Chapter 7
Sebastian woke long before dawn. Sleep never lingered on mornings like this, mornings that left him with a knot at the back of his head.
The wash water was cold enough to sting.
He braced his forearms on the basin’s edge, and drops slid down his clean cuffs, his spine locked tight.
He’d handled Parliament’s backlashes, traitorous business partners, and his mother’s cold training, but none of it weighed on him like the simple slip of a door latch behind a library and a girl he had never spoken to in his life, aside from that day.
Behind him, Rook worked in silence, the soft click of brass buttons sliding through cloth the only sound.
“You’ll want the heavier coat,” Rook said after a moment, setting it across a chair. “Bit of a wind this morning.”
Sebastian didn’t answer at once. “It won’t blow the chapel away.”
“No, Your Grace,” Rook replied, tone dry. “But you’ll want your cravat straight for the occasion.” He stepped forward, fingers brisk on the starched linen. “One imagines it will be… a long morning.”
“One imagines correctly.” Sebastian’s mouth curved without humor.
Rook’s hands stilled on the collar for a beat. “You’ll be fine,” he said simply.
Sebastian gave him a glance, unreadable, then slipped his hands into the gloves Rook offered, leather soft as skin.
When Rook stepped back, Sebastian caught his own reflection in the pier glass.
The man looking back was exactly as a duke should be—tall, broad across the chest, the line of his coat perfect, shoulders squared as if the title alone braced his spine.
The face gave nothing away except, perhaps, the hard flick of his jaw when his eyes drifted to the window and found only gray dawn pressing at the glass or the hardness of his gaze.
He thought of Margaret Greystone then, though he couldn’t say why she’d crossed his mind.
The quiet lilt of her voice in that library, the bright blue eyes that met his with a kind of wild dignity that was impressive.
He remembered the press of silk at her waist when he hauled her up to that cursed window.
Smaller than she looked, but stubborn all the same.
He remembered how sharp her eyes had been even then.
Sebastian’s jaw flexed. She had no business lingering in his thoughts. He curled his hand inside the glove, the leather pulling at his knuckles. Whatever softness she possessed—or he, for even thinking of it—had no place here.
A knock at the dressing room door snapped the thought in half. Tolliver, the old butler, bowed low enough to almost vanish behind the doorframe.
“Your Grace. The carriages are ready.”
Sebastian didn’t turn at first. He adjusted his cuff, one precise tug. “Good. Make sure the front steps are clear of loiterers. I want no scenes.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Tolliver vanished as quietly as he’d come, shoes silent on the polished floorboards.
Sebastian filled his lungs with breath and slowly expelled it. It felt like stepping into armor. Breathing out slowly, the familiar weight of his coat and gloves settling into place, as if they alone might hold him together when nothing else could.
He flexed his fingers once, feeling the slow press of his heartbeat in the hollow of his throat.
He did not want this. Not the binding, not the pity in their eyes, not the whispers they’d stick to her name and his alike.
But he’d walked himself here. He would stand where no other man would stand for her.
He would bear it. That was all that was left.
The carriage ride to the chapel was short, but it felt like every jolt was a step closer to the guillotine.
He stepped out into the corridor, boots thudding on the thick carpet.
In the chapel, he could already hear the first murmurs of guests settling in their pews, the old wood groaning under polite weight, the quiet talk behind every tight smile.
At the end of the hall, he caught sight of Edward’s familiar shape, leaning one shoulder against a marble pillar, hands tucked carelessly behind his back. Edward’s head tipped as soon as he saw him, grin already half-formed.
Sebastian drew in a breath, jaw locking tight as he walked to the front of the chapel with Edward in tow.
He stood like a pillar at the chapel’s head, his boots braced on cold stone and his shoulders cut sharp beneath black wool. From the corner of his eye, he could see the pews shifting with a few polite coughs here and there, silk skirts swishing against the pews as guests found their seats.
Edward leaned in, voice pitched for no one else. “If the rumors are true,” he murmured, mouth twitching like he half-hoped it might be so. “Perhaps the roof will come down and spare you the next forty years.”
Sebastian didn’t look at him. His jaw moved once, a muscle flicking at the hinge. “Optimistic of you.”
Edward’s grin sharpened. “You’re the optimist, old man. Look at you. The Duke of Ravenscourt about to play at domestic bliss. Who’d have thought?”
Sebastian’s eyes stayed on the chapel doors. They hadn’t opened yet. Good. Let them stay closed a moment longer. His gloves creaked faintly when he flexed his fingers.
Edward tilted closer, breath stirring the edge of Sebastian’s collar. “Could’ve been worse,” he said. “She’s not plain; she’s… you know, she’s beautiful. No shrieking cousins. No debts tied around her neck. Could’ve saddled you with a shriveled heiress from the Highlands, God forbid.”
Sebastian’s mouth twitched barely. “Maybe I’d prefer the Highlands. Quiet.”
Edward snorted under his breath. “Liar. You’d die of boredom before the banns were read.”
Sebastian’s reply didn’t come. He only exhaled once, slow, cold. His eyes pinned on the wooden doors, as if sheer will might nail them shut for good.
Edward’s grin faded, softer now. He glanced at his friend’s stiff posture, the hand at Sebastian’s side, curling tight then flattening again. “Does she know?”
Sebastian’s head turned, just enough to cut him a glance, steel bright. “There’s nothing for her to know.”
Edward huffed a small laugh. “Lie to me if you must. Don’t lie to her.”
Sebastian didn’t answer that. The guests in front of them quietened. The doors would swing wide at any breath now.
He set his shoulders back, jaw locked. “Stand up straight, Wrexford.”
Edward barked a dry chuckle. “Aye, Your Grace.”
And then the latch shifted, and the wood gave a soft groan. The doors began to open.
Sebastian’s eyes didn’t leave the chapel doors.
Margaret stepped through like the final answer to a question he’d never wanted to ask. Ivory silk, too fine for Wexley coin, cut to fit her narrow shoulders and the soft line of her throat. A flicker of candlelight caught her hair where it escaped the careful twist, burnishing it dark and warm.
She looked at him only once, then fixed her gaze somewhere just past his shoulder, as if she might find a door still open there.
He felt Edward shift beside him and heard the faint rasp of a cough behind them as guests straightened and skirts rustled.
He did not move. He waited.
When Margaret reached him, she paused, her breath tight in her chest. His expression gave nothing away, but he offered his arm without hesitation.
Her hand hovered above the black cloth, trembling just enough for her to pray the candlelight wouldn’t betray it.
She hoped he hadn’t noticed… though something in the quiet between them made her fear he had.
The vicar’s bushy brows lifted as he shuffled his book, clearing his throat to fill the silence. Somewhere behind her, pearls clinked faintly, a whisper passing under the rustle of fans.
They faced the old vicar, a ruddy face with white curls and a trembling book in his wrinkled hands. The man cleared his throat once, then twice before beginning.
The vows passed in a hush so deep she could hear the clock in the chapel ticking. Her voice caught once, just once, before she forced it steady. His answers came without pause, low and flat, as if carved from something colder than stone.
“—to love, cherish, and protect—”
Her mouth twitched at ‘love’. She thought, though she dared not look, that his jaw moved at ‘cherish’.
When the final words fell, the vicar paused. He peered over his spectacles, expectant.
“A kiss, Your Grace?”
Margaret’s breath caught. Her stomach tightened. She didn’t dare breathe. He didn’t turn. His gaze was fixed forward, past her, past everyone. She waited, the edge of her veil brushing her cheek, her hand faintly twitching on his sleeve.
Nothing.
The vicar cleared his throat, gently, then louder, trying to prompt what was missing.
She stared down at her shoes, the pale tip of her slipper peeking from her gown, as if the floor might open and spare her.
For a moment, she thought he might bend, quickly and formally, something that would pass for civility. But the moment stretched too long, and the polite cough from the front pew made her spine stiffen.
Her hand fell back to her side.
When nothing came, the priest snapped his book shut, forcing a kindly smile.
When the vicar found his place, he lifted his hands, voice rounding out the last thin blessing. “And so… you are now man and wife.”
There was no cheer, only a heartbeat of stillness, then a single clap—Cecily’s—and it sounded way too loud.
She felt her own shoulders stiffen. He extended his arm again, and she took it without looking because not taking it would draw more stares than she could bear.
The chapel doors yawned wide, spilling weak daylight across polished stone. Guests dipped shallow bows as they passed.
His voice came low, almost a growl against her ear.
“We leave at once. My carriage is waiting. We’ll ride for Brighton.”
Her fingers flinched. She kept her eyes ahead. “A moment. Please.”
The single pause before his answer told her he’d heard the spine in her voice.
“Be quick,” he said.
Margaret turned, her fabric swishing against her body, to find Cecily first. Cecily barreled into her before she could say a word, arms wrapped too tightly for decorum.
“You write to me,” Cecily whispered fiercely. “Every week. Promise me, or I’ll come pounding at your front door like a common thief…”
Margaret’s laugh snagged on the edge of tears. “You wouldn’t.”
Cecily pulled back, eyes bright. “Try me. Brighton’s not so far if you love someone enough.”
Margaret’s laugh cracked in her throat. “I’ll try.”
“You’d better. Or I’ll ride to Brighton myself and drag you home.” Cecily sniffed.
Beatrice waited behind her, twisting her gloves every second, her lips pressed thin with something like hope and guilt tangled together. She leaned in, her words quick and soft.
“I know you didn’t want this. I didn’t want it this way either. Just… be happy, Margaret. Or at least… safer. Maybe I can be too, now.”
Margaret’s fingers brushed Beatrice’s sleeve. “You will be.”
Before Beatrice could gather the right reply, Cecily leaned in with her wicked grin. “And you’ll name your first dog after me,” she said brightly. “A great slobbery hound to guard you when you’re grand and titled. That way I’ll always be watching.”
Beatrice let out a quick laugh. “Oh, hush, Cecily. She’ll name a goat after you before she’d trust you with a guard dog.”
“I’ll take a goat,” Cecily sniffed, nudging Margaret’s arm. “So long as you remember me.”
Aunt Agnes stood back by the last pew, her back ramrod straight, chin lifted to keep the tears from slipping free. When Margaret stepped close, the older woman’s hand found hers, squeezing quickly and firmly.
“You do your best, child. And let him do right by you.” Her voice caught, just once, the crack hidden behind her teeth. “Your mother would have wanted that. That’s all any of us can ask.”
Margaret bowed her head.
Edward drifted up beside Sebastian, straightening his cuff with an infuriating calm.
“Well,” Edward murmured under his breath, “no one fainted. No lightning struck. Shall I count that as a win?”
Sebastian’s jaw flexed. “Count whatever you like.”
Edward gave him a sidelong look, mouth twitching. “You always were a sentimental bastard, Ravenscourt.”
Sebastian’s eyes cut to him. “Do shut up, Edward.”
Edward clucked his tongue, the grin half-hidden. “Too late to run now?”
Sebastian snorted. “Tempting.”
He felt Edward’s palm clap his shoulder, not soft, not mocking either.
“She’s a good one. Try not to frighten her away in your first week.”
Sebastian’s mouth twitched. “I frighten no one.”
“Mm.” Edward leaned in a hair closer, dropping his voice so low only the shadows could hear it. “Then why do you look like you’d rather face a duel than walk out that door?”
Sebastian didn’t answer that. He just pulled in a slow breath, eyes flicking to where Margaret stood in her pale gown, the future wrapped around her shoulders like a too-heavy cloak.
“I’ve survived worse,” he said at last.
Edward laughed, sharp and warm all at once. “Not like this, old friend. Not like this.”