Chapter Eleven
It had been two days since the masquerade, yet the aftershocks still lingered. The unspoken glances, hesitant words, and the memory of a dance that had changed everything.
Sommer Castle still held the scent of stone and silence.
The air inside was cool and dry, laced with the faint sweetness of ivy and something older than dust, perhaps memory itself.
Sunlight slanted through tall, narrow windows, striping the floor in gold and shadow.
Far below the cliffs, the North Sea surged and receded, its distant rhythm a reminder of the castle’s perch above the world.
A hush lingered, the kind that made footsteps feel like an interruption.
Somewhere beyond the walls, birds called.
But inside the chapel, there was only the breath of stillness and the quiet echo of forgotten prayers.
Sunlight streamed through mullioned glass, warming the worn flagstones.
Ivy crept in through the broken mortar along the southern wall, and a scattering of dust motes danced in the air like fading ghosts of vows once spoken.
Leticia stepped into the cool shadows and let the hush fold around her. She walked slowly past the pews, trailing her gloved fingers along the edge of the smooth wood. The quiet did not unnerve her. It made her feel full, each breath carried meaning.
She paused in the center aisle, facing the modest altar, and tried to picture it draped in lilies and lace, filled with guests instead of dust. A wedding at Sommer Castle.
Her own?
The very thought startled her. The notion was foreign, even in silence. And yet, hadn’t she made a kind of promise?
She drew a breath and let it out slowly. The air smelled of salt and stone.
The idea struck like a bell, too loud for the silence.
Mrs. Bainbridge’s voice cut across it. “I can see the appeal,” she said, tilting her head as she examined the carved altar. “It’s private, it’s dignified, and it doesn’t smell of mildew. What more could a bride want?”
“An aisle long enough to make my mother feel important,” Barrington muttered, stepping past a half-rotted pew.
Leticia stifled a smile.
Mrs. Bainbridge turned to him, one brow arching with wry precision. “We’ll give her a good seat. Front and center.”
“She wants a choir. And a trumpeter,” he said, not facing her.
“She can bring them. I’ll be the one walking down the aisle.”
Barrington said nothing, though his expression suggested retreat.
Behind them, Kenworth entered, bearing a leather folio so stuffed it looked ready to burst. “Latest update on the guest list, sir. There’ve been twelve additions and four subtractions. Your mother decided the cousins from Surrey ought not be overlooked. Again.”
“How many cousins are there in Surrey?” Mrs. Bainbridge asked.
“No one knows,” Kenworth said grimly. “They breed in pairs and travel in battalions.”
Leticia laughed, startled by the ease of it, delighted by the sudden lift in mood. The sound rang too brightly in the chapel’s hush, but it felt welcome all the same.
Mrs. Bainbridge glanced at her and grinned. “You see? Even Lady Salisbury agrees.”
“Only because I fear I may be seated beside one,” Leticia said, glancing at Barrington, who was trying not to smile and losing.
“You’ll be seated with the wedding party,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “If your intended hasn’t scared you off by then.”
The warmth rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “I doubt he’s easily rid of.”
From the other side of the chapel, the man himself appeared, brushing dust from his coat sleeve as he ducked beneath a leaning arch. His cravat slightly askew. Sunlight lit the curve of his jaw.
She hadn’t expected to see him. Not so soon. Not here. And certainly not looking so at ease. Her pulse quickened.
“Rid of what?” Gabriel asked, his tone mild.
“Surrey cousins,” Leticia said smoothly.
Gabriel glanced at Kenworth, who looked deeply affronted. “I assure you, sir. They’re a menace.”
He smiled, but Leticia saw the flicker of something beneath the ease, a quiet intent. He had come for more than banter.
Kenworth cleared his throat with the gravity of a diplomat. “Might I suggest a compromise? A simple fruit sponge. No creams, no custards, and certainly no lemon curd.”
Mrs. Bainbridge made a face. “You’ll upset the lemon growers.”
“We shall write them a letter,” Kenworth replied, utterly serious.
Leticia stepped toward the window again, pausing in the warm shaft of light. Something brushed her skirts, a draft, or a memory. She let her gaze drift back toward Gabriel, who stood with one hand in his coat pocket.
He withdrew something small and folded.
Her breath caught.
Her letter.
He looked at it for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then tucked it back into his pocket, gently, deliberately.
Her fingertips pressed lightly against her palm, steadying herself.
“Honoria, have you seen enough?” Barrington’s voice broke through the quiet. He turned to Mrs. Bainbridge with an air of finality. “You and I have walked through the ceremony, examined the rooms. There is little more to be decided.”
Mrs. Bainbridge tilted her head, eyes lingering on the altar. “I suppose.” Her tone carried resignation…and a flicker of satisfaction. “It will do.”
Gabriel glanced at Leticia. “My coach is waiting. May I take you to Eastbury Manor?”
Mrs. Bainbridge waved a hand, her voice brisk but warm. “Go on, Leticia. We’re finished here.”
Gabriel offered his arm, his words gentle, deliberate. “After you, my lady.”
The carriage ride from Sommer Castle was quiet, companionable. Outside, the sun began its descent over the hedgerows, casting the countryside in a golden hush.
When they reached her aunt’s house, Gabriel stepped down first and offered his hand.
“Thank you for today,” Leticia said softly, placing her hand in his.
He paused, still holding her hand. “It won’t always be lighthearted. I hope you know that.”
“I do.” She hesitated. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be meaningful.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
They stood looking at each other for several heartbeats. Then Gabriel lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.
Leticia watched him go, her fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve where his touch lingered.
Erica would have known how to field the attention. How to make it hers. Leticia only borrowed it, and feared what price she might yet pay.