Chapter 18
“Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.”
—William Shakespeare
Charity straightened, still holding Perry’s head in her hands, only then remembering abruptly that they had an audience.
The Queen was sitting stock-still and silent, watching them.
The woman who so seldom showed any expressions besides boredom and annoyance wore a distant expression that hinted at the grief she carried.
It was as though she was remembering she, too, had once experienced love like this, before the King had gone mad and been locked away from the world.
Charity had never known this version of the Queen, and would not even have guessed that such softness existed within the woman.
She wanted to turn her head away, to grant the woman privacy, but something compelled her to straighten, take Perry’s hand in hers and face forward.
To use this rare chance to forge an emotional connection that transcended rank and status.
After a moment, the Queen’s eyes focused, meeting Charity’s gaze.
But she left her guard down, allowing the younger woman to see past the stony facade she wore so well, and blinked to clear her eyes.
In a voice that bore a trace of hoarseness, she declared, “You shall wed. Today. I shall not stand in your way any longer.”
“Ma’am?” Charity gasped, unable to believe her ears.
“Real love is not ribbons and sonnets, nor the foolish flutter of youth, Duchess. It is duty carried willingly, sorrow borne together, and the refusal to abandon one another when all reason counsels otherwise.” Charlotte’s eyes settled on Peregrine, telling him without words that this message was for him too.
“Guard what you have, both of you, for such a thing is beautiful precisely because of the fact it is so difficult to find.”
She paused, swallowing once. And then she let her expression close, becoming the Queen once more.
“To go forward against Lady Fitzroy, you should armour yourselves with every method of protection. Arranging extra guards for your estate is only a temporary solution. Stronger is a legal binding. You must consolidate your households in the eyes of the law, so the duchess may intercede in the matters concerning Lady Lark, and afford her protection from the estate, should the worst happen, Lord Fitzroy. And I will smooth the way regarding the matter of guardianship of young Duke of Atholl.”
Charity opened her mouth to speak, but Queen Charlotte held up her hand.
“The Archbishop can conduct the ceremony here in the chapel. It is the least I can do.” The Queen looked at Charity.
“I told myself it was your insolence I rebuked. But it was your honesty. You were right about Prince William. Love and duty—whether it is to a husband or a people—do not often permit the easier road.”
“Your Majesty—” Peregrine began, but again, Queen Charlotte cut him off by rising from her chair abruptly.
“Time is something we do not have in abundance. Invite whom you wish; a pair of footmen will be at your disposal. You may remain here until the Archbishop arrives.” With that, she gathered her skirts and swept quickly from the room.
As soon as the door shut behind the Queen, Charity threw herself into Perry’s arms. He caught her and held her hard, as though he felt like he might lose her and never intended to let her go again.
Tears blurred her sight, spilling hot and unchecked onto his shoulder.
But they were tears of happiness—of wonder that the impossible had been granted.
“Charity,” he murmured, her name breaking against her hair, reverent and unsteady.
Her sniffles must have startled him, for he pulled back just enough to see her face.
Concern furrowed his brow until he saw the smile trembling on her lips.
With infinite gentleness, he brushed away her tears, his thumb tracing her cheek as though to memorise her.
Then he bent to her, pressing a kiss to one eyelid and then the other, before trailing down her cheeks, drying her tears with the warmth of his mouth.
When at last his lips found hers, it was no conquest. It was surrender. A kiss of devotion, of relief, of a love that had so far survived every trial set against it.
Charity drew him closer still, threading her fingers into his hair as if to anchor him, as if to prove he was real and hers at last. A laugh broke through her tears, soft and incredulous, brushing against his lips. “We are to be married,” she whispered. “Finally.”
He rested his brow on hers, and made a vow of his own, his tone lightly ironic. “We will survive this. We must because we already witnessed a miracle.”
That the Queen had apologised, in a fashion, for halting their hasty wedding in retaliation against Charity, he meant. She muffled a laugh against his shoulder.
They stood in that fragile, perfect hush, the world outside forgotten, the Queen’s drawing room transformed into the centre of their universe. For that moment, there was no crown, no duty, no danger—only two people who had found love despite all the obstacles put in their way.
A polite knock rattled the door, breaking the spell. Charity loosened her hold and stepped back, already missing his touch. But she could not remain there forever in his embrace. They had things to do, and quickly.
Perry smoothed a wayward curl from her face and then called for the footman to enter.
“Her Majesty asked me to bring you paper and ink,” he said, motioning for another footman to follow, carrying in a small travel desk.
Charity hurried over to the desk, already mentally composing the notes. “We must send for Selina and Ravenscroft. Would it be foolish to ask Sir Nathaniel to come into town?”
“With extra guards there, Lark should be safe enough. I would invite her to come, but…” Peregrine hesitated, and Charity understood. He thought Lark would refuse. “The magpie will still be in town, but I sent him to tell Selina to depart London for her safety.”
Charity did not roll her eyes, though it was close. “Selina will no more leave London than I will, Perry. Write an invitation to Lord Ravenscroft. I will take care of the marchioness and Sir Nathaniel.”
Perry took the quill and scrap of paper she offered, but paused before moving away. “What of your parents, Charity? Do you wish to include them?”
His question gave her pause, for until he spoke, she had not thought of them at all. How strange was it, that on this happiest day of her life, she no longer had any desire to share it with them?
This is about your future, logic reminded her. There is no place here for those still mired in the past.
“I wish only to be with those who love us both,” she answered. “Now, write quickly, for we do not know how soon the Archbishop will arrive.”
As the bells tolled the evening hour, Charity found herself standing at the altar of the Chapel Royal at St James’s Palace.
The room glowed with candlelight, each flame reflected in polished wood and gilt.
Yet to Charity, the space felt hushed, as if all there held their breath while awaiting the start of the ceremony.
Perry’s hand was warm in hers, a pillar at her side. Unwavering, wholly committed, his firm grip anchored her in the moment.
The Archbishop’s voice rolled through the chamber, solemn and resonant. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here…”
Charity’s heart surged at those words. It was not a gathering of hundreds, nor even of the dozens who had attended her first farce of a wedding.
Only five souls bore testament. Lord Ravenscroft, Selina, and Sir Nathaniel had all come at their behest. Queen Charlotte and the Prince Regent were also there, lending their gravitas to the occasion.
No one would ever be able to question the validity of their vows, not with the royals themselves as witnesses.
It was enough. More than enough to ensure no one would ever tear them apart.
Each word the Archbishop spoke drew Charity and Perry closer together, ever nearer the future they had once believed to be an impossibility. Exaltation filled Charity’s body, blocking out the fears of the past and the threat still looming on the horizon, until nothing was left but her and Perry.
“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it…”
The pause rang loud in her ears. For an instant she imagined the shadows rising, the spectre of a woman’s voice crying out against them. Her breath caught, but Perry’s thumb brushed the back of her hand. None would stand in their way.
When the Archbishop moved on to their vows, Perry did not hesitate to give his answer. He spoke clearly, as if willing even fate itself to accept it had been defeated.
His lips curled in a smile as he stared deep into her eyes, exposed and unguarded. “I will.”
Charity did not move her gaze from Perry as the Archbishop posed the question to her.
“And wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…?”
Now was the time to embrace the future she craved. “I will,” she promised, imbuing the words with all the love she had.
Their commitments followed, familiar phrases unfolding like music. “…for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health…”
Each promise bound them more tightly together, yet it was Perry’s voice—deep, steady, reverent—that lifted them beyond ritual.
She heard the man beneath the words. Steadfast and now entirely hers.
He stood taller, his eyes clear and sparkling, as though the wounds of his body and spirit had all been healed.