Chapter 5
The chapel was small. Too small for comfort, too quiet for a man with too many thoughts.
Edward stood at the altar before the priest. His attire was impeccable—he had seen to that, at least—but the perfection of it mocked him.
The starched linen collar pressed at his throat, and the coat felt too tight across his shoulders.
He looked, he suspected, like a man awaiting sentence rather than marriage.
Four days. That was how quickly this had happened. A special license. A handful of signatures. Weddings, he had always thought, were meant to be loud affairs of crowded pews, music, and friends drinking too much.
Yet here he was, preparing to tie his entire future to a woman he barely knew, in a chapel quiet enough that he could hear his own heartbeat.
A thin beam of sunlight fell through the high window, catching in his hair, and he almost resented it. There was nothing sacred about this morning.
Beside him, Sebastian shifted his weight, his expression wry.
“A new record,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. “Even for you—married and scandalized in the same week.”
Edward’s lips curled into something that faintly resembled a smile. “At least she’s beautiful,” he muttered under his breath. “It could have been worse.”
Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “A ringing endorsement, if ever there was one. Shall I offer it during the toast?”
“Don’t.” Edward shot him a warning look. “Careful, or I’ll make you best man by force.”
Sebastian flashed him a grin. “I rather thought I already was. Anyway, someone ought to speak of the groom’s better qualities—assuming any can be found.”
Edward let out a slow breath, his eyes fixed on the closed chapel doors. “You make it sound as though I’m a lost cause.”
“Oh, you are,” Sebastian replied lightly. “But at least now there’s someone who is legally obligated to deal with it.”
Edward elbowed him once, a soft jab of brotherly irritation. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I am,” Sebastian admitted cheerfully. “Because for the first time in years, you actually look nervous.”
Edward kept his tone dry, but his stomach twisted all the same. He hadn’t expected nerves. He had weathered worse, faced more judgmental eyes. But something about the stillness of the chapel, the low hum of waiting, made it difficult to breathe.
Suddenly, the great oak doors groaned open. The sound drew every head, and Edward’s breath stilled in his chest.
Beatrice entered, escorted by Sir Andrew Whitcombe, her late father’s dearest friend and the closest thing she had ever known to a father figure.
He had seen her hundreds of times before, across glittering ballrooms, through the haze of too many dull dinners, but never like this. Never with that still, terrible calm.
Her gown was ivory silk, unadorned yet flawless, the sort of simplicity that made everything else feel excessive. She moved with the quiet assurance of someone born to grace, her shoulders set in perfect alignment.
A few curls of light brown hair had escaped the confines of her coiffure, brushing her cheek as she walked. It made her look almost human, something fragile in the midst of all that restraint.
She did not look at him. Her blue eyes were fixed straight ahead, unblinking, her chin lifted in that quiet, defiant way that had once amused him—and now, inexplicably, unsettled him.
Every step she took was measured, the sound of her slippers on the stone floor like the ticking of a clock counting down to something inevitable.
For a moment, his breath faltered. It wasn’t only that she was beautiful—though she was, more so than any actress who had ever graced a London stage. It was the way her beauty seemed entirely unselfconscious, untouched by vanity. Grace clung to her like light itself.
Edward rolled his shoulders back, drawing in a quiet breath. This would not do. She was no vision, no muse meant to undo him. She was simply a bride of convenience. A duty, nothing more.
He told himself not to look too long. Not to notice the column of her throat, the faint tremor in her fingers where they gripped Sir Andrew’s arm.
Stop it. She’s not here to ruin you.
And yet, as she drew closer, his chest tightened.
He turned to face her, his voice even. “My lady.”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his, only for a heartbeat. “Your Grace.” Her tone was courteous and detached. She did not even look at him.
He offered his arm because that was expected. She placed her hand on his sleeve. The contact was cool and light, but he felt it keenly all the same.
Sebastian stepped back to the front pew, offering his arm to Margaret. “Shall we?” he asked softly.
The priest, an older man who had seen far stranger unions blessed by special license, lifted his prayer book. “We gather here before God and witness to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony. A covenant of trust, of honor, and of steadfast care.”
He paused briefly, as though letting the words sink in.
“Should anyone present know of any reason that this couple should not be wed, let them speak now or remain forever silent.”
The silence that followed was thick, as though no one wanted to breathe.
The priest nodded once, satisfied, then turned his solemn gaze to Edward, his grave voice carrying through the chapel. “Will you, Edward Pembroke, the Duke of Wrexford, take this woman—”
Edward’s hand tightened at his side. He heard his name echo off stone, heard the faint rustle of silk beside him.
Beatrice stood straight, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the altar. Her veil caught the light, trembling slightly with each breath.
He cleared his throat. “I will.”
The priest turned to her. “Will you, Lady Beatrice Moreland, take this man—”
She did not even blink. “I will.”
The priest’s final words fell like dust on marble. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
For a heartbeat, the chapel held its breath. Edward became suddenly aware of the nearness of her hand, the pale sliver of skin above her glove, the steady rise and fall of her chest. She smelled faintly of rosewater.
He turned toward her slowly, as though any sudden movement might shatter the brittle calm between them.
Beatrice’s gaze rose to meet his for the first time that day. It was not anger he saw there, nor sorrow. It was something far more immovable. She might have been carved from the same stillness that permeated the chapel.
He leaned in, closing the small distance between them. The world seemed to narrow until there was only the faint scent of rosewater and the brush of silk against his sleeve.
If she had leaned forward just a breath, he might have kissed her, and it would have been done, proper and simple. But she did not move. Not an inch.
The silence stretched, sharp enough to draw blood. A heartbeat passed, then another.
Edward exhaled and let the moment break. He straightened, masking his retreat with a gesture so polished it almost passed for grace. Almost.
He inclined his head in place of a kiss, his voice low and even. “Duchess.”
Her reply came a moment later. “Duke.”
His heart fluttered, and he stepped back, offering his arm because there was nothing else to do. Her hand rested lightly on his sleeve, and they turned, murmurs rising behind them.
Each step down the aisle dragged. He could feel her beside him. She was infuriatingly composed. Not once did she look at him.
The scent of lilies was too strong and the air too close. Candle wax clung to the back of his throat. Somewhere, Sebastian murmured something, likely a jest, but it reached him only as a blur of sound.
The Duke of Wrexford, London’s favorite rake, had done the unthinkable: he got married.
He was a husband. And, if rumors were to be believed, a father.
They had left London before noon, yet the scent of it clung to her still—ink, coal, smoke.
Beatrice turned to look one last time out the carriage window. A small line of carriages waited nearby, loaded with trunks and boxes that had been hastily packed just before the ceremony.
Her mother had stood straight despite her pallor, hands clasped before her. Lady Moreland did not wave, as she would never permit such a breach of etiquette, but her chin lifted in that quiet, commanding way that said, Be steady, child.
Beside her, Cecily had clung to Margaret’s arm, her face blotchy from weeping. She looked so heartbreakingly young that Beatrice nearly opened the carriage door and jumped out.
“Write to me,” Cecily had pleaded moments ago, her voice trembling. “Promise you’ll come back once it’s all over.”
Beatrice had wiped a tear from her sister’s cheek. “I promise,” she had whispered. “And I expect you to keep Mother from worrying herself to pieces.”
Margaret, ever the practical one, had sniffed and adjusted her shawl. “And do send word if he proves utterly insufferable. I have a list of creative ways to torment difficult husbands, and Sebastian would help in carrying them out.”
Beatrice had almost smiled. “I shall keep that in mind.”
Now, as the carriage lurched forward, her mother’s figure grew smaller, and her sister’s handkerchief fluttered like a pale flag in the distance until it, too, vanished in the mist.
The rhythm of the wheels evened out as London blurred into the countryside. Neither of them spoke.
Beatrice kept her gaze fixed on the passing fields. Her world had just disappeared behind her, and ahead lay nothing she understood.
The baby slept in a wicker basket beside her, one small fist curled near her cheek. Beatrice watched the slow rise and fall of the child’s chest, willing herself to focus on it—on something innocent, something simple.
She brushed a fingertip over the child’s hand, careful not to wake her. “Hush,” she murmured. “We’ve caused enough distress for one morning.”
But then Edward shifted opposite her, the leather creaking under his weight, and focus became impossible.