Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
“It is not crooked,” May insisted, arms crossed as her reflection glared indignantly from the looking glass.
“It is absolutely crooked,” June countered, standing on April’s other side. “Tilt your head slightly, April. There, see? It’s leaning left.”
“You need spectacles,” May replied with mock sweetness, her tone almost singsong. “It’s as straight as a soldier.”
“I do not need spectacles!” June huffed, reaching up to adjust the pearl tiara again.
April stood motionless between them, her gaze fixed on the mirror while her sisters fluttered like nervous birds, fussing over the tiny crown nestled among her chestnut curls. Her stomach churned, twisting and tumbling in time with their hands. Her palms were damp. Her heart, absurdly quick.
How peculiar it is to be a bride and feel nothing like one.
She hadn’t seen Theodore in days. Not since he had delivered those maddening words—I have the special license already—and walked away with all the serenity of a man announcing the weather.
The note that followed had stated the time and date of their wedding with the clinical precision of a physician’s prescription. She had not replied.
The door swung open, and their mother entered with a brisk sweep of skirts and authority.
“Good heavens, are we still arguing about the tiara? Cease that nonsense this instant.”
With practiced elegance, she approached and surveyed the tiara. “It is crooked.”
May gasped, victorious. “Thank you, Mama! Now will you believe me, June?” She leaned in conspiratorially and added in a whisper, “Do consider those spectacles. You may borrow mine.”
June scowled but said nothing, retreating a step as their mother took command.
Dorothy adjusted the tiara with deft fingers. “There. No one touch it again. It is quite perfect now. May, June, give your sister a moment.”
The twins exchanged a glance, and with identical shrugs, they obeyed, gliding out the door with trailing murmurs and lingering amusement.
Dorothy turned to April, taking her hands gently in her own.
“My darling girl,” she said softly, her gaze shimmering with a pride that wrapped around April like a warm shawl, “you will make the most beautiful duchess London has ever seen.”
April tried to swallow the ache rising in her throat, tried not to glance again at her reflection that somehow looked like a stranger wearing her own face.
“And,” her mother added, her smile turning knowing, “I trust you remember what we discussed last night.”
April blinked. Not this again.
“About the marriage bed, dear. There is nothing to fear, I assure you. It is perfectly natural and—”
“Yes, Mama,” April interjected quickly. “I remember. Entirely. Perfectly.”
There will be nothing to fear, she reminded herself, because there will be nothing to endure. The marriage is in name only.
Dorothy seemed satisfied with this and pulled her daughter into a brief embrace before they both turned toward the mirror. The image staring back at them was striking.
April’s dress was a pale blue lace, its bodice adorned with glass beads that shimmered like dew, and a soft veil framed her face, giving her the appearance of a painting come to life. Her lips were curved in a calm smile. Even as her insides were a riot.
A short while later, April descended the staircase, each step measured and quiet. Her fingers brushed the banister, needing its steadiness. Her legs, traitorous things, felt weak beneath the weight of her dress.
Her father stood waiting below, leaning on his cane with August beside him—tall, composed, protective. But it was her father’s face that undid her: a little more color in his cheeks, a straighter spine, and eyes so bright with tears that they seemed to shine.
Her pace did not falter, but she gripped the railing a moment longer than necessary.
Be brave. Show them this is the happiest day of your life. Even if your insides are anything but. Even if you’re shaking beneath your skin.
“The most beautiful bride in the kingdom,” her father said, his voice low, the words thick with affection as he pulled her into a warm embrace.
She smiled faintly. “You are biased.”
“Absolutely. Now, let us not keep a duke waiting.”
April pressed a hand to her belly after alighting from the carriage in an attempt to tamp the thousands of flutters within.
One part of mind was telling her to run back into the carriage and tell her family that she could not go through with this marriage, and the other was telling her to have courage.
As she looked up at the church facade, a sigh rushed past her lips.
“Come, my dear.”
She felt her father’s hand at her elbow, prompting her to face him and muster a smile. With her hand on his arm, they began the climb toward the grand church. Every step was a negotiation of some sort, and halfway up, he paused and let out a long breath.
“Your mother looked just like you, that day,” he observed, his eyes bright with the memory. “Except she was shaking so much, I thought the wreath on her head might fall off.”
How does he know I’m terrified? April blinked at him, caught between nerves and surprise. “Truly?”
He smiled faintly. “Oh, yes. She was so nervous she stumbled over my name and titles, but she was radiant. Just like you.”
She laughed, but it caught in her throat. “I don’t feel radiant.”
“That’s because you’re thinking, and so was she, about whether you can truly do it. Whether you will measure up to the title, the life, and the expectations.”
April looked up at the towering doors ahead then to her father, whose eyes now watched her with a tenderness that cut deep. He had always reassured her, and looking at him now, she felt as though she could truly be brave.
“Mama did measure up,” she said.
“So will you.”
He took another breath, and they moved again. April didn’t speak. Couldn’t. For if she did, she might ask him to turn around, to take her home, to let her hide in the spaces of her old life just a little longer. But there was no turning back. Not now.
When they reached the top of the stairs, the doors opened, and there everything was. The aisle, the pews, the altar, and at the far end, the Duke of Stone—her future. Her duty. Her choice, though it hardly felt like one.
She wasn’t ready.
But readiness was something she must learn to live without.
Her father leaned heavier on his cane for a moment, but then he straightened and led her a step forward.
April’s mind chased clarity as they walked down the aisle but found only fragments: her mother’s anxious eyes, May’s smile, August’s nod, and June’s watchful silence.
“I’m afraid I might float away,” she murmured to her father.
“You won’t,” he chuckled. “You have roots deeper than you know, my sunshine.”
Hearing him call her his sunshine was comforting despite the aisle stretching ahead like a path carved in air.
It wasn’t fear that caused her hesitation but the expectations upon her shoulders.
Her mother’s dreams, her father’s hopes, her siblings’ futures.
All of it braided into the silk she wore and etched into the tiara on her head.
Theo waited at the end in a black coat. His stance bore the same impenetrable stillness as ever, but when he turned and their eyes met, the air between them seemed to shift. It did not soften. Instead, it gained an intensity that sent heat up her cheeks.
He was quietly telling her that he saw her, and in that singular glance, April ceased to be a daughter, a sister, even a bride. She was simply herself—a woman with her heart trembling in her chest, walking willingly toward a man who had chosen her with determination she had never seen before.
“Remind me later to ask His Grace if he prefers ballads or battle strategies,” her father whispered.
April’s breath hitched, and then, unexpectedly, she laughed. The sound startled her, for it was light and wholly unplanned. The weight in her limbs didn’t vanish, but it lightened. Just enough.
Her father squeezed her hand as they neared the altar. “You’re not alone, darling girl. Even when it feels like it.”
She nodded faintly, but inside, something steadied. There was no changing her mind now. Not with all these eyes, not with all these lives woven into her next step.
He placed her hand into Theo’s, and in that moment, barely a breath, her world shifted again. The Duke’s fingers curled around hers, warm and dignified. His gaze flashed but with something gentler. Respect?
April held fast.
The ceremony passed in a daze. Words floated by. Promises were spoken. She repeated her vows, her voice sounding foreign while her mind scattered like petals in the wind.
She was doing this for them: for her father who was fighting for his health, for her mother who needed certainty, for her sisters who still had dreams to chase.
For herself, too, because standing here meant she would become her own person and never again be lost in the crowd of identical curls and matching dresses.
Man and wife.
The declaration echoed like a sealed fate, and she turned to look at her husband. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his touch was soft as he placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Together, they turned.
April smiled. Not the bright, airy smile of a girl at a debut ball but one forged from the steel of necessity. Her mother’s eyes glistened. August met her gaze with pride. May clasped her hands at her chest, and June gave the faintest of nods.
Her mother reached her first, pulling her into a close, trembling embrace. “You were perfect,” she whispered, brushing back a stray curl from April’s cheek. “Your father and I are so proud.”
May followed with wide, teary eyes. “You looked like a painting. Truly.”
“We all must address you as Your Grace now, mustn’t we?” June asked with a laugh though her voice was suspiciously thick. She squeezed April’s hand before quickly pretending to adjust her glove.
August came last, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. “You carried all of us down that aisle. My felicitations …” He looked at Theo. “… to you both.”
April’s throat tightened. Her heart was too full to speak. Then, just as she caught her breath, Eugenia came forward and embraced her. “At last! I can die in peace knowing his heart is safe.”
Theo grunted, a sound halfway to a sigh, and April surprised herself with a soft laugh. Briefly, she felt warmth beneath all the decorum.
Back at Wildmoore House, the wedding breakfast unfolded in elegance. The laughter, the toasts, and the endless declarations of her radiance. She smiled through all of it, her cheeks aching with the effort.
Father. May. June. August. Mother. She summoned their faces like talismans to keep herself afloat. But through it all, she was still aware of the man beside her. Theo was too real and too solid.
When it was time for them to leave, May clung to her in a tight hug, June’s hand squeezed her, and her mother’s kisses landed with confidence, as if she’d finally let herself believe the future might hold.
Then her father took both her hands in his. “Be well, my girl.”
She gave him her real smile this time. Not dazzling or forced. Just full. “All will be well. I promise.”
Theo waited by the carriage. As she approached, he opened the door himself, offering his hand without a word. His palm was warm through the glove, and when she placed her hand in his, her heart beat faster.
He helped her in and followed, the door shutting behind them with muffled click. The outside world faded. Inside, the air felt close. Private.
She sat, smoothing her skirts with a composure that didn’t reach her heart. I am the Duchess of Stone now, she thought.
Not just for them. For me. For the girl who wanted to be seen. For the woman who chose this. And perhaps for this man, who is more enigma than anything else.
Theo watched her.
The pale blue of her dress softened the edges of the carriage’s dark interior, its delicate lace catching the light like water lapping at the shore.
Her chestnut curls were swept up with a precision that suggested care, though a few rebellious strands framed her face and brushed her freckled cheeks.
He had always liked those freckles. They made her look less like a society darling and more like the girl who once told him he was impossible—and meant it.
She had not said a word since they entered the carriage, and her gaze had not once lifted in his direction. Her hands rested in her lap, clasped with such rigid poise that it might have fooled any observer. But not him.
He had seen April animated, laughing, furious. He had seen her glare like a storm and grin like a conspirator. This quiet composure was not her. It was a costume.
He broke the silence. “Why did you avoid me this past week?”
Still, she did not look at him. Her lips curved faintly. “I was dreadfully busy. You must know how much effort it takes to plan a wedding. I daresay you read about it. My mother and I visited every shop in Mayfair.”
Of course, he knew. Everyone knew. Her name had been in every drawing room and every column. But that was not the reason. He hated this mask. Hated the way her charm came laced with sugar and no substance.
April had never been a woman to swallow her words or soften her opinion. He had always admired that about her. She had never hidden from him.
Until now.
“Do not be like this,” he said. “I am not a man who plays games. I could not stand it.”
She finally turned to him then, her pale eyes sharpened. “Are you ready to talk about why you were hurting a man?”
He said nothing because he could not.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I had my reasons.”
“So do I,” she said. “Mine involve trying not to lose myself entirely in a marriage I didn’t choose. Would you like to hear them?”
He stared at her, but she wasn’t done.
“I wake each morning and remind myself that I agreed to this. That I said yes to a man I barely know. That I trust my brother enough to believe he wouldn’t barter me off to a monster. But it gets harder when that man won’t answer the simplest question.”
“I was protecting you, April.”
Her eyes flashed. “No. You were protecting yourself. And I’m supposed to accept that?”
The moment stretched. Her brows lifted, just slightly. Then she looked forward again. “If you intend to keep your mask, do not ask me to take off mine.”
”