Chapter 16 #2
Edmund stepped inside. “I’ve known you long enough to expect sudden disappearances. You’ve a talent for vanishing before fate can catch you.”
“Perhaps fate has grown faster,” Richard replied dryly.
“Or perhaps she’s wearing a wedding gown.”
Richard smiled faintly. “You should have been a poet.”
“Not with your mother’s pen,” Edmund said, then his voice softened. “Jest aside, Richard—how do you feel?”
Richard buttoned his coat, fastening the last clasp with deliberate care. “Prepared.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one that matters.”
Edmund studied him, head tilted. “You’ve changed. You used to speak of life as though it were a war to be won. Now you speak as though you’ve already lost.”
Richard met his gaze evenly. “Perhaps both are true.”
The remark seemed to startle Edmund into silence.
At length, he sighed. “Well. If I must watch a friend march to the gallows of matrimony, I’d best take my seat before the execution begins.”
Richard gave a short, humorless laugh. “You do that.”
As Edmund left, Richard turned once more to the mirror. For a fleeting moment, the reflection seemed to waver—the soldier, the duke, the scarred man, the groom. Four faces overlapping, none entirely whole.
He drew a steadying breath.
No hesitation.
He stepped out into the corridor, the cool air biting pleasantly at his skin.
Servants drew back with murmured greetings as he passed.
The house pulsed with activity—flowers carried through the hall, ribbons tied, silver polished until it gleamed.
Every sound seemed magnified, every scent sharpened.
When he reached the great staircase, Lady Ophelia was waiting at the bottom. She looked radiant in lavender silk, her eyes bright though shadowed by something like worry.
“Richard,” she said softly. “You look splendid.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“As sure as one must be about inevitability.”
Her mouth tightened with restrained affection. “You sound like your father.”
“Then I am truly lost,” he said, though the words lacked bite.
Ophelia stepped closer, touching his arm lightly. “She is a spirited girl, your bride. Do not crush what makes her so.”
He looked down at her. “I do not crush what stands willingly beside me.”
Her lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. “That, my dear, is the trouble. She will not stand willingly for long.”
He said nothing, but the faint tension in his posture betrayed the truth of her words.
The bells began to toll again—clear, solemn, inescapable.
Lady Ophelia drew back. “It’s time.”
Richard nodded. Together, they stepped out into the morning.
The sky was pale blue, almost too bright. The grounds of Ashwood had been transformed: white roses lined the path, their scent mingling with the faint musk of earth and rain. Guests clustered along the walk, their murmurs rising in a tide of speculation as he passed.
“The Devil comes,” someone whispered.
He ignored it. He had heard worse on darker nights.
As he approached the chapel, Edmund was already stationed near the door, straight-backed and solemn. The soldiers’ composure in him brought Richard a measure of calm.
He paused once before the threshold, looking briefly toward the horizon. Somewhere beyond it, war still raged—somewhere, men still bled for causes they scarcely understood. He had escaped all that. Yet this, somehow, felt no less dangerous.
He stepped inside.
The hush that followed his entrance was absolute.
Candles burned in tall stands along the aisle, their light glinting off the polished pews and the golden crucifix at the altar. Every face turned toward him, every whisper stilled.
Richard lifted his chin, his expression unreadable. Whatever fear he carried, he buried deep beneath the armor of command.
The Devil of the Ton had arrived to claim his bride.
The sound of carriage wheels crunching over the gravel had long since faded, replaced by the whisper of silk as she stepped from the coach and onto the cobblestone path.
The morning air carried the faint scent of roses—too sweet, too deliberate.
Someone had arranged them in careful, symmetrical borders, as though beauty could disguise dread.
Her heart thudded hard against her ribs.
John offered his arm with a grin that failed to reach his eyes. “Ready?”
“As one can ever be when marching to her fate,” she said, managing a ghost of humor.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Keep that tongue sharp. It’s your only weapon.”
Evan, walking slightly ahead, turned at that. “Decorum, Caroline.”
“Decorum,” she repeated softly. “Yes. I shall try not to bleed rebellion on the altar.”
Their father stood waiting beside the chapel door, his posture regal, his eyes shining with a satisfaction that made her stomach tighten. He extended his arm without a word.
Caroline hesitated for a heartbeat—one fleeting, foolish wish that someone might say she need not do this. But none did.
She placed her hand on her father’s arm. The warmth of him felt distant through the gloves.
Inside, the world changed.
The chapel shimmered in candlelight. Petals lay scattered along the aisle like a pale snowfall. Faces turned as she entered—curious, appraising, judgmental. The cream of the ton had gathered for the spectacle: the fiery Miss Fernsby marrying the Devil himself.
Whispers rippled like wind through reeds.
“She looks terrified.”
“They say he made a pact for her dowry.”
“Imagine being bound to such a man.”
Caroline heard them all, though she kept her chin high.
Her father’s arm remained steady beneath her hand. With every step, the weight of her gown grew heavier, the lace train dragging like a chain. The candles blurred as tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. A Fernsby did not cry before strangers.
Then she saw him.
Richard.
He stood at the altar—tall, composed, dark as if carved from iron. His coat was cut with military precision, the black fabric making his eyes seem colder, his scar more severe. And yet, when her gaze met his, something unspoken passed between them. Recognition. Warning. Maybe even pity.
He looked like a man prepared for execution.
Her steps slowed. John gave her a subtle nudge, and she resumed, matching the rhythm of the quartet’s low, solemn notes.
When she reached him, her father released her hand and stepped back, pride gleaming in his eyes.
Richard bowed faintly. “My lady.”
Her reply was a whisper. “Your Grace.”
Their hands touched only briefly—a cool, trembling brush of fingers.
The vicar cleared his throat, and the ceremony began.
The words flowed as they always did—measured, ancient, rehearsed through centuries. The congregation stood in reverent silence while the vicar spoke of sacred bonds, of honor and obedience, of the holy covenant between husband and wife.
Caroline scarcely heard him. The chapel seemed distant, wrapped in mist. She watched Richard instead—the hard line of his jaw, the faint flicker in his gaze when the priest spoke of love. He did not flinch, but she saw it—the shadow that crossed his features like a passing cloud.
Does he even believe in love? she wondered.
Her pulse thrummed.
When the vicar said, “You may now seal your vows,” Richard turned toward her.
The moment stretched.
He lifted her veil slowly, revealing her face to the congregation. She expected the press of his mouth, the brief and dutiful kiss that marked the end of a bargain. Instead, his gaze lingered. His eyes traced the curve of her cheek, the tremor in her lip, the faint defiance that remained even now.
Something in his expression softened—just barely. Then it was gone.
He leaned close enough that his breath stirred the veil between them.
“All of this will be over soon,” he murmured so quietly only she could hear.
The candlelight shimmered through her veil as though through water.
Somewhere beyond the applause, a single petal drifted from the altar arrangement and landed on her shoe—a small, fragile thing, pale as snow. She stared at it, absurdly struck by how easily it had fallen.
Richard offered his arm, formal and cold.
“Shall we?” he said.
She placed her hand upon it because she must, not because she wished to.
Together they turned toward the aisle, future husband and wife, Duke and Duchess. The murmurs rose around them, admiring, envious, entirely unaware that something inside her had cracked wide open.
The music swelled again, triumphant and bright.
Caroline’s smile never wavered, but her fingers trembled where they touched his sleeve.
The Devil of the Ton would have his bride.
And the bride, beautiful and proud, stood beside him in silence—already wondering how long before the cage closed entirely.