Chapter Five
“Hold still, miss, or you’ll have a crooked hem at your own wedding.”
Marianne stood motionless as her maid, Sarah, made the last adjustments to the blue silk gown. Pale dawn light filtered through the windows, gilding the edges of furniture and glass. In three hours, she would be the Duchess of Harrowmere.
The thought made her stomach tighten—half terror, half anticipation.
“There.” Sarah stepped back, biting her lip. “You look beautiful, miss. Though I do wish…”
“What?”
“That you had a proper wedding gown—white satin and orange blossoms, like a real bride ought to.”
Marianne touched the silk, remembering Adrian’s gaze the night she had worn it to Lady Weatherby’s. “This will do.”
It had to. There’d been no time for anything else—not with the special licence requested, the arrangements made overnight, and the need to act before gossip hardened into ruin.
Her father had handled the practicalities with his usual brisk efficiency, while her mother had spent the night alternating between worry and determined preparations.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Her mother entered, already dressed in her finest morning gown, every pleat precise.
“The carriage will be ready within the hour,” she said, dismissing Sarah with a glance. She moved behind Marianne, meeting her daughter’s eyes in the mirror. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m about to step off a cliff in the dark.”
“That sounds about right.” Her mother’s hands came to rest on her shoulders. “It’s not too late, you know. We could leave London—Paris, perhaps Rome. Wait for the scandal to fade.”
“And spend the next five years hoping some merchant’s son overlooks my disgrace?” Marianne shook her head. “No. I’ve made my choice.”
“You made it rather quickly.”
“Did I?” Marianne met her mother’s eyes in the mirror. “Or has it simply been coming to this since the night at the opera?”
Her mother sighed. “You’re very like your father. Once your mind is set, the world may as well step aside.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a small velvet box. “This was my mother’s. I wore it at my wedding.”
Inside lay a pair of pearl earrings—simple, luminous. Marianne’s throat caught. “Mama…”
“Every bride should have something of her mother’s, even if the wedding is…” She hesitated, then smiled wryly. “Unconventional.”
“You mean hasty, scandalous, and entirely ill-advised?”
“I meant ‘unexpected,’ but yes, those too.” Her mother fastened the earrings with careful fingers. “Marianne, you must understand something about marriages of convenience.”
“Is that what this is?”
“Isn’t it? He salvages your reputation, gains a wife of his own choosing; you gain a title and protection.
It’s convenience, pure and simple.” She turned her daughter to face her.
“But convenience and affection are not always strangers. Your father and I married for practical reasons—his ambition, my family’s connections.
Love came later. Or something close enough to build a life on. ”
“And if it doesn’t come?”
“Then you build anyway. You find purpose, routine—perhaps children, if fortune allows. You make something from what you have, not what you wish you had.” Her mother studied her face.
“But that man looks at you as if you live under his skin, and you look at him as if he’s fire and you’re the moth.
That isn’t convenient, my darling. That’s perilous. ”
“I know.”
“Do you? Passion burns bright—but it consumes. When the flames die, you’ll need something sturdier to stand on.”
“Like what?”
“Respect. Trust. Shared purpose.” Her mother smiled sadly. “Things that take time to build. Time you haven’t had.”
Before Marianne could respond, her father’s voice boomed from downstairs. “The carriage is ready!”
The ride to St George’s blurred past. She sat between her parents, gloved hands folded tightly in her lap, the silk of her gown whispering with every breath. Beneath it, the locket lay warm against her skin—its weight a reminder of the man waiting for her at the altar.
Adrian Blackwell. In an hour, she would be his wife. In name, in law, and—soon enough—in body.
The last thought sent heat flooding through her despite the morning chill.
St George’s loomed ahead, its portico stark in the pale light. Only a handful of carriages waited—no crowd, no guests. Just witnesses and an unfortunate clergyman roused at too early an hour.
“Ready?” her father asked.
“No,” she admitted. “But that hardly matters, does it?”
He squeezed her hand. “Courage, my girl. We Whitcombes don’t run from our choices.”
The church smelled faintly of wax and cold stone. Adrian stood at the altar in dark blue superfine, every line of him composed save for the tension in his shoulders. His eyes found hers at once, the effect as potent as ever—hunger, possession, and perhaps something she didn’t yet dare name.
Her father delivered her with formal brevity. “Your Grace.”
“Mr Whitcombe.” Adrian’s gaze never left her. “Thank you for entrusting me with your daughter.”
“I’m not sure ‘trust’ is the word I’d use,” her father said dryly. “But what’s done is done.”
The elderly clergyman cleared his throat and began. The ancient words blurred past—to have and to hold, for better, for worse, till death us do part. So solemn, for a union born of haste.
When the moment came, Adrian produced a ring—plain gold, circled with tiny sapphires that matched her gown.
“When did you—?” she whispered.
“You’d be astonished how quickly a duke’s request is obeyed,” he murmured, sliding it onto her finger with deliberate care. “It was finished this morning.”
“It’s beautiful.”
His gaze met hers. “So are you.”.
When the final vows were spoken, the clergyman closed his prayer book and inclined his head.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Adrian turned to her. For a heartbeat, he only looked—dark eyes unreadable, the faintest muscle ticking in his jaw. Then he bent and brushed his lips against her forehead.
It was the lightest, briefest touch—chaste enough for the church, yet it sent warmth spiralling through her like sunlight through glass. Her breath caught, and she was absurdly aware of the witnesses, the echoing silence, the steady beat of her own heart.
When he straightened, his thumb traced her jaw, almost absently.
“Mine now,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.
“Your Grace,” she managed, though her voice trembled despite her effort at poise.
The registry was signed with little fanfare. Marianne’s hand shook slightly as she wrote her name for the last time as Whitcombe. When she set down the pen, she was the Duchess of Harrowmere.
The weight of it settled heavy and irrevocable.
“Breakfast?” her mother ventured. “Cook prepared—”
“I’m afraid we must decline,” Adrian said smoothly. “We leave for Harrowmere at once.”
“Truly?” Marianne turned to him. “But my things—”
“Already sent ahead. Your maid packed last night, under my instruction.”
“You presumptuous—”
“Husband,” he supplied mildly. “The word you’re searching for is husband.”
Her parents exchanged a look.
“Perhaps,” her father said after a pause, “you might allow us a word with our daughter.”
Adrian hesitated, then nodded. “Five minutes. The carriage waits.”
When he’d gone, the church felt suddenly enormous.
“Well,” her mother said faintly. “That was… efficient.”
“He’s taking me away,” Marianne said blankly. “I don’t even know where Harrowmere is—”
“Kent,” her father replied. “A few hours from London. He’ll keep you there until the scandal cools—months, perhaps.”
“Months alone with him?”
“You’re his wife now,” her mother reminded her gently. “Being alone with him is rather the point.”
“But I don’t know him. Not really. A handful of encounters, a few stolen hours—and now this.”
“Yes,” her father said simply. “So you’d best learn quickly.” He surprised her by drawing her into an embrace. “Write to us. If you need anything—send word.”
“He won’t hurt me, Papa.”
“Physically? No, I do not believe he will—and I would not permit it. But there are other kinds of hurt, my girl.” He pulled back, his eyes serious. “Guard your heart. Men like that—they take everything if you let them.”
Her mother kissed her cheek. “Be well, darling. Be happy if you can. Be smart if you can’t.”
Then they were gone, leaving her alone in the church where she’d just promised her life to a virtual stranger. The candles flickered in a draft, casting dancing shadows across the floor. She stood there for a moment, gathering her courage, then walked out to face her new life.
***
Adrian waited beside an imposing black carriage, all gleaming lacquer and matched greys. He had removed his gloves; when he took her hand to help her step up, the brief touch of his bare skin against hers sent a shiver straight through her.
“Regrets already?” he asked as he settled beside her and the carriage lurched into motion.
“Should I have them?”
“Probably.” His legs stretched easily before him, his thigh brushing hers through layers of silk. “I’m not an easy man to live with.”
“I’m not an easy woman to live with either.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “No. But you’re mine now. That makes it worth it.”
“Yours.” She tested the word. “Is that what I am? A possession?”
“Would you prefer pretty lies? Murmurs of devotion and eternal love?”
“I’d prefer honesty.”
“Then here’s honesty.” He turned toward her, resting a hand lightly on her knee.
“I wanted you from the moment you refused to look away at the opera. Every day since has been torment—wanting what I could not have. Now you’re my wife.
Mine to touch, to taste, to learn until I understand every way you breathe.
If that makes you a possession, then yes. You’re my most prized one.”
Heat coiled low in her stomach. “And what does this prized possession do with herself?”