Chapter 6
“Do you, Penelope Hartwell, take this man—”
The vicar’s words sounded far away. Penelope heard them as though from underwater, distorted beneath the hammering of her own heartbeat.
The chapel walls seemed to press closer with each breath.
Morning light came through the stained glass in patches—red, gold, blue—colours that belonged at a celebration, not this.
Her wedding day.
She stood in her mother’s best gown, hastily altered to fit her smaller frame. The ivory silk felt heavy. Wrong. No time for a proper wedding dress. No time for flowers or music or any of the things she’d once imagined, back when she’d been foolish enough to imagine such things at all.
No time for anything except this rushed ceremony in a chapel that smelled of damp stone and old candle wax, witnessed by a handful of people who wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Her father stood rigid beside her, jaw locked. Her mother dabbed at dry eyes with a handkerchief. Hyacinth sat in the second pew, fingers twisting together in her lap.
And Alastair—
Penelope made herself look at him.
The Duke of Blackmere stood beside her in formal black, his cravat tied with precision.
He looked every inch the aristocrat—tall, imposing, devastatingly handsome.
But the easy charm that usually clung to him had vanished entirely.
She’d seen him smile at her across ballrooms, seen him lean against doorframes with that insufferable confidence. Not today.
He stared straight ahead at the vicar. His lips pursed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The hand at his side had curled into a fist.
He looked—well. Not how a groom was supposed to look. Then again, this was not how weddings were supposed to be.
“—to have and to hold, from this day forward—”
Penelope should answer. The vicar was waiting, his rheumy eyes on her.
But her throat had closed.
This was irrevocable. The moment she spoke those vows, she would belong to him in law and name. She would become the Duchess of Blackmere, bound to a man who had promised her everything except anything that mattered.
She thought of Marianne. Somewhere out there, her closest friend had given up her child to protect it.
Had trusted Penelope with this impossible burden.
And Penelope had failed already, hadn’t she?
Failed to protect the baby’s reputation, failed to shield it from scandal, failed to do anything except tumble headlong into this disaster.
“Miss Hartwell?”
The vicar’s prompt carried concern now.
Alastair’s head turned toward her. Waiting. Everyone was waiting.
“I do,” Penelope whispered.
Her mother’s handkerchief pressed against her face. Her father’s hand found Penelope’s shoulder and squeezed once.
The vicar turned to Alastair. Penelope found herself watching the man beside her. His profile was sharp in the chapel’s light. He swallowed visibly. His breathing came too controlled, too measured.
“I do.”
The vicar continued, clearly eager to finish.
“Then by the power vested in me by the Church of England, I now pronounce you man and wife.”
The words landed heavy. Penelope felt them in her bones.
“You may kiss the bride.”
The vicar stepped back.
Alastair turned to face her fully for the first time.
Penelope looked up at him.
He moved closer with grim determination. His hand lifted, hovering near her waist without touching. Asking permission without words.
The chapel had gone quiet.
Penelope tried to prepare herself. It was only a kiss. A formality. A brief press of lips that meant nothing beyond social convention.
But when Alastair leaned in, when his face drew close enough that she could see the darker in his eyes, could smell sandalwood and something underneath that was simply him—her mind went blank.
She couldn’t move.
Every muscle seized. Her breath stopped. Her hands clenched into the silk of her gown. She stood frozen. If she fled now, it would make everything infinitely worse. But if she stayed—
This was real. This man was her husband, and she did not know him, did not trust him, did not—
Alastair stopped.
His face hovered near hers, close enough that she felt his breath. His eyes searched hers. Whatever he saw there made his expression change.
He stepped back.
He did not kiss her. Instead, he inclined his head and turned away to face their small audience, his usual composure sliding back into place.
But Penelope had seen it. That flash in his eyes before he’d concealed it.
The silence stretched.
Her mother made a small sound. Hyacinth’s eyes had gone wide. The vicar cleared his throat, clearly uncertain how to proceed.
And her father—her father’s hand on Penelope’s shoulder tightened until it hurt.
“Your Grace,” the vicar managed. “Might I offer my congratulations on your marriage.”
“Of course.” Alastair’s voice had recovered. “You are too kind.”
He offered his arm to Penelope without looking at her. She took it because she had no choice, her fingers resting against the wool of his coat. Together they walked down the aisle toward the chapel doors.
Outside, the rain fell steadily. Carriages clattered past in the distance. A small crowd had gathered despite the weather—onlookers drawn by scandal, eager to glimpse the notorious
Duke and his hastily acquired bride.
The whispers started the moment Penelope and Alastair emerged.
“—refused to kiss him—”
“—what sort of marriage—”
“—the baby, forcing them—”
The words stung. Beside her, Alastair’s expression remained neutral, as though he could not hear them. But his arm beneath her fingers had gone rigid.
His carriage waited at the base of the chapel steps, the ducal crest gleaming despite the rain. A footman hurried forward with an umbrella, shielding them as they descended.
“The child is already at Blackmere House,” Alastair said quietly. His first words to her since the ceremony. “Along with a wet nurse and your belongings. We leave for the country estate within the hour.”
Not a question. A statement of fact.
Penelope nodded.
Her parents approached. Brief farewells followed—her mother’s hands squeezing hers too tightly, her father’s gruff instruction to “write soon.”
Hyacinth caught her just before she climbed into the carriage, pulling her into a fierce embrace.
“You can write to me,” she whispered. “Any time. About anything. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Penelope managed.
Then the footman was handing her up into the carriage, and Alastair was climbing in after her, and the door clicked shut.
The interior smelled of leather and rain-damp wool. Penelope settled onto the forward-facing seat, arranging her skirts while Alastair took the seat opposite. The carriage lurched into motion, carrying them away from the chapel, away from her family, away from everything familiar.
Neither of them spoke.
Penelope kept her gaze on the rain-streaked window, watching London slide past. Alastair sat perfectly still across from her, one leg crossed over the other.
The space between them felt vast despite the carriage’s modest size.
She could hear him breathing. Could feel him there, this stranger who was now her husband.
Minutes passed. The city began giving way to countryside, buildings growing further apart. sky met earth at a horizon she could barely see through the rain.
“I apologize.”
His voice cut through the quiet. Penelope flinched. She turned from the window to find him watching her.
“For what?”
“For putting you in a position where you felt you had to marry me.” He paused. “And for attempting the kiss when you clearly did not wish it.”
Penelope’s cheeks burned. “It was expected. The vicar said—”
“Expected,” he repeated, bitter. “Yes. Rather like this entire arrangement. Expected. Required.
Unavoidable.” He laughed bitterly. “But not wanted.”
She opened her mouth, but Alastair shook his head.
“No. You did not need to say it. Your face when I leaned in spoke volumes.” He turned to look out his own window.
“You need not worry, Miss Hart—” He corrected himself.
“Your Grace. I have no intention of forcing my attentions on an unwilling wife. You will have your separate rooms, your separate life, exactly as promised.”
“That was not—” Penelope’s hands clenched in her lap. “I was not rejecting you specifically. I was simply—”
“Terrified.” He said it flat. “Yes. I noticed.”
The words stung. Because he was right, and because the distance in his voice suggested he had already decided what her reaction meant.
“Your Grace,” she tried again. “I apologize if I—”
“Do not apologize.” He turned back to her sharply.
There was something fierce in his expression now.
“You have done nothing wrong. If anything, you have shown remarkable composure. You agreed to marry a stranger to protect a child. You are enduring scandal and a husband you clearly find repulsive. Apologizing is the last thing you should be doing.”
“I do not find you repulsive,” Penelope said quietly.
He looked surprised. “No?”
“No.” She met his gaze. “I find this situation overwhelming. I find myself unprepared and uncertain and afraid of making everything worse. But you, specifically?” She shook her head. “You have been kinder than you needed to be. More patient than I had any right to expect.”
The quiet that followed felt different. Less hostile. More uncertain.
“Well then,” Alastair said, softer than before. “Perhaps we are both simply terrified and trying not to show it.”
The admission surprised a small sound from her that was almost a laugh. “Perhaps.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile but approaching it. “What a pair we make. The reluctant Duke and the frightened bride, bound together by scandal and an infant neither of us knows how to raise.”
“When you phrase it like that, it sounds rather hopeless.”
“Does it?” He tilted his head. “I was thinking it sounded like the beginning of either a tragedy or a farce. I suppose we shall have to wait and see which.”
It was still raining outside and Penelope found herself studying her new husband with different attention.
Not the man at the ball who had teased her until she’d wanted to slap him.
Not the rake society whispered about in scandalized tones.
But this—a person as uncertain and unprepared as she was, hiding it beneath charm and distance the way she hid hers beneath composure and duty.
He had nice hands, she noticed absently.
Long fingers. The knuckles on his right hand looked slightly swollen, probably from that boxing habit he thought was so terribly clandestine.
She’d heard about it from her brother-in-law.
Apparently everyone knew the Duke frequented some questionable establishment in the East End, trading punches with working men.
“How long until we reach the estate?” she asked.
“Four hours. Perhaps five in this weather.” Alastair gestured at the rain. “We will arrive after dark. But the house has been prepared. Your rooms are ready, the nursery established. You will want for nothing.”
Except understanding. Except choice.
But Penelope did not say those things. Instead, she nodded and turned back to the window, watching the unfamiliar landscape roll past.
Alastair fell quiet as well.
The miles passed slowly. The rain continued. And somewhere ahead, in a house Penelope had never seen, a baby waited—the tiny catalyst who had upended both their lives.
The carriage hit a rut. Penelope’s hand shot out to brace against the seat, and found Alastair’s fingers there instead.
They both froze.
His hand was warm beneath hers. She could feel his pulse. For a moment, neither of them moved. The accidental touch felt more intimate than the attempted kiss had been.
Then Alastair withdrew his hand, folding it back into his lap.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
“It was an accident,” Penelope managed.
“Yes.” He looked at her directly then. Something in his eyes made her heart stutter. “An accident. Of course.”
But the way he said it suggested he was not entirely certain what he meant.
The carriage rolled onward through the rain, carrying them toward whatever future awaited.
And between them, the air grew heavier with each passing mile.