’s attempts to mold her into something more palatable, the prospect held unexpected appeal.
Father offered his arm, and together they climbed the steps.
The church was packed, every single pew was filled with London’s elite, curious faces turned toward the aisle with the avid attention of spectators at a gladiatorial contest. Naturally, whispers followed their progress.
No doubt speculation about the hasty arrangements, wonder at the Duke’s choice of bride, calculations about what this union might mean for the social order.
Let them whisper, Isadora thought with sudden defiance. Let them wonder and speculate and judge. She was past caring what society thought of her choices.
The altar seemed impossibly far away, though her feet carried her forward with mechanical precision. Christmas roses had been arranged in tall vases, their white petals stark against the dark wood of the chancel.
And there, beside the altar, stood Edmund.
He was magnificent in his wedding attire—dark blue superfine that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, snow-white linen that made his hair appear almost black by comparison.
The scar along his jaw was clearly visible in the candlelight, a reminder of whatever violence had shaped him.
His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture rigid with military precision, but when their eyes met across the length of the aisle, something flickered in those green depths that made her breath catch.
Recognition. Acknowledgment. Perhaps even a trace of something warmer, though it vanished so quickly she might have imagined it.
The ceremony passed in a blur of ancient words and ritualized gestures.
The Bishop of London himself had been procured to perform the service, Father’s doing, no doubt, his way of emphasizing the importance of the occasion despite its unseemly haste.
The familiar phrases of the marriage service washed over her like waves against stone, each vow binding her more tightly to this man who stood beside her with such careful distance.
“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health...”
Love. The echoed between them, impossible and painful.
She glanced sideways at Edmund, wondering if he felt the same stab of irony at the inclusion of emotions neither of them claimed to possess.
His expression remained carefully neutral, but she saw the slight tightening around his eyes that suggested he was not as unmoved as he appeared.
“I will,” she said clearly.
Edmund spoke with the same precision he always spoke with, each word measured and deliberate.
When he slipped the ring onto her finger—a simple band of gold—his touch was brief but sure.
Their hands met for perhaps three seconds, his fingers warm against her cold ones, before he released her and stepped back.
No kiss followed the pronouncement of their union.
The Bishop looked expectant, the congregation shifted in their pews, but Edmund merely inclined his head toward her in a gesture that could have been courtesy or acknowledgment of a business transaction concluded.
The omission felt strangely intimate—a private rebellion against the expectations of their audience, a reminder that whatever existed between them would be defined by their own choices rather than society’s demands.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Bishop intoned, his voice carrying clearly through the packed church, “I present to you Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Rothwell.”