Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Aweek later, the ancient stone walls of St. George’s were not crowded. Malcolm had seen to that.
Penelope stood in the quiet vestibule, her breath coming in shallow pants. Violet stood at her left side, smoothing a stray hair, while Amelia stood at her right, her fan tucked into her stays.
Nicholas shifted nervously from foot to foot near Lord Giltbury, trying and failing entirely not to stare down the long, empty aisle.
“He looks very serious, Mama,” Nicholas whispered, his small voice echoing in the stone entryway.
Penelope followed his gaze. Malcolm stood near the altar in a dark, tailored coat that made his broad shoulders look even bigger.
His posture was perfectly square, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
Benedict stood just a pace beside him, speaking quietly from the corner of his mouth, though whatever wit he was offering earned absolutely no smile from the Duke.
“Yes,” Penelope whispered, her throat tight. “He often does.”
“Is he nervous?”
Violet leaned down, her silk skirts rustling. “All gentlemen are thoroughly terrified when they are about to marry clever women like your mama, Nicholas.”
Nicholas considered that for a moment, his chin lifting. “Will I be nervous someday?”
Penelope turned to him fully, dropping to her knees right there on the stone floor, completely heedless of the expensive blue silk. Her heart cracked open in one swift, silent break of pure love. She cupped his sweet face in her hands. “What is the rush, Nicholas?”
They all let out a quick laugh.
“Will we really live with the Duke now?”
“Yes.”
“And Hector, too?”
“Yes.”
His face brightened with a brilliant grin.
Nicholas nodded, satisfied. Then he leaned forward and wrapped both of his small arms tightly around her neck, burying his face in her shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut and held him, breathing in the scent of sweet soap and childhood.
Violet’s voice came lightly from above them. “You will thoroughly wrinkle your mother before the ceremony even begins, young man.”
“I do not care,” Nicholas said, his voice muffled against Penelope’s silk collar.
Penelope laughed softly, kissing his dark curls before pushing herself up.
Penelope smoothed the front of her gown, a pale blue silk that flowed over her curves, trimmed with delicate, lace at the long sleeves. Amelia had insisted the soft color suited her honey-brown eyes. Violet had insisted the low-cut bodice would suit Malcolm’s frayed nerves.
Her hands were freezing. She clasped them together to stop the shaking.
The heavy inner doors opened, and the rector appeared. It began quickly after that. Entirely too quickly.
Penelope took Lord Giltbury’s arm for the walk down the aisle. Violet and Amelia followed closely behind her. Nicholas remained near the front pew, his chin held high, trying desperately to look older than his age.
Malcolm turned slowly as she approached. Penelope watched his face, her pulse drumming a frantic rhythm beneath her skin. There was no false smile for the church, no practiced warmth for the rector. But his dark eyes did not leave her face once. Not for a single second.
When Lord Giltbury reached the altar and placed her cold hand into Malcolm’s, the Duke’s fingers closed around hers with a careful, bruising firmness. Not possessive, but entirely present.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration meant only for her.
“Thank you. You look rather handsome, yourself.”
His mouth twitched at the corner.
The rector cleared his throat loudly. Penelope looked forward at once, a sudden, hot flash of heat rising to her cheeks.
The ancient words began. “Dearly beloved…”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Malcolm’s hand stayed perfectly steady around hers, his warmth seeping into her cold skin.
When the rector reached the portion asking whether any man knew just cause or impediment, Penelope’s stomach clenched so hard she nearly swayed on her feet. A cold dread gripped her.
No one spoke. No heavy doors flung open. There was no sign of Charles.
There was only the quiet, sunlit church, the scent of old stone, and Nicholas watching them with both of his small fists clenched in anxious hope.
The solemn vows came. Malcolm’s deep voice filled the cavernous space with absolute clarity.
“I, Malcolm Aldridge, take thee, Penelope Cadden…”
Her name sounded entirely different spoken there. Not hidden away. Not whispered in a dark side room under threat of ruin. It was given proudly before God, law, and family.
When it was her turn, her throat tightened painfully, the weight of the moment pressing down on her chest. “I, Penelope Cadden, take thee, Malcolm Aldridge…”
Her voice cracked once while saying his name. Malcolm’s thumb pressed lightly against the back of her hand, a steadying anchor. She continued, her voice growing stronger.
The ring was plain, heavy gold. It slid over her finger too smoothly for something that changed the entire trajectory of her life.
“With this ring I thee wed,” Malcolm said, his dark gaze trapping hers.
Penelope looked down at the gold band.
Wife. Duchess. Protected. Bound.
The rector pronounced them man and wife. For a long moment, no one in the church moved. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken emotion.
Malcolm released Penelope’s hand, only to offer his broad arm. She looked at the dark wool of his sleeve, then up into his scarred, handsome face.
“My Duchess,” he said quietly, his voice rough.
Her breath caught, a fierce wave of heat rushing through her center. She placed her gloved hand on his sleeve, feeling the solid muscle beneath.
As they walked back down the aisle together, Nicholas hurried close to her other side, his boots scuffing the stone. “Does this mean Hector is officially my family now?” he asked, looking up at the Duke.
Malcolm looked down at the boy, his expression softening into something real. “If you continue feeding him my roast chicken, Nicholas, he will certainly think so.”
Nicholas grinned widely. Penelope looked between the two of them, her chest tight, warm, and aching with a sudden, profound hope.
Outside the church, the bright London sunlight struck the stone steps. Malcolm helped her into the luxurious carriage first, his large hand lingering on her waist for a fraction of a second too long, before lifting Nicholas inside. He climbed in opposite her, shutting the door.
For a moment, they simply sat there, facing one another in the small, enclosed leather space. The tension from the church still lingered, thick and electric.
Nicholas immediately pressed his nose to the glass window, waving enthusiastically at Violet and Amelia on the steps.
Penelope looked down at the heavy gold ring shining on her finger.
Malcolm’s low voice came across the short distance, cutting through the silence. “Do you have any regrets?”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. His face was guarded, the rugged scar stark in the morning light, but his large hand rested open on his knee. Unclenched. Waiting for her.
Penelope turned the gold ring once with her thumb, feeling the weight of it. Then she looked at Nicholas, bright, safe, and happy beside her.
“No,” she said softly, her eyes locking onto Malcolm’s.
The carriage began to move forward into their new life.