Chapter 10
Here I am again. Another wedding.
Margaret walked down the aisle once again, yet nothing about the experience felt remotely like the first time.
The church was quieter now, the small gathering consisting only of those who mattered most to her, and there was no Geoffrey Harrowby waiting at the altar with his smug expression and grasping certainty.
Instead, Pierce stood there, tall and commanding, his dark figure drawing her gaze despite every effort she made to look elsewhere.
The flutter in my belly is nothing more than nerves… nothing whatsoever to do with how dashing he looks.
Margaret told herself it certainly had nothing to do with anticipation.
Her father walked beside her, his arm tucked protectively beneath hers, and for several moments neither spoke. Bernard looked older than he had a week ago, though Margaret knew it was worry rather than age that had settled upon his features.
He leaned towards her and whispered, "Are you certain, my dear?"
Margaret swallowed and forced herself to smile. "I believe I am."
"That is not quite the same as being certain."
She glanced at him. "Papa, Pierce's reasons for marrying me are certainly nobler than Harrowby's. He wishes to protect his son, and he has given me freedom from a contract I never wanted."
Bernard's expression remained troubled. "That does not mean you owe him your life."
"I know." Margaret looked ahead again, her fingers tightening around the flowers she carried. "But you have a point…what if he is simply better at concealing his cruelty?"
Her father's brow furrowed.
"His wife fled him," Margaret continued in a whisper. "She left his house in the middle of the night. She must have had a reason."
Bernard sighed softly. "Perhaps. But perhaps there were matters you do not understand."
Margaret looked towards Pierce again. "That is precisely what frightens me."
Yet fear was not the only thing she felt, and that was what troubled her most. There was attraction too, fierce and inconvenient, along with an anticipation she refused to name.
Pierce had been in her thoughts far too often since their first meeting, and now she was walking towards him as his bride.
If he truly was cruel, Margaret decided, she would simply have to remain clever enough to keep him at a safe distance.
Her father gave her hand a final squeeze before releasing her. "Whatever happens," he murmured, his voice thick with affection, "you will always have a home with us, your family."
Margaret smiled. "I know."
Then she reached the altar.
Pierce turned fully towards her, and for one foolish moment Margaret forgot every sensible thought she had ever possessed.
He looked devastating in his formal attire, the dark coat fitted across his broad shoulders, his silk cravat tied with immaculate precision.
His black hair had been carefully arranged, though one unruly strand had fallen near his forehead, making him appear less severe than usual.
He was very tall, athletic, and impossibly handsome, but it was his mismatched eyes that held her captive, one blue and the other green, both fixed upon her with such intensity that she nearly forgot to breathe.
A fine husband indeed.
She immediately scolded herself for thinking it.
Pierce extended his hand, and Margaret placed hers in it. His fingers closed around hers with quiet certainty, and the warmth of his touch travelled straight through her.
"Lady Margaret," the vicar began, "we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony."
Margaret listened as the familiar words were spoken, though they seemed strangely different this time. She had heard them once before while standing beside a man she despised. Now she stood beside a man she barely understood and somehow found herself more nervous than before.
Margaret leaned slightly towards Pierce and whispered, "This is the second wedding ceremony for both of us."
His eyes shifted towards her. "Yes."
"And I sincerely hope," she added, unable to resist, "that it goes better than the first."
Pierce's expression darkened. "It will certainly be my last."
Margaret's lips twitched. "What will you do if someone objects again?"
The look he gave her could have frozen a summer garden.
Margaret immediately straightened. "It was merely a jest."
"I do not find it amusing."
"I noticed."
The vicar cleared his throat discreetly, reminding them both that an entire ceremony was waiting upon their cooperation. "Your Grace."
The vicar turned towards Pierce. "Will you, Pierce Sterling, Duke of Ravenfield, take this woman to be your lawful 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, until death do you part?"
Pierce turned towards him. "I do."
He said it with such force and certainty that Margaret's breath caught.
His voice had been deeper than she expected, and his gaze immediately returned to hers.
The intensity in his mismatched eyes made her heart pound.
He was not merely answering the vicar. He was looking directly at her as though the words were meant solely for her.
I do.
Margaret almost forgot her own name.
The vicar turned towards her. "And you, Lady Margaret Wilmore, do you take this man to be your lawful 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, until death do you part?"
Margaret opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.
Pierce leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "The vicar is waiting for you."
Margaret blinked and glared at him. "I am aware."
"Then answer him."
She drew a breath, forcing herself to remember why she was here. This was an arrangement. Nothing more. She would help raise Hugh, enjoy the security of Ravenfield, and remain mistress of her own mind and heart. If she kept her distance from Pierce, she would be perfectly safe.
"I do," she said at last.
The vicar smiled and continued the ceremony, speaking of fidelity and devotion while Margaret tried not to notice that Pierce's thumb had begun moving slowly across the back of her hand.
It means nothing. It is merely a husband's touch. Nothing more.
Yet when the vicar finally pronounced them man and wife, Margaret looked up at Pierce and discovered that he was already watching her.
And suddenly, the distance she had promised herself she would maintain seemed much harder to preserve than she had imagined as he closed in and kissed her.
The warmth spread from head to toe. She felt his strong essence all around her, and though it was simply a peck of a kiss, it felt like it lasted an eternity.
She pulled back from the kiss and looked at him.
I suppose the Duke of Ravenfield is now my husband.
* * *
The wedding breakfast at Ravenfield House was everything Margaret had expected a duke's celebration to be and rather more than she had been prepared to endure.
The great dining room had been transformed beneath chandeliers blazing with candlelight, while long arrangements of white roses, greenery, and delicate lilies decorated the tables.
Silver gleamed beside crystal glasses, and the finest porcelain had been brought from the cabinets that
Margaret suspected were normally opened only for kings, queens, or exceedingly important emergencies.
Around her sat some of the most distinguished families in London, their conversation flowing easily beneath the polished surface of good manners, while servants moved silently between them with champagne, wine, and an extravagant assortment of delicacies.
Margaret sat beside Pierce at the head of the table, still struggling to understand that the title everyone was using belonged to her now. Duchess of Ravenfield.
The words sound as though they belong to someone considerably older and much more capable of managing a household without accidentally wandering into the wrong room.
She glanced towards Pierce, who appeared entirely comfortable in his position, speaking quietly with Nathaniel Vernon, Earl of Brydges, who sat nearby.
Nathaniel was unmistakably Pierce's closest friend, and Margaret could see why, unlike many of the solemn gentlemen present, he seemed entirely incapable of treating any occasion with the proper degree of seriousness.
Across the table sat the Richards family, another noble household of considerable standing, while the Samsons occupied several seats nearby.
Lady Samson was among them, dressed beautifully and displaying the polished confidence of a young woman accustomed to being noticed.
Margaret might not have thought anything of it, except that…
Lady Samson has spent nearly half the breakfast watching Pierce.
At first Margaret ignored her. Then she noticed Lady Samson smiling whenever Pierce spoke. Then she noticed the way her gaze lingered upon him. Then Margaret found herself cutting into a piece of chicken with considerably more force than was necessary.
Camelia noticed.
Her sister leaned closer. "You are murdering that chicken."
"I am not."
"You have stabbed it six times," she said.
Margaret looked down at her plate. "It was a troublesome chicken."
Iris, seated on Camelia's other side, followed Margaret's gaze towards Lady Samson and immediately understood. A wicked smile appeared upon her face. "Ah."
Margaret frowned. "What?"
"Nothing."
"I know that expression."
"What expression?" Iris shrugged.
"The one you wear when you have discovered something amusing at my expense."
Camelia laughed softly. "Lady Samson does appear rather interested in the duke."
Margaret's grip tightened around her fork. "She may look wherever she pleases."
"Of course she may," Iris agreed innocently. "You simply appear to dislike where she has chosen to look."
Margaret turned towards her sister. "I am not jealous."
"Certainly not."
"I am merely observing," Margaret replied.