Chapter 9
Margaret insisted on a small church—no grand cathedral, no crowds of judgment. Just the vicar, her siblings, and a handful of people who actually cared whether she and Henry found happiness.
She stood in the vestibule, smoothing her hands over her simple cream silk dress. Not the elaborate gown his aunts had tried to commission, but something she’d chosen herself.
“You look beautiful,” Tessie whispered, adjusting the flowers in Margaret’s hair.
“I am terrified.”
“The good kind.” Her sister grinned. “The ‘I’m marrying a man I actually love’ kind.”
Matthew appeared in the doorway, tall and serious in his best coat. “They’re ready.”
Her siblings filed out, and Matthew offered his arm. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. “Because if not, we can leave right now.”
Her heart squeezed. “I’m sure. This time, I’m choosing.”
They stepped into the church. Morning light streamed through stained glass, casting jeweled patterns across the stone. And there, at the front, stood Henry. He turned as she entered.
The breath left her lungs. He looked at her like she was the only person in the world, as if he’d been waiting his entire life for this moment.
She walked toward him. One step. Then another.
When they reached the front, Matthew placed her hand in Henry’s and said fiercely, “Take care of her.”
“With my life,” Henry promised.
The vicar began. Margaret heard the words as if from a distance—the same liturgy she’d heard once before in very different circumstances.
Then Henry spoke, his voice steady, his eyes never leaving hers. “I, Henry Dashfield, take you, Margaret Elizabeth Foley, to be my wife. I promise to choose you every day. To stand beside you. To be your partner, your friend, your home.”
Her vision blurred.
Then it was her turn.
“I, Margaret Elizabeth Foley, take you, Henry Dashfield, to be my husband. I promise to choose you every day. To trust you with my heart. To build a life with you—not because I must, but because I cannot imagine not doing so.”
The vicar smiled. “You may kiss your bride.”
Henry’s hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “My wife,” he murmured.
“My husband.”
Then he kissed her—soft at first, then deeper, a promise sealed.
When they broke apart, her siblings cheered, but Margaret only had eyes for Henry. For her husband.
Chosen. Wanted. Hers.
They’d invited just family and a few close friends to an intimate wedding breakfast. The table groaned with food, but Margaret could barely focus on anything except Henry’s hand wrapped around hers beneath the table.
Halfway through the meal, Tessie stood and cleared her throat. “I’d like to propose a toast.”
Everyone raised their glasses.
“To the duke and duchess of Dashfield,” Tessie said, eyes twinkling. “May your marriage be filled with love, laughter, and”—she paused dramatically—“peas.”
Margaret’s head snapped up. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, we absolutely did.” Anna gestured to the table.
Margaret looked. Every single dish featured peas. Pea soup. Roasted vegetables with peas. A salad studded with peas. Even the garnish on the mutton included—
“Peas.” Henry laughed. “They’re everywhere.”
“They’re hopeful,” Matthew said with a perfectly straight face. “And morally superior to most people we know.”
The table erupted in laughter.
Margaret pressed her hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“We had to,” Tessie said. “It’s where it all started. The pea incident.”
Henry lifted his glass. “To peas. Hopeful, stubborn, and absolutely perfect, just like my wife.”
Margaret’s throat tightened as everyone drank.
“Though I have to say,” Henry added, leaning close so only she could hear, “we’ve caused quite a scandal with this menu. Peas at a ducal wedding breakfast? Unheard of.”
She turned to him, eyes dancing. “Let’s hope it’s not our first.”
His gaze darkened. “Or our last.”
The air between them went electric.
“Speaking of scandals,” he murmured, voice dropping, “how soon can we politely leave our own wedding breakfast?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Henry—”
“Because I’ve been thinking about getting you alone for approximately three hours now. And my patience is running rather thin.”
“We can’t just abandon—”
“Let’s go.” He stood, pulling her up with him. “Ladies and gentlemen, my wife and I thank you for celebrating with us. Please, continue enjoying the meal. We’re going to—” He paused. “Take a tour of the house.”
Lord Cavendish, who’d been nursing his wine with an amused expression throughout the entire breakfast, raised his glass.
“Dashfield, I must say—your restraint during the ceremony was admirable. I had money on you kissing your bride before the vicar finished the vows. Enjoy the tour.” He winked and raised his glass.
“You took bets on my wedding?” Henry asked.
“Of course. Lost five shillings.” Cavendish grinned. “Though I suspect you’re about to make up for lost time with this ‘tour.’”
“Cavendish—”
“By all means, don’t let me delay you. The east wing is particularly fascinating this time of day.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Very… educational.”
Henry’s jaw tightened, though his lips twitched. He didn’t wait for more commentary, but pulled Margaret toward the door, both of them trying not to run, to maintain some shred of dignity.
They made it to the corridor before he stopped, pressed her against the wall, and kissed her breathless.
“Tour of the house?” she managed when he finally let her breathe.
“We’ll get there eventually.” His mouth found her throat. “After a few detours.”
“Henry, someone could see—”
“Let them.” He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “I’m done being proper. I’m done waiting. I want my wife. Now.”
The words sent heat racing through her. “Then take me on the tour.”
He did.