Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“I, Leonard, take thee, Beatrice, to be my 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 us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The Duke’s voice resonated through the chapel with uncompromising clarity; each word was pronounced with such precision that one might have mistaken it for a military command rather than a sacred vow.
His blue eyes, fixed on Beatrice’s face, revealed nothing of his thoughts as he slipped the golden band onto her finger, a simple circle that now bound her irrevocably to this enigmatic stranger.
Three days had passed since her aborted wedding to Philip, three days of hurried preparations and whispered speculation throughout the ton.
The Duke had been true to his word, securing a special license with remarkable efficiency, allowing this hastily arranged ceremony to proceed without impediment.
The chapel was adorned much as it had been for her previous attempt at matrimony, though the guest list had contracted further still. Beatrice’s immediate family occupied the pews.
As for the Duke, he had invited a single gentleman whom Beatrice had learned was Adrian Threapleton, the Marquess of Tillfield.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the vicar announced, his weathered face betraying a hint of bewilderment at the unusual circumstances surrounding this union.
The Duke stepped forward, his towering frame casting Beatrice in shadow. With deliberate movements, he lifted her veil and regarded her with cool assessment before leaning down and pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was perfectly timed to satisfy propriety and suggest genuine passion.
Yet, despite its brevity, Beatrice felt an unexpected warmth spread through her at the contact.
Merely the tension of the moment, she told herself.
As they turned to face the assembled witnesses, now officially Duke and Duchess of Stagmore, Beatrice caught sight of Isabella’s stormy expression. Her twin’s disapproval was palpable, a silent accusation that cut through the chapel’s reverent atmosphere.
The subsequent proceedings passed in a blur of formal congratulations and subdued conversation.
No wedding breakfast had been arranged; there would be no celebration of this pragmatic alliance.
Instead, the Duke’s carriage awaited outside, prepared for their immediate departure to his country estate.
“Remember what I said,” Isabella whispered fiercely as she embraced Beatrice before their departure.
Breaking from their embrace, she turned her attention to the Duke, who stood nearby, deep in conversation with the Marquess of Tillfield.
“Your Grace,” she called, her voice carrying clearly despite its controlled volume, “should any harm come to my sister, you will answer to me.”
The Duke regarded her with the same impassive expression he seemed to reserve for all interactions, merely inclining his head in acknowledgment of her threat. “Your concern is noted, Lady Isabella.”
“It is not concern, Your Grace, but a promise,” Isabella retorted, maintaining eye contact with a boldness that few would dare display to a man of his rank.
Beatrice moved quickly to intervene, placing a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. “Bella, please.”
Before the situation could escalate further, their stepmother approached, her serene countenance a balm to the simmering tension.
“My dear Beatrice,” the Duchess of Ironstone said, embracing her stepdaughter with genuine affection, “we’ll miss you dearly. Please, feel free to visit whenever you please. Our home is still yours, no matter where you are.”
“Thank you, Christine,” Beatrice replied, grateful for her unwavering support throughout the tumultuous events of the past few days.
Her father stepped forward next, his usual severity softened by paternal tenderness as he gazed on her.
“You have conducted yourself with dignity throughout this… unusual situation,” he said, his voice low enough so that only she could hear. “I am proud of you, Bea.”
Beatrice gave him a small smile, her chest filling with warmth. “Thank you, Father.”
Henry and Eleanor pressed forward then, their youthful enthusiasm providing a welcome respite from the strained formality that had characterized the proceedings. Eleanor flung her arms around Beatrice’s waist with characteristic abandon.
“Will you write to us from your new home?” she asked, her bright eyes wide with anticipation. “Henry says it’s a terribly grand estate with a maze in the gardens!”
“Of course I will write, dearest,” Beatrice promised, smoothing a hand over her half-sister’s dark golden curls. “And perhaps you might visit when we are settled.”
Henry stepped forward with all the ceremony his eleven years could muster, bowing low. “Congratulations, Your Grace,” he said, his voice measured, almost stiff with formality, “on your—on your marriage. I wish you every—every happiness.”
Beatrice couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at her lips. “Oh, Henry,” she said, kneeling slightly to meet his gaze.
At once, his stiffness vanished. He wrapped his arms around her neck, squeezing with the eagerness of a boy who had barely been allowed to show his feelings.
“Take care of yourself, Bea,” he murmured into her embrace. “And if the Duke is unkind, send word, and I will challenge him to a duel when I am older.”
Beatrice could not help but smile at his boyish gallantry. “I’ve no doubt you’d defend my honor admirably, darling. I assure you, though, such measures will not be necessary.”
Her father approached the Duke. “Stagmore,” he began. “I entrust you with my daughter’s well-being. Should you fail in this sacred duty, know that nothing will shield you from the consequences.”
The Duke of Stagmore regarded him with the cool assessment of a commander recognizing another. “I understand your position perfectly, Duke. Your daughter shall want for nothing under my protection.”
Her stepmother intervened with practiced grace, placing a hand on her father’s arm. “Come now, Edwin. You must not threaten our new son-in-law so openly,” she said, her light tone belying the warning in her eyes. “After all, marriage is a partnership, not a battle.”
With final embraces exchanged and farewells spoken, Beatrice hopped into the Duke’s carriage, a luxurious conveyance upholstered in deep burgundy leather and appointed with every comfort imaginable for long-distance travel.
The Duke joined her moments later, taking the seat opposite rather than beside her, a decision for which she felt both relief and, strangely, a twinge of disappointment.
As the carriage lurched into motion, Beatrice gazed through the window at the diminishing figures of her family, wondering when she might see them again and what kind of life awaited her at Stagmore Manor.
“I apologize for my cousin’s deplorable behavior,” the Duke said suddenly, his deep voice startling her after such prolonged quiet. “Philip has always been impulsive, but I never imagined him capable of such dishonorable conduct.”
The silence had stretched between them for over an hour.
Neither had seemed inclined to break it as the streets of London began to give way to the verdant plains of the countryside.
The lush green landscapes of early summer had blurred into a tapestry of emerald and gold in the late afternoon light.
“You do not need to apologize, Your Grace,” Beatrice replied, settling her gaze on him with calm dignity. “You have already done more than duty required.”
“Nevertheless,” he persisted, his expression unreadable, “the circumstances of our union are far from ideal.”
Beatrice inclined her head in acknowledgment but offered no further comment, sensing that their conversation was veering toward dangerous territory.
The Duke, however, seemed disinclined to respect her reticence. “You were close to Philip, I understand?”
“As I told you before, we had a cordial friendship,” Beatrice responded carefully.
“Yet he never mentioned you in his correspondence with me,” the Duke observed, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. “Curious, is it not, that he would arrange to marry a woman of whom he spoke so little?”
Beatrice felt a prickle of unease at the direction of his inquiry. “Perhaps your cousin found other matters more worthy of discussion in his letters to you,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he conceded, though his expression suggested he found her explanation unconvincing. “Or perhaps your arrangement with Philip was of such a… particular nature that he deemed it prudent to keep it confidential.”
She bristled, his insinuation making her blood simmer. “I assure you, Your Grace, our arrangement was entirely honorable.”
At least, her part of their arrangement was honorable. She honored her and Philip’s friendship.
But Philip had disappeared. He hadn’t honored the most significant part of their arrangement. Part of her wished to scream, and another part wished to run all over the streets, looking for him. He had promised to become her husband, to end the tedious, ostentatious torture of the marriage mart.
He had been so convinced to see this deal through. So what had held him back now?
Beatrice couldn’t help but worry for him. He had promised to come. What had stopped him? She only had two answers: he either went back on his word and eloped with his beloved, or…
Or something had happened to him.
“Was it?” the Duke pressed, leaning forward slightly. “Then you must be able to explain why a man would abandon his bride mere hours before their wedding, without any warning or explanation.”
“I cannot speak to Philip’s motivations,” Beatrice replied, her composure beginning to fray under this unexpected interrogation.