Chapter Twenty
The wedding was smaller than society expected.
When the Duke of Hollowshade announced his engagement to Miss Eliza Hayfield, a mere two weeks after her broken engagement to Edmund Alcott had set tongues wagging across London, the ton had anticipated a spectacle.
A grand affair at St. George’s, Hanover Square.
Hundreds of guests. A wedding breakfast that would be discussed for seasons to come.
Instead, they married in the chapel at William’s country estate, with only family and close friends in attendance.
Eliza had wanted it that way.
“I have had enough of society’s scrutiny,” she had told William when they discussed the arrangements. “I want our wedding to be ours. Not a performance for the ton.”
He had agreed immediately, relief evident in his expression. The reformed rake, it seemed, had no more appetite for spectacle than his bride.
The morning of the wedding dawned bright and clear, as though the weather itself had decided to bless their union.
Eliza woke in the guest chamber that had been prepared for her, separate from William, as tradition demanded, though she had found the empty bed cold and strange after so many nights in his arms.
Beatrice had come to help her dress, her capable hands working through the buttons and laces while Eliza stared at her reflection in the mirror.
“You are trembling,” Beatrice observed.
“I am nervous.”
“About the wedding? Or the wedding night?” Her cousin’s smile was knowing. “Though I suspect the latter holds no surprises for you.”
“Beatrice!”
“I am simply observing.” Beatrice smoothed the ivory silk over Eliza’s shoulders. “You have the look of a woman who knows exactly what she is stepping into.”
“I do know,” Eliza admitted. “That is part of what makes it so overwhelming. When I accepted Edmund’s proposal, I was stepping into the unknown. Everything was theoretical: the marriage, the intimacy, the life we would share. But with William…”
“With William, you already know what you are getting.”
“I know what we are together.” Eliza met her own eyes in the mirror. “I know how he makes me feel. I know the depth of his passion and the weight of his fears. I know exactly how much I’m risking by trusting him again.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am.” She smoothed her hands over the skirt of her gown. “Ready to risk everything on a man who has already broken my heart once.”
“He will not break it again.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am.” Beatrice came to stand beside her, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
“I was wrong about him, you know. When I warned you to stay away, when I told you men like him don’t change, I was speaking from fear, not knowledge.
I’d seen too many women ruined by rakes, and I assumed William would be the same. ”
“But?”
“But I have watched him these past two weeks. The way he looks at you. The way he touches you, as though he cannot quite believe you’re real.
The way he defers to your wishes, anticipates your needs, treats you like you are the most precious thing in his world.
” Beatrice shook her head. “That is not a performance. That is a man who has finally found something worth being better for.”
Eliza felt tears prick at her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. I am only saying what I see.” Beatrice squeezed her shoulders. “Now stop crying before you ruin your complexion. You are about to become a duchess. You should look the part.”
***
And so here she was, standing in the small stone chapel where generations of Bradworths had been baptised, married, and mourned, wearing a simple gown of ivory silk and watching the man she loved wait for her at the altar.
He looked devastating.
Dark coat, cream waistcoat, his black hair swept back from his face in a style that was almost respectable.
His grey eyes found hers the moment she appeared at the chapel door, and the expression on his face, wonder, love, a desperate joy he didn’t even try to hide, made her heart stutter in her chest.
She walked toward him on her father’s arm, barely aware of the faces turned to watch her progress.
Her mother was crying, happy tears, she had assured Eliza that morning.
Beatrice stood near the front, looking quietly satisfied, as though she had known all along that this was how things would end.
Aunt Philippa had claimed the position of honour reserved for the mother of the groom, insisting that William should not stand entirely without family on his wedding day.
Worthington stood beside William as groomsman, his sardonic expression softened by something that looked almost like genuine emotion.
But Eliza saw none of them. Not really.
She saw only William.
William, who had broken her heart and then fought to put it back together.
William, who had spent the past two weeks proving, in a hundred small ways, that he meant every word of his confession.
William, who looked at her now like she was the answer to every question he had ever asked.
Her father placed her hand in William’s, and the warmth of his fingers closing around hers felt like coming home.
“Dearly beloved,” the vicar began, “we are gathered here today…”
The ceremony passed in a blur of sacred words and solemn vows.
Eliza heard herself speak the promises, to love, to honour, to cherish, and meant every syllable. She watched William speak his own vows, his voice steady despite the emotion burning in his grey eyes, and felt something settle into place in her chest.
This was real.
After everything, the deception, the heartbreak, the desperate reconciliation, they had found their way here. To this moment. To each other.
“I, William Charles Bradworth, take thee, Eliza Anne Hayfield, to be my wedded wife…”
His voice wrapped around the words like a caress, transforming the ancient formula into something achingly personal.
“…to have and to hold, from this day forward…”
His thumb traced circles on the back of her hand, a small gesture that spoke louder than any grand declaration.
“…for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer…”
She thought of all the ways they had already been tested. The worse had come before the better, but they had survived it.
“…in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…”
His eyes held hers, grey and intense and full of promise.
“…till death us do part.”
The words hung in the air, sacred and binding.
Then it was her turn.
“I, Eliza Anne Hayfield, take thee, William Charles Bradworth, to be my wedded husband…”
Her voice trembled slightly, but her resolve did not.
“…to have and to hold, from this day forward…”
She thought of all the nights she had spent in his arms, and all the nights yet to come.
“…for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer…”
They had already weathered the storm. Surely everything that followed would be easier.
“…in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey…”
She saw his lips twitch at the word “obey,” and had to suppress a smile of her own. They both knew that obedience was unlikely to be a feature of their marriage.
“…till death us do part.”
The vicar pronounced them man and wife.
William lifted her hand to his lips, then, after the briefest hesitation, bent and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.
“My wife,” he murmured, so quietly that only she could hear. “My duchess. My everything.”
She looked up at him, unable to keep herself from smiling.
“My husband. My duke. My reformed rake.”
“Reformed is perhaps too strong a word.” His eyes glinted with familiar wickedness. “I prefer… redirected.”
“Redirected?”
“All the passion I once scattered carelessly across London is now focused entirely on you.” His voice dropped even lower. “I intend to demonstrate just how focused later this evening.”
Heat flooded her cheeks, but she refused to look away. “I shall look forward to being convinced, Your Grace.”
“I hoped you might, Your Grace.”
The title, her new title, sent a shiver down her spine.
She was a duchess.
She was William’s wife.
And the night ahead promised to be unlike anything they had shared before.
***
The wedding breakfast was an intimate affair, filled with laughter and toasts and the warm chaos of family.
Eliza’s parents had taken to William with surprising ease. Her father had spent the better part of an hour discussing agricultural improvements with him, while her mother had simply watched them together with an expression of profound satisfaction.
“He looks at you the way your father looked at me,” she had whispered to Eliza at one point. “Thirty years ago, when we were young and foolish and certain that love could conquer anything.”
“And did it?” Eliza had asked. “Conquer anything?”
“Not everything.” Her mother’s smile was soft with memory. “But enough. Always enough.”
Now, as the afternoon wore on and the guests began to disperse, Eliza felt anticipation building beneath her skin. Every glance from William sent heat pooling in her belly. Every casual touch, his hand at her waist, his fingers brushing hers, felt charged with promise.
“You are distracted,” Beatrice observed, appearing at her elbow.
“I am newly married. I am allowed to be distracted.”
“You are also blushing.” Beatrice’s smile was knowing. “The great rake has turned you into a wanton, I see.”
“Beatrice.”
“Don’t worry. I approve.” Her cousin squeezed her arm. “You deserve happiness, Eliza. I am glad you found it.”
Beatrice glanced across the room to where William stood with Worthington. “He is watching you, by the way. He has scarcely looked elsewhere all afternoon.”
Eliza followed her gaze and found William’s grey eyes fixed on her, warm and intent.
“Go,” Beatrice said softly. “Rescue your husband. I suspect he has had enough of being civil.”
Eliza crossed the room, her heart beating faster with every step. William turned to meet her, his expression shifting from polite attention to something far more private.
“My wife.” He said the words like a discovery. “I find I am not tired of saying that.”