Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance…”
Cressida’s fingers trembled.
The chapel at Ashmere was intimate, almost austere, with morning light slanting through narrow windows to illuminate the handful of witnesses gathered in the pews.
Her family occupied the front row with varying degrees of satisfaction.
Harriet sat beside John, her face etched with concern that no amount of careful composure could quite disguise.
Lady Seymore watched from the side with an expression of studied innocence that suggested she found the entire proceedings deeply entertaining.
“I will.” Theodore’s voice carried no hesitation, no hint of the turmoil that must surely exist beneath that carefully controlled exterior.
He stood beside her in dark morning attire, his presence radiating authority even as he bound himself to a woman he’d known barely a fortnight.
The rector turned to her, and she felt the weight of expectation settle on her shoulders like a heavy cloak.
“Wilt thou, Lady Cressida Whitaker, have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance…”
“I will.” The vow emerged steadier than she’d expected, carrying across the small space with surprising clarity.
Theodore’s hand found hers, sliding a ring of gold and emeralds onto her finger with careful deliberation. The band was beautiful, the stones catching the light in a way that made them seem alive.
It was no less a shackle than the one she’d worn for Emerton.
The rector joined her hands with Theodore’s, his skin warm beneath the gloves. “Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”
The last few words of the ceremony fell into silence, broken only by her mother’s poorly suppressed sobs.
Theodore’s fingers tightened briefly on hers before he released her, stepping back with that same rigid control she’d witnessed throughout the brief ceremony.
“Bid your family farewell,” he said quietly, his voice pitched low for her ears only. “We’ll be leaving soon.”
Then he moved away, and she found herself standing alone before the remnants of her former life.
Lady Bardwell descended first, tears streaming with theatrical precision.
“Oh, Cressida! My daughter, married to a duke!” Her voice carried that particular pitch reserved for moments of extreme emotional display, loud enough that everyone in the chapel could hear.
“After all the scandal, after everything that happened, you’ve actually married a duke! ”
“Yes, Mama.” Cressida kept her tone neutral, even as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. “I’m aware of whom I’ve just married.”
“Though of all the dukes in England…” Her mother’s voice dropped to what she likely imagined was a whisper but carried nonetheless.
“Did it have to be this one? They say he never smiles, that he’s been half-mad with grief since his father’s death.
And that dreadful business with the duel—both his father and uncle dying in such a terrible way!
How perfectly ghastly to be connected to such tragedy.
My poor daughter, married to the ruthless Duke of Ashmere! ”
“Jane, perhaps this isn’t the moment for such observations.” Lady Norwell appeared at her daughter’s elbow, her expression carrying a warning that Lady Bardwell seemed determined to ignore.
“I’m merely expressing maternal concern for my daughter’s future happiness,” Lady Bardwell insisted, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that looked suspiciously unstained. “One hears such dreadful things about his temper, his isolation, how he shut himself away after the tragedy—”
“One also hears,” Cressida interrupted with more sharpness than she’d intended, “that he’s honorable enough to marry a woman compromised by scandal rather than let her face ruin alone. That speaks rather well of his character, wouldn’t you say?”
Lady Bardwell blinked, momentarily silenced by her daughter’s tone.
Lady Norwell took the opportunity to claim Cressida’s hands, her grip warm and steady. “My dear girl.” Her voice was low, meant only for her. “I wish this could have gone differently. That you’d had a choice in the matter, that circumstances hadn’t forced your hand.”
“We rarely get to have a choice, do we, Grandmama?” Cressida managed a smile that felt brittle around the edges. “At least this way, I’m a duchess rather than a social pariah.”
“True enough.” Lady Norwell’s expression softened with something that looked almost like pride. “But if he proves unkind—if this marriage becomes unbearable—you send word to me immediately. Duke or not, I’ll have something to say about it.”
The fierce protectiveness in her grandmother’s voice made Cressida’s throat tighten. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
“And remember what I’ve always told you: you’re stronger than anyone gives you credit for. Including yourself.” Lady Norwell squeezed Cressida’s hands once more before releasing them. “You’re a Whitaker. We endure.”
Her father approached next, his expression carrying satisfaction poorly disguised as paternal concern. “Well, Cressida. You’re a duchess now. Quite remarkable, considering where we stood just days ago.”
“Considering I was ruined by scandal and abandoned by my betrothed, you mean?” Cressida drawled.
Her father had the grace to look uncomfortable, though it passed quickly.
“What matters is that you’ve made an advantageous match, despite the unfortunate circumstances.
Your duty now is to be a good wife. A good duchess.
Don’t embarrass him as you’ve embarrassed this family in the past,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact in a way that would have been insulting if she were not already used to it.
She absorbed the familiar sting and lifted her chin. “I shall endeavor to meet your expectations, Papa,” she replied, barely managing to rein in the affront in her voice.
“See that you do. This connection to Ashmere will serve our family well in business and society.” He patted her shoulder with the affection one might show a promising investment before moving away, already turning his attention to Theodore across the chapel.
Mary launched herself forward before Cressida could fully process her father’s words, the embrace nearly knocking them both sideways.
“I’m going to miss you terribly!” Mary’s voice was muffled against Cressida’s shoulder, thick with genuine tears. “You must write constantly. Every single day, promise me!”
“Mary, darling, that might be excessive—”
“I don’t care if it’s excessive! You’re leaving for that enormous castle, and I’ll be stuck here with Mama’s dramatics and Papa’s lectures about propriety.
” Mary pulled back, her young face fierce with emotion.
“Promise you’ll at least try to be happy.
Or if you can’t be happy, promise you’ll write and tell me everything so I can at least live vicariously through your adventures. ”
The earnestness in her voice, the genuine affection unmarred by calculation or social maneuvering, made Cressida’s chest ache.
“I promise to write regularly. And I promise to try.”
“Good.” Mary swiped at her eyes. “Because if he makes you miserable, I’ll come up there myself and give him a piece of my mind. Duke or not.”
Despite everything, Cressida felt genuine warmth spread through her. “I believe you would.”
Peter appeared as Mary reluctantly stepped aside, his expression carrying that particular blend of fraternal concern and masculine discomfort with emotional display.
“Well, Sister.” He rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back in unconscious imitation of their father. “That’s quite the elevation in circumstances. From spinster to duchess in the span of a fortnight. Rather impressive, even for you.”
“Don’t start, Peter.”
“Start what? I’m merely observing that you’ve managed to outdo even your most dramatic tendencies.
” His lips quirked up with suppressed amusement.
“Running away from Aunt Agatha’s, getting caught in a storm, staying unchaperoned with a duke, causing a scandal that shakes the very foundation of London society, and now marrying the said duke in a hasty ceremony.
What’s next? Leading a military campaign against Napoleon’s ghost? ”
Despite everything—the chaos of the past weeks, the uncertainty of her future, the weight of the ring on her finger—laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep in her chest. “You’re impossible. And Napoleon’s been dead for years.”
“Exactly my point. You’d have to resurrect him first, which would only add to the drama.
” Peter’s expression turned more serious, though amusement still danced in his eyes.
“Though I must say, for someone who spent years lecturing me on the importance of rational decision-making and careful consideration of consequences, you’ve displayed a remarkable talent for impulsive behavior lately. ”
“I seem to recall,” Cressida countered, warming up to the banter, “that you’re the one who got sent down from Cambridge last year for that incident with the dean’s carriage and the flock of geese. Don’t lecture me on impulsive behavior.”
“That was different,” Peter said loftily. “That was youthful high spirits.”
“That was you getting drunk and making spectacularly poor choices.”
“Fair enough.” Peter grinned, then sobered slightly. “But truly, Cress. If he proves difficult, if this marriage becomes something you can’t bear, you send word. I may only be at Cambridge most of the year, but I have connections now. People who know people. Lords and such.”
The offer was ridiculous. Her brother’s ability to intimidate a duke was roughly equivalent to a sparrow’s ability to threaten an eagle, but the sentiment behind it, the genuine concern beneath the teasing, warmed her nonetheless.
“Thank you, Peter. Though I suspect your ‘connections’ are mostly other students who drink too much and gamble poorly.”