Chapter Ten
Charlotte did not attend the wedding.
When she pouted and made murmurs of regret, Jasper silenced her with a firmness she had not expected.
"I will not subject you to that family again, Charlotte. Once I have done what I must, we will speak further. About your future. And what steps we'll take next."
Charlotte blinked, affecting wet lashes and a trembling lip. "Do you think... do you think Philip will see reason then?"
Jasper said nothing. He merely pressed a kiss to her temple and turned away, his voice low. "Rest. We'll speak again in a few days."
Once the sound of Jasper's carriage wheels had faded into the distance, the mask slipped from Charlotte's face.
She waited for the last echo of his departure before sitting up in bed, stretching languidly.
The dull ache in her lower abdomen reminded her that her courses had arrived, and she felt a wave of discomfort.
Jasper had been thoughtful enough to call for pain relief before he left, and she'd taken the prescribed medicine gladly.
It offered some relief, though not as much as she'd hoped.
A smug smile curled at the corners of her lips as she rose and moved to her vanity. She picked up her brush and, with practiced ease, began drawing it through her hair, savoring the satisfaction of her quick thinking and perfect timing.
"Well done," she whispered to her reflection. "Quick thinking. Practical timing. You always were the clever one."
***
The chapel looked beautiful—just as he imagined it must have when their parents, luminous and full of promise, had stood here decades before.
Now, it was their turn.
Jasper stood at the altar, dressed with precise elegance, every button fastened, every line of his coat sharp. He was the very image of a devoted bridegroom. A man in love.
And when the chapel doors opened and Abigail stepped inside on her father's arm, bathed first in the golden light of day and then in the jeweled hues of the stained glass, her gaze fixed on Jasper as though the very sun rose and set upon his shoulders—he felt something twist deep within him.
Fool, he thought. She loves you.
And for a brief, maddening moment, he forgot his purpose. He imagined—foolishly, dangerously—what it might be to walk into a future with her not as an instrument of vengeance, but as they had once planned in earnest, shaped by truth and tender hope.
Then he remembered Charlotte's face. Her tears. Her crumpled body in bed. The whispered confession of loss. And Philip had not once flinched.
Jasper stiffened, retreating behind his mask. He could not allow himself to feel.
The ceremony was beautiful. Vows spoken, hands joined, a kiss exchanged. There was applause, and the reception followed, filled with laughter and toasts and the clinking of crystal. Abigail was radiant, never straying far from Jasper's side, glowing with the promise of new beginnings.
They left the gathering as the sun dipped below the horizon, traveling by carriage to the estate Jasper had selected for their honeymoon.
Not the seaside villa, once promised in moments of courtship. That home — with its sea breezes and wisteria-covered veranda — was far too kind.
No, this destination had been chosen with care. Precision.
They stopped overnight at a well-appointed inn. Jasper ensured the room was generous and the dinner excellent. Abigail's smiles had grown softer through the evening, more tentative, as though she sensed the subtle chill beneath his polished exterior but dared not speak of it.
When she shyly stepped into their chamber, clad in a pale nightgown edged with lace, she looked at him with the openness of a woman who had long awaited this night with the man she loved. And he hated himself for what he was about to do.
But it had to be done.
The marriage had to be made whole — and with it, her future bound.
So he consummated the marriage. Methodically. Purposefully.
And when she whispered, "I love you," into the dark, he rolled away, his back to her, and said nothing.
She lay in silence for several minutes before she, too, fell asleep — assuming he had not heard her, or that he was merely tired.
The next morning, the final leg of their journey brought them to a crumbling manor nestled deep in the countryside.
Ivy strangled the outer walls, shutters hung at crooked angles, and portions of the roof sagged as though ready to collapse.
Jasper had made inquiries ahead of their arrival, securing a skeletal staff just sufficient to keep up appearances.
As their carriage rolled to a stop, the aged doorman pushed open the front doors with a groan of hinges.
Abigail stared out at the bleak facade, her brow furrowed. She turned to Jasper accepting his help out of the carriage as the footmen unloaded only her trunks—his luggage remained strapped atop the carriage still.
"Jasper?" she asked softly, uncertainty lacing her voice. "What is this place?"
He stepped away from the carriage, gesturing with an exaggerated flourish toward the derelict building. "This, my dear wife, is the home I selected especially for you."
She blinked. "I... I don't understand."
"Oh, but I think you do." His tone was calm. Far too calm. "It was all far too easy, Abigail. You believed every word. Every touch. Every look. So convenient. So very foolish."
Her face lost all color. "Jasper..."
"I've decided Charlotte was right," he said smoothly, inspecting a speck on his glove as if bored by the entire exchange. "You are not suited to be my duchess. You're too quiet. Too plain. A shadow of what a duchess ought to be."
His words struck like cold steel.
"It's fortunate," he went on, "that most aristocratic marriages function best with a comfortable distance. You'll reside here—it's what you deserve."
"But... why would you say this now?" she whispered. "Why wait until now?"
Jasper climbed back into the carriage without looking at her. He cruelly stated: "Because, in the end, I've decided you weren't worth the effort. I no longer wish to be burdened by you. And I will not have you embarrassing me."
As Jasper settled inside the carriage Abigail stepped forward. "Please, Jasper—"
"I do not wish to hear another word from you," he said coldly, not even glancing her way as the door shut with a final thud.
And with that, the carriage rolled away, leaving the new Lady Abigail Finch, Duchess of Winterset, standing alone in the gravel, tears welling as she looked up at the ruin of a home — and the ruin of everything she believed.