11. The Simple Wedding
Eleven
The Simple Wedding
T he bells of St. George’s Church began to ring as society took places on the benches.
Kate had chosen this small, elegant church precisely for its intimacy, which was a deliberate contrast to the grand society weddings that filled Westminster Abbey with hundreds of guests and ostentatious displays of wealth.
Only a handful of guests occupied the wooden pews. Lady Rutledge sat prominently in the front row, her elaborate feathered hat drawing attention like a beacon of approval. Her presence alone would legitimize this union in the eyes of society, and Kate was grateful for her unwavering support.
Lord Ramsay lurked near the back, his curiosity apparently overcoming his previous animosity toward the match.
Kate had half-expected him to boycott the ceremony entirely, but there he was, no doubt hoping to witness some catastrophic failure that would vindicate his skepticism about Kate’s choice of husband.
Several business associates of her late father filled the remaining seats, their expressions a mixture of surprise and speculation.
These were men who had known her father for decades, who had watched her grow from a precocious child interrupting board meetings to the formidable woman now running Sullivan Shipping.
Their presence felt like a bridge between her past and whatever uncertain future awaited her.
Among them sat Mr. Blackwood, his face now seeming more tranquil, as if he had already made peace with the fact that Sullivan Shipping would be commanded now not only by Kate but also by her husband to be.
At the altar stood Mr. Moore, impeccably dressed in a tailored morning coat that emphasized his lean frame and broad shoulders. His posture was perfect, his expression composed, though his fingers betrayed the slightest tremor as he adjusted his cufflinks.
Beside him stood Vikram, uncomfortable in the formal attire Mary had somehow procured for him. The boy kept fidgeting with his collar, earning periodic whispered corrections from his guardian.
“Still,” commanded Mr. Moore for the third time at least.
Vikram froze immediately, then slowly relaxed his hands to his sides.
Despite his obvious discomfort, pride radiated from his young face at being included in such an important moment. Mr. Moore had already arranged official papers declaring himself the boy’s protector—an act done quietly, without ceremony, but one that carried profound meaning.
Mary, seated in the front row, found herself unexpectedly moved by the sight of them together.
This unlikely pair who had somehow found comfort in each other.
She shifted her posture with hawk-like vigilance, her sharp eyes never leaving Mr. Moore, ready to intervene should any part of their play begin to fail.
She had spent the last days drilling Mr. Moore on proper etiquette, ensuring he could navigate the ceremony and reception without betraying his true origins.
The vicar, a thin man with kind eyes and graying hair, arranged his prayer book reverently.
Reverend Whitmore had officiated at Kate’s parents’ wedding forty-five years ago, and Kate had specifically requested him for this ceremony.
If she was to enter into this arrangement, she wanted at least some connection to genuine love and happiness, even if her own marriage would be built on more pragmatic foundations.
The church doors opened then with a soft creak, and all heads turned in unison.
Kate entered alone—she had no father to give her away, no male relative to perform that traditional duty.
At least, no one she cared about or were near enough to do so.
She had briefly considered asking one of her father’s old friends, but ultimately decided the symbolism was wrong.
She was giving herself away, making this choice independently, as she had made every important decision since her father’s death.
She wore a deep blue dress rather than traditional white, the rich sapphire silk adorned with modest pearl accents that gave her a shining flair. Her veil was thin and delicate, barely obscuring her face—another deliberate choice. She would not hide behind tradition or false modesty either.
She carried a small bouquet of winter roses, their deep red petals a striking contrast against the blue fabric.
The church organ began its solemn processional as soon as she appeared, along with a collective murmur that spread over upon seeing her.
The rich notes filled the vaulted space as Kate started walking down the aisle.
Each step was measured to the music’s steady rhythm, the traditional melody echoing off stone walls that had witnessed countless weddings before hers.
As she walked down the aisle, Lady Rutledge nodded and smiled approvingly. The older woman understood the statement Kate was making with every choice. This was a business arrangement, not a romantic fairy tale, and she would not pretend otherwise.
However, Lord Ramsay’s expression soured slightly as he took in her attire, clearly recognizing the message in her rejection of conventional bridal wear. Kate saw this out of the corner of her eye as she passed by him, but she honestly didn’t give a damn to any of his assumptions.
Mr. Moore’s reaction, though, was what truly mattered.
As Kate’s eyes met his across the length of the church, she saw something that made her falter for just a moment.
He wasn’t merely watching her approach; he was enchanted, his expression showing genuine wonder.
The intensity of his gaze made her suddenly self-conscious, aware of every step, every breath and every beat of her heart.
Time slowed as she reached the altar, the organ’s final notes fading into silence, but his magnetic stare had never wavered along the way. Nor had hers.
Once close to him, Mr. Moore extended his hand openly. And as Kate took it, she felt his warm, firm fingers close around hers, his touch light but firm as always.
Kate’s gaze was lost in his then as they looked at each other without pretension, like two strangers on the verge of becoming husband and wife—united by necessity, yet separated by secrets.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Whitmore began, his voice echoing in the crowded church, “we are gathered here in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
The words, so familiar and so grand in themselves, completely overwhelmed Kate, who, being so close to Mr. Moore, her hand still in his, could not help but be so fully conscious of his presence.
She had attended dozens of weddings over the years, but she had never expected her own to feel so surreal, so removed from the romantic ideals she had once harbored as a young girl.
Could she now, however, assert that no such feelings existed already between them, with his warm hand holding hers, and her own heart behaving in a way that argued otherwise?
“Marriage is an honorable estate, instituted by God, and is not to be entered into lightly or unadvisedly, but reverently, discreetly, and in the fear of God.”
Kate felt a pang of guilt at the reverend’s words. Were they entering into this reverently? Certainly not for the traditional reasons of love and devotion. Yet there was something reverent in their mutual respect, their honesty about what this union would and would not be.
She stole one quick glance at his profile. He seemed so sure about this. Wasn’t he?
“If any person present knows just cause why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
A weighted silence fell over the small congregation. Kate felt her breath catch as she waited, half-expecting Lord Ramsay to voice some objection.
In the farthest row, he shifted in his seat but remained silent. The moment stretched until Reverend Whitmore continued with the traditional vows.
“Do you, Jason Moore, take Katherine Elizabeth Sullivan to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
Mr. Moore’s voice came clear and steady.
“I do.”
The certainty in his tone surprised Kate. This was, after all, merely a business transaction for him—wasn’t it? Yet he spoke the words as if they carried genuine weight and genuine meaning.
“And do you, Katherine Elizabeth Sullivan, take Jason Moore to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
Silence.
Kate held her breath for a second time. The words sat heavy on her tongue, enormous and irrevocable. Around them, she heard the rustle of fabric as guests shifted, sensed the ripple of whispers beginning at the back pews.
Say it. Just say it.
But her throat had closed, and her hands were clammy where they gripped the bouquet of roses. The church felt suddenly too small, too warm, too everything.
She closed her eyes and drew in a breath that shuddered slightly.
The man at her side turned his head to look at her.
She could feel his gaze as if, out of nowhere, a candle were scorching her skin.
She could sense—even without looking back at him—that his eyes reflected the very same question the vicar had asked her moments earlier; yet she could also feel his silent plea for her to answer.
There was no turning back now. For even without daring to look at him directly, she could not bear the thought of what she might see in those green eyes of his.
Another deep breath. The vicar waited, patient but expectant.
She had come this far. Made this choice for reasons that remained valid regardless of her sudden panic. She needed this marriage. Needed the protection it offered, the companionship she secretly yearned for, the shield against those who would take everything her father had built.