Chapter 8
There were far too many flowers.
That was Aurelia’s first thought as she stepped into the chapel, her fingers curled tightly around her bouquet.
Flowers in every shade of blue, arranged with such elegance that the entire space smelled like a perfume bottle left uncorked for too long.
Someone, probably her mother, had seen fit to drown the altar in flowers. Even the poor organist looked mildly suffocated by the number of flowers decorating his bench.
And yet it was beautiful. Painfully so.
“Breathe,” Celia whispered from behind her, adjusting the trailing hem of her veil. “Don’t faint. That would be terribly dramatic, even for you.”
Aurelia almost laughed. Almost.
But the moment was too real. It was too close and too full of pressure. It was finally happening. She was dressed in a wedding gown, and despite the gloves, her palms were sweaty from nervousness.
And there, standing like a thundercloud in formal black, was her soon-to-be husband.
The Duke of Whitmore.
Percival.
His eyes met hers instantly. There was no smile or a flicker of hesitation. Just that intense, unreadable gaze that made her feel like everything about her was being quietly measured.
She took a deep breath before taking one step down the aisle. And then another.
Lord Scovell was steady at her side, his posture proud and his chin lifted. The very image of composed nobility.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
“Thank you,” Aurelia whispered back.
But she didn’t feel beautiful. She felt… fragile. As if one wrong step would snap her down the middle of the aisle.
Every gaze in the chapel felt heavy on her. The attention. She had spent five years wishing for such attention, wishing for that prideful look in her parents’ eyes, and now that it was finally happening, it felt… too much.
And still, she kept walking. Toward him. Toward the man she would marry.
The strange blue-eyed man who had looked at her like she was a puzzle he didn’t particularly want to solve but somehow couldn’t stop turning over.
Percival did not move when she finally reached him. He simply nodded to Lord Scovell, then turned his full attention to her.
There was no warmth or cruelty in this gaze. It was just… present.
The ceremony began shortly. As per convention, vows were spoken, and rings were exchanged. Aurelia did her best to nod at the right moments, spoke when prompted, and kept her smile soft and her back straight.
On the bright side, she ticked one item off her list: Get married.
When the final vow was spoken and they were pronounced husband and wife, the guests erupted in polite applause.
“You may kiss the bride,” the priest intoned.
There was a brief, awkward pause as everyone wondered if Percival would kiss her.
He didn’t.
Of course, he didn’t.
He simply offered his arm, and she took it.
Aurelia had thought that leaving her family would be easy. But when the guests began departing after the ceremony concluded, she felt a heaviness in her chest.
She and Nora stood together, away from the quiet bustle. She lazily ran her fingers through her sister’s hair like an affectionate mother.
“I’ll be fine,” Nora assured, breaking the silence. It was as if she could already sense that Aurelia was worried about leaving her alone.
“You don’t need to be. Not right away,” Aurelia sighed, and her hand dropped to squeeze Nora’s shoulder.
After another beat, Nora’s lips wobbled, her emotions threatening to betray her. “You’re leaving. You’re actually leaving.”
A lump formed in Aurelia’s throat. “It’s not the moon, you know. Just Whitmore.”
“It’s far,” Nora groaned, hugging herself.
“You’ll visit. You’ll write. And I’ll write back so often that Mother will say it’s unladylike to correspond so often.”
Nora smiled, but only faintly, her gaze locked on the crescent moon.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Aurelia continued, gently touching her sister’s wrist. “I’ll help with your debut. I’ll talk to Celia, and if Mother becomes too overbearing… Well, she already is, but I’ll deal with it. You won’t be alone.”
“I…” Nora opened her mouth to speak, but then she closed it when her tears spilled over.
“Oh, Nora…” Without thinking, Aurelia wrapped her arms around her, holding her tightly.
Nora trembled in her embrace, her breath hitching as she buried her face in her sister’s shoulder.
“I’m scared,” she admitted softly. “What if I’m not ready? What if I do something that ruins everything?”
“You won’t,” Aurelia told her fiercely, then pulled back to look deeply into her eyes. “You are not me. You are cleverer, kinder, and you don’t stumble over your words when speaking to a viscount’s mother.”
“I’ve seen you charm a room.” Nora gave a half-smile.
“Out of thin desperation.” Aurelia laughed. “But you? You belong. You always have.”
Nora wiped her cheeks quickly, then glanced sideways to make sure no one was watching her cry. She paused when her eyes caught a shadow in the distance.
“Do you think he heard us?”
Aurelia blinked. She then turned slightly, following her sister’s gaze.
The duke stood at a distance like a quiet shadow. He didn’t move, not even when she met his gaze.
And she felt it, that heavy feeling that he was always watching, always waiting.
“I don’t know,” she murmured, before looking back at Nora.
Her younger sister sniffed and then leaned in to whisper, “You should go. He’s brooding, which likely means he’s tired of waiting.”
“Or he’s always like that.”
“Or that,” Nora agreed, her half-smile returning.
“Will you be all right?” Aurelia asked, though she already knew the answer would never be simple.
“I’ll try,” Nora said. “And you… Be happy. Or at least don’t get eaten alive by Whitmore.”
Aurelia squeezed her sister’s hands. “You’re the brave one, Nora, not me.”
“Not true,” Nora whispered.
But Aurelia couldn’t hear the rest.
Her name had been called, softly but firmly, by a waiting maid. It only meant one thing—the carriage was ready. Her husband was ready.
After pulling her sister into another quick hug, Aurelia stepped back with a reluctant “goodbye” and made her way to the waiting carriage. Sir Whiskerton trailed after her, his tail swaying with mastered elegance.
Percival stood beside the open door of the carriage. There was something statuesque about him. His presence always seemed so controlled.
She wondered, perhaps foolishly, if he had always been like that. Before the dukedom, before the titles and responsibilities.
Aurelia climbed in without a word and settled on the bench. When he joined her and shut the door, silence fell between them.
The carriage eventually hit the road, and when it ran over a rock, Aurelia grabbed her seat to avoid falling into him.
After a long pause, and when the road evened out, she asked, “What happens now?”
He didn’t answer. Well, not right away. However, when he finally decided to speak, his eyes flicked to her face. “Now, you come home.”