Chapter 7 #2
The duke took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers as he began the formal vows. “I, Felix Greycliff, take thee, Rose Newell, to be my wedded wife… to have and to hold from this day forward… to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”
As he spoke, the green in his eyes burned with a hunger she did not yet understand. It was as if his eyes were boring directly into her soul, and yet, she was surprised to find that his gaze was not entirely uncomfortable but almost intoxicating.
His gaze did not waver as she repeated after him, “I, Rose Whiteridge, take thee, Felix Greycliff, to be my wedded husband.”
Once the vows had been exchanged, they moved to the vestry to sign the register. The duke held the pen with a steady hand, and his signature was bold. Rose signed her maiden name for the very last time, her hand only slightly trembling, marking the end of her life as a free woman.
The vicar smiled, closing the book. “I pronounce that they be man and wife together.”
The tension in the chapel snapped like a frayed cord as they turned to face the pews. The duke gripped her hand firmly, guiding her down the aisle. He did not let go, his body acting as a shield against the press of the crowd, the leering jokes, and the frantic congratulations.
They emerged into the courtyard, the spring sunlight making her squint. The duke released her arm, but only to turn and face her fully, his shadow swallowing hers against the pale stone.
He leaned in, his mouth so close to her ear that the fine hairs on her neck stood up. “You did well, Duchess.”
She swallowed hard, her own voice vanishing. “Your Grace, please. I do not need your placations.”
“It isn’t a placation,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant thrum that seemed to vibrate in her very bones. “It is a fact. And as long as you bear my name, no one will ever make you feel inadequate again. I have you now, and I don’t let go of what belongs to me.”
Above them, the bells began to ring, sending the news out across the fields. Rose listened to the iron clangor, waiting for it to feel like victory or defeat.
She only found the hollow, aching space in between.
The wedding breakfast began with the clamorous arrival of two hundred guests, each determined to outdo the next in volume and spectacle.
Carden Hall’s ballroom had been transformed overnight: every surface polished to a blind shine; every wall swaddled in floral arrangements that threatened to suffocate anyone caught standing too close.
Rose found herself at the epicenter, a rare animal put on display for the gawking masses.
As she entered on the duke’s arm, the tide of bodies closed in, a crush of hands, lips, and quick, feather-light words of “Congratulations, Your Grace!” and “Never thought he’d do it!”
The words landed like darts, sticking to her skin. Every gaze stung, from the greedy sizing up of her dress and jewels, to the way people watched how she carried herself in the duke’s orbit.
His Grace guided her forward, his touch as gentle as it was inescapable.
The pressure of his palm at the small of her back was both anchor and leash, and for the space of a few steps, she allowed herself to lean into it.
At the threshold to the ballroom, he angled toward her, his mouth nearly at her ear.
“Did you wish for a kiss at the altar?” he murmured.
She stiffened, aware of the churning sea of witnesses behind them. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you are blushing.”
“I am not,” she lied, and hated how girlish the denial sounded. He only smiled.
“Would you rather I play the stoic husband? Refuse to look at you until the guests have gone home?”
She willed herself to a scowl, but her lips betrayed her, quivering at the corners. “I’d rather you stopped performing for their amusement.”
“And for yours?”
She refused to answer, fixing her gaze on the frosted glass doors ahead, which the footmen now swung wide.
They stepped into a room ablaze with sunlight and laughter. Rose’s mother and father stood at the far end, flanked by her siblings in a loose phalanx of polite boredom.
She caught the faintest glimmer of pride in her father’s eyes, and the matching shadow of envy in her sister’s. The crowd parted as the newlyweds walked the length of the ballroom, a slow-motion gauntlet.
The duke’s hand slipped away as he surrendered her to the head table, but the loss of contact left her unbalanced, as if she might tip sideways without his touch.
Rose tried to fix her mind on the first course’s flavor, but instead, she kept stealing glances at her new husband, who occupied the center of attention with an ease that made her ache with both admiration and annoyance.
He laughed at the right jokes, dodged the wrong ones with a glancing wit, and dispatched every challenge with a smile. Whenever he looked at her way, which he did often, the chatter around her seemed to fade, replaced by a low current of electricity that ran under the table and into her bones.
Across the room, Rose caught the eyes of a woman. Lady Rutledge, she remembered. She had positioned herself at a vantage point near the center of the ballroom. The dowager countess had already cycled through three different gentlemen for the opening dance, but her gaze rarely strayed from the duke.
When he caught her looking, Lady Rutledge lifted her glass in a private toast and held the stare a heartbeat too long.
In Rose’s mind, the countess must have been only one of a long string of mistresses the duke had entertained.
She tried to put it out of her mind, but the thought was hard to dispel once it had landed.
Courses came and went, each one as elaborate and delicious as the first, and Rose stared at her wine glass until her vision blurred. The room shifted, the decorum loosening as alcohol and time did their work.
“Are you unwell?” her sister Violet whispered.
Rose forced a smile. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
Lady Rutledge abandoned her table and drifted toward the duke’s end of the hall. Rose watched, powerless, as Rutledge slipped into the chair beside him. The conversation flared, then dipped to a register meant for secrets.
The dowager countess leaned in, her hand ghosting over the duke’s wrist, her laugh a high, like a bell, that cut across the room, and Rose’s stomach twisted. She looked away, but the sound of their laughter kept pulling her back.
Her sister saw the direction of her gaze. “She does that to everyone,” she said sympathetically.
“She can do as she pleases,” Rose replied, trying for indifference and missing.
“It doesn’t bother you?” her sister pressed.
Rose turned; eyes flat. “Not in the least.”
It was such a patent lie that even her sister rolled her eyes.
A fresh ripple of sound broke over the table as the duke said something that sent Rutledge into peals of delight.
Then, Basil, Rose’s brother, leaned over, muttering, “You may want to keep your husband on a tighter rein.”
Rose nearly spat her wine. “He is not a dog.”
“Perhaps not,” Basil replied. “But he shouldn’t steer too far away from his bride.”
She stared at the cut crystal before her, willing herself not to rise, not to make a scene, not to give Lady Rutledge or the rest of the vultures the satisfaction of seeing the duchess bested in her own house.
But every instinct screamed for action.
Rose stood, smoothing her skirt, and excused herself from the table with a grace she did not feel. She walked the perimeter of the ballroom, weaving through clusters of laughter and music, all the way to the French doors at the far end.
There, she paused. She counted to five. She reminded herself of every lesson Julia had taught her.
Never let them see you sweat. Always move with purpose.
When she turned back, she did not return to her seat. Instead, she crossed the floor directly, stopping in front of the duke and the now silent Rutledge, who arched one perfect eyebrow as if inviting battle.
“Your Grace,” Rose said, voice pitched to carry, “may I have a word?”
He looked up, startled, and rose instantly, napkin hitting the table with barely a sound. He must have seen the set of her jaw, and something flickered in his eyes.
A challenge, or maybe a dare.
She did not wait for him and didn’t need to watch to see that he was coming after her. Felix’s steps followed, steady and unhurried, but the blaze in his eyes was not for show.
The crowd’s attention trailed after them, the way a bonfire will track the wind. Rose could feel it lashing at her bare shoulders, a thousand tiny tongues flicking, tasting, waiting for some flavor of disaster.
She kept her head high, the sound of her own pulse in her ears louder than the beginning of the waltz.