Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The church was fuller than Phoebe had expected.
She stood at the entrance of the nave with a hand braced on Rowland's arm, and the moment she crossed the threshold, she felt the weight of every pair of eyes in the room settle upon her.
The pews were lined with people she did not know – associates and peers of the duke, she supposed, men and women of considerable rank who had come to witness what was surely, in their estimation, the strangest match of the season.
Perhaps of any season.
She kept her chin up, reminding herself that she had stood beneath the scrutiny of people like these before. She had survived her single disastrous season, had endured all of the negative reactions she had received. She could survive this. After all, she only needed to get through the next hour.
Still, she was acutely aware of the scar.
She always was, in rooms like this. It pulled at her attention constantly, insistently, quite impossible to ignore.
She resisted the urge to turn her face, to angle it away from the light streaming through the tall windows, as though doing so might diminish what everyone could already see.
She wondered what they thought of it. What they made of her.
A viscount's sister with no fortune and a face that had kept her unmarried well past the usual age – marching down the aisle to be wed to a duke.
They were probably bewildered. Some of the kinder ones, perhaps, felt a passing sympathy.
The less charitable ones, she imagined, were already whispering to their neighbours.
“How on earth did she manage such an unexpected proposal?”
“What could he possibly want with her?”
“Surely there is some mistake. Will he really go through with this charade?”
Phoebe exhaled slowly through her nose and fixed her gaze straight ahead, down the long aisle toward the altar.
And then she saw him.
Edward stood at the front of the church with his shoulders square and his posture calm and patient, as though the room and everything in it existed merely as scenery around him.
He was dressed immaculately, dark coat fitted to the breadth of his shoulders, his dark hair neat above the sharp line of his jaw.
He looked, as he always seemed to look, entirely at ease with himself.
But it was not his composure that made Phoebe falter in her step.
It was the fact that he was looking right at her.
His dark eyes were awfully familiar to her now, the way they seemed to encase her in heat whenever they rested on her, the simple way every look he casted her way made her feel unsettled.
And there was something in them now, in the steadiness of his gaze as he watched her come down the aisle, that made the voices in Phoebe's head go suddenly, blessedly quiet.
She was not aware that she had stopped thinking of the guests in the pews, her focus unable to linger on much else besides her waiting groom.
“Breathe,” Rowland murmured beside her.
She realised she had been holding her breath and exhaled quietly, feeling some of the tension within her body escape as she did so.
She glanced at him sideways and found him looking ahead, jaw tight as though he was trying very hard to maintain his composure.
She tightened her grip on his arm, desperate to reassure him that all was well.
“I'm all right,” she said softly.
He said nothing, but covered her hand with his briefly before they came to a stop at the altar.
The vicar’s voice was low and measured as the ceremony began, and Phoebe tried to pay attention to the words, she really did – but Edward had turned to face her fully now, and the proximity of him was its own kind of distraction.
She had not realised, during their two previous meetings, just how tall he was until she was standing beside him, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he looked down at her.
He reached out and took her hand and she jumped slightly at the unexpected action.
The gesture was simple enough – customary, even – but his fingers were warm around hers and he held her hand with an unhurried certainty that made her wonder just how confident he was in his decision to haver her as his wife.
Phoebe's heart shuddered in her chest and she willed herself to focus on the vicar again.
It was during the vows that he did it – that particular sort of behaviour she was beginning to recognise as deliberate on his part.
The vicar asked him to repeat after him, and Edward did, his voice even and clear, but when he arrived at the words with my body I thee worship, the faintest smile crossed his lips, and his gaze dropped to hers with an expression that was not quite innocent.
Phoebe felt the heat rise to her cheeks before she could prevent it.
Edward was doing it on purpose. She was almost entirely certain of it now.
Every time he spoke to her, every time he looked at her in that particular way, he was watching for the limit of her composure, testing where the edge was.
It was infuriating – especially how it made her wish to say something sharp and precise back at him, in hopes that she could wipe too-knowing look from his face.
But this was neither the time nor the place, and so she only stared back at him with the most level expression she could manage, her lips parting to utter the words she was meant to, just as she was expected to.
Edward’s smile, she noticed, widened very slightly.
The ceremony passed in a distant blur, with the words said, the light that streaming in from the windows, and the warmth of his hand all pressing together in her memory.
Phoebe did not know what it meant for her when she realized she would be unable to give an account of what transpired the whole time, so she prayed no one would ask.
The weight of her situation finally settled in her chest when the vicar pronounced them man and wife.
She stood still, suddenly at a loss on what to do, saved when the duke – her husband inclined his head toward her, a small private acknowledgement.
It felt only natural to give him a nod in return, and his smile afterwards lit a small flame of pleasure within her.
They turned together to face the congregation, and Phoebe had the distinct and slightly dizzying sense that her life had just changed in a way she would spend a very long time growing accustomed to.
The guests mingled after the ceremony in the churchyard while the carriages were being prepared, and Phoebe slipped away from the small cluster of well-wishers – Edward's associates, mostly, whose polite congratulations had been offered with varying degrees of curiosity in their eyes – to find Anna and Rowland standing a little apart from the crowd.
Anna had been crying again – that much was evident in the brightness of her eyes and the slight puffiness around them. But she beamed brightly when Phoebe approached them, walking forward quickly to take hold of her hands.
“You looked beautiful,” Anna told her, her voice only slightly unsteady.
“Don't,” Phoebe cautioned with a little laugh, her voice equally as soft. “Or you'll start again and then I will too, and neither of us shall make a leave impression.”
Anna gave a wet laugh and squeezed her hands. “Can I visit? Tell me I can visit. I cannot bear the thought of being with Rowland consistently, now that you won’t be with us anymore. It won’t be long before he invites me to go hunting with him.”
“Why on earth would I do that? You can barely ride a horse as is.” Rowland responded, looking outraged.
Phoebe watched them with a fond expression, sadness threatening to consume her heart as she told herself to take in as much of this moment as she could, because such occurrences would be few and far between henceforth.
“I will have to ask my husband,” Phoebe said, and she was aware, even as she said it, of how strange that phrase was in her mouth.
My husband. truly strange. She wondered how long it would take her to get used to the very idea.
She turned, and found Edward standing a few feet behind her, seemingly content to wait for her to conclude her conversation with her siblings. He shifted his gaze to hers when he noticed she was looking at him and after a moment, he glanced towards her siblings and said,
“Miss Danvers, you are of course welcome in our home whenever you wish to come. As is Lord Hartmoor. Our doors are always open to you.”
Anna's expression brightened instantly. “Oh – truly?”
“You have my word,” he said simply.
Rowland, who had been standing to the side with his arms folded and his expression stiff, stared at Edward for a long moment. Phoebe recognised the look and knew it meant her brother still had not decided if he would trust the duke.
“Your Grace,” he spoke up eventually with a cool tone. “Take care of my sister.”
Edward regarded him with an expression of mild amusement that Phoebe did not think helped matters. “I intend to do just that, Lord Hartmoor.”
Rowland did not look comforted in the slightest, but to his credit, did not say anything further, simply returned his attention to his sister – and then opened his arms.
She stepped into them and held onto him, and felt him return the embrace, smiling when Anna weaselled her way between them and for a moment, they were simply brother and sisters again, the way they had been in that unfamiliar room twelve years ago, when the world had rearranged itself around them and all they'd had was each other.
“Write to us,” he whispered into her hair.
“Constantly,” she promised and meant to honour it.
And then, it was time to go.
The carriage was quieter than she'd expected.
Phoebe sat across from Edward as the church fell away behind them and the streets of London rolled past the window, and tried to compose herself into something resembling she could recognize.