Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
“You look like a duchess already,” Marianne whispered behind Elizabeth, smoothing the fall of her ivory lace sleeves.
The older sister’s voice was warm, reassuring.
“Thank you, Marianne,” Elizabeth whispered back, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat.
The past few days had been a blur of dress fittings, hurried preparations, and carefully managed whispers.
The wedding was to be quiet. Not rushed, exactly, but certainly not grand. Smaller than what Lady Grisham had always envisioned for her stepdaughter. Then again, the way she had looked at Alasdair since the proposal made it clear she was glad it would not be a spectacle.
The church stood just outside Mayfair—modest but dignified, with ivy creeping up its grey stone walls.
Morning mist rolled low across the grass, rising like smoke and lending the hilltop a ghostly beauty.
“It’s almost like we’re in Scotland already,” Victoria said, peering out the window as she adjusted her gloves.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. It did feel like that. Damp air, earthy scents, the hush of trees nearby. She had only faint memories of Scotland from when she was very young, blurred around the edges like half-remembered dreams. For Victoria, it had been even less, only stories.
Inside the anteroom, Elizabeth stood still as Marianne and the others flitted around her, her bouquet of pale roses trembling in her grip. She didn’t know if it was the nerves or something else.
“Do I look terrified?” she asked, attempting a laugh.
“Mm. Only a little,” Wilhelmina teased, raising her eyebrows dramatically. “Just think of this instead: you could have done far worse than such a handsome groom. Truly, I speak only the facts.”
Elizabeth turned red and laughed despite herself.
No matter what Lady Grisham said about Alasdair being uncouth, she had yet to find truth in it. He had stood up for her when no one else had. He had offered not just marriage, but rescue. Respect.
And now… it was time.
“Are you ready?” Marianne asked gently.
Elizabeth took a long, slow breath. “Yes. I am.”
Outside, Alasdair waited.
The first glimpse of him stole the breath from her lungs. He stood tall in a dark blue coat with tartan draped boldly over one shoulder, kilt falling clean and proud. He looked like something carved from legend, fierce and unapologetic.
The moment she saw him, the tremble in her chest became something else entirely.
Wilhelmina nudged her and whispered, “I see what you’re looking at, Lizzie.”
Elizabeth blushed harder. Alasdair’s friend, Lord Whitton, was saying something in the duke’s ear, and Alasdair gave a crooked smirk in reply.
Elizabeth tried to focus on the ceremony, but her pulse was loud in her ears.
The priest’s voice echoed, steady and low, but she caught only fragments.
Her vows were spoken in a trembling voice, one that grew stronger as she found her courage somewhere between each word.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
The phrase startled her. So final. So soon.
Alasdair took her hand. He bent over her face and pressed his lips to hers—slow, deliberate, reverent.
She felt her throat close. The gesture felt so… undeserved. So gentle.
She had been wed.
It was done.
Everyone had expected Elizabeth Brighton to make a good match. She was beautiful, demure, came from a reputable family.
And yet here she stood, wrapped in congratulations from sisters who clung to her like she might disappear.
“Oh, dearest sister. Congratulations,” Marianne murmured, pulling her into a warm embrace. “Don’t let Lady Grisham poison this for you. You made a good match.”
Elizabeth wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t a love match, not the kind young girls whispered about behind fans. It was a match born of necessity. A lifeline offered and accepted. Not because of love, but because neither of them could bear to let the other sink.
She glanced around. Could it have been worse? Absolutely. She had spoken to enough indifferent or openly cruel men to know how easily she might have ended up with someone who saw her only as a decorative vessel.
“Will you be going to Scotland now, Lizzie?” Daphne asked, tugging on her sleeve and blinking back tears.
Elizabeth knelt beside her, kissing her cheek. “No, darling. The duke has a home here in London and Redmoor. It’s close. I’ll visit often.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Daphne sniffled, wrapping her arms around her neck.
Nearby, Victoria gave Alasdair a withering glare and crossed her arms.
“If he hurts you,” she declared, “I will write to everyone who might help me ruin him. I will start a campaign.”
Alasdair’s eyebrows shot up, then he laughed. “I’ll do me best to avoid such a fate, lass. I’ve made me vows and I meant them.”
Wilhelmina stepped forward, nodding. “We’ll be watching you, Your Grace. We know how quickly a marriage can go wrong.”
“I understand,” he said solemnly.
Marianne added, “We all know the nature of this arrangement. But whether it began with rescue or not, what matters now is what you make of it.”
“Not forced, nae,” Alasdair said, sounding genuinely affronted. “I offered for her. Because I wanted to.”
Dominic, Duke of Oakmere, gave a nod that made Elizabeth’s chest warm. “She’s more than just a quiet young lady in society, Redmoor. She’s beloved. I trust you won’t forget that.”
“I willnae,” Alasdair promised. “I made the offer because I ken her. Not just her pretty face, but the lass herself.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard. That voice, that truth, settled somewhere low in her stomach.
And then, of course, Lady Grisham stepped forward.
“I suppose I must offer my congratulations to the Duke and Duchess of Redmoor,” she said, her tone glacial.
“If you can manage it, Lady Grisham,” Elizabeth replied. She kept her voice even, but steel glinted beneath it.
Her stepmother’s nostrils flared. “I am not surprised that you chose the worst possible match. Your foolishness never changes.”
Elizabeth turned to face her. Her sisters stood at her back. She no longer needed to cower.
“I am married now, am I not? Wasn’t that your goal? Balls, parties, parading me like a prize—well, the prize was won. Be kinder to your daughters than you ever were to me. You are a woman, Lady Grisham. You should know how difficult it is for the rest of us.”
Lady Grisham didn’t reply. She sneered and turned her back.
That afternoon, they departed for Redmoor in the duke’s carriage.
Silence filled the space between them.
Elizabeth stared out the window, barely hearing the clatter of wheels or the creak of the carriage. Her thoughts were tangled. Not sad, exactly, but solemn. She had crossed a threshold she could never return from.
She wasn’t a fool. Despite what her stepmother had always said, she knew this was a goodbye. She would no longer sleep in her childhood room. Would no longer sneak into Marianne’s chamber when the world felt too heavy.
She had married not for love, but for safety. For the hope of dignity.
It still stung.
“Ye’ve been quiet,” Alasdair said gently.
Elizabeth looked up. He sat across from her, filling the carriage with his size and stillness. He didn’t look like a man of society. He looked like someone born from earth and stone. Steady.
“I’m trying to make sense of it all,” she admitted. “Days ago, I didn’t think I’d be married at all.”
He nodded slowly. “And now ye’re the Duchess of Redmoor.”
There was pride in his voice, not arrogance. A quiet reverence.
“Oh yes,” she said, voice soft. “I am.”
Their hands brushed, accidentally at first. But then he caught her fingers. Held them, gently.
He looked at her with something close to awe.
“Are ye afraid of me, lass?”
She tilted her head, studying him. “No. I’m not afraid of you.”
He let out a breath he’d clearly been holding. “At least that’s a start.”
And it was.
Not a love match, but a beginning. A promise not made of fantasy, but of respect.
And perhaps, if they were lucky, something more.
Elizabeth and Alasdair arrived at Redmoor Hall just as dusk settled over the countryside.
The sky was streaked with violet and gold, the last of the sun casting a long shadow across the great lawn.
Though their journey from the church had not been long, Elizabeth felt as if she had travelled to a different world entirely, one not measured in miles, but in meaning.
The carriage rolled to a gentle stop on the gravel drive, and for a moment, neither of them moved. She stared out the window at the manor that loomed before her.
She’d been there before for their dancing lesson, but now, in the daylight, she could see that Redmoor was grand without being garish.
Solid stone, dark timber, and a sense of quiet strength.
Ivy clung to the west wing like it had always belonged there.
Tall windows caught the soft orange glow of the setting sun.
Though not as showy as some London homes, it had a steady, certain presence.
A home that stood firm no matter what the world thought of it.
The door was opened, and a footman stepped forward. Alasdair descended first, then turned and extended his hand to her.
He didn’t rush her. His grip was steady, warm.
Elizabeth placed her gloved hand in his and let him guide her down. Her slippers met the earth. The air was cooler here, tinged with the scent of lavender and damp leaves. She inhaled slowly.
Alasdair leaned in. “Welcome to Redmoor, Duchess.”
He looked proud. And nervous, perhaps, but quietly so. And respectful. Always respectful.
The front steps stretched wide, and at the top, the household staff had gathered in a neat line. Housekeeper, butler, footmen, maids, they stood crisply at attention, dressed properly, not a hair or hem out of place.
They didn’t bow immediately. They waited.
Elizabeth straightened slightly, uncertain of her role. Of her right to stand here.
Then Alasdair’s voice rang out, strong and full of warmth:
“May I present to ye your new mistress, Her Grace, the Duchess of Redmoor.”
Her breath caught in her chest.
The moment stretched, just long enough for doubt to stir, and then the line of servants bowed in unison. One of the maids curtsied with a beaming smile. Murmurs of welcome echoed down the stone steps. A ripple of approval, not forced but genuine.
Elizabeth blinked, stunned.
They were smiling at her.
At her.
She felt something shift within her. A click. A quiet lock falling into place.
This was no longer Grisham House. These were not strangers whose glances she feared. These people looked at her not as a burden or disappointment, but as if she belonged.
She lifted her chin and began to walk toward them, her steps careful but sure. Each footfall seemed to echo not just in the gravel but in her chest. Her spine straightened, her breath steadied.
With every step, she felt less like Lady Elizabeth Brighton, overlooked, criticized, spoken over, and more like something else. Someone else.
The Duchess of Redmoor.
Her fingers trembled slightly, and her vision blurred. But she refused to let tears fall. Not here. Not now. She told herself they were happy tears. She wanted to believe that.
Because for one brief, glimmering moment, she believed this life might actually fit her.
That this wasn’t just escape.
It was a beginning.