Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
The morning mist still clung to the lawns of Wexford Manor when Seraphine's carriage rolled to a stop before the small stone chapel.
Though modest beside the grandeur of the manor itself, the chapel possessed a quiet beauty.
Ivy climbed its pale walls, roses bloomed beside the entrance, and colored glass caught the early sunlight, casting jewels of crimson and sapphire across the ancient stone floor.
It was not the grand London wedding she had imagined as a little girl.
It was intimate. Almost private. Somehow, that suited the strange path that had brought her here.
Maria adjusted the white silk scarf around Seraphine's shoulders before stepping back with watery eyes.
"You look beautiful, my lady," she whispered, smoothing an imaginary crease from the gown. "His Grace shall forget how to breathe."
Seraphine laughed despite herself and squeezed the maid's hands. "Let us hope he remembers long enough to say his vows," she replied softly.
Maria sniffed, laughed through her tears, and reached for a handkerchief. "I shall settle for that."
Rosaline stepped forward next, her daughter Annie perched upon Laurent's arm behind her. Rosaline embraced her sister carefully so as not to disturb the gown.
"You are trembling," she murmured.
Seraphine attempted a smile that felt terribly fragile. "Only a little."
Rosaline smiled knowingly. "That is permitted on one's wedding day. Fainting however, is rather less acceptable."
Seraphine huffed a quiet laugh. "I promise I shall walk towards the altar rather as steady as I can."
The chapel doors opened with a gentle groan, and every conversation faded into silence. Seraphine lifted her eyes towards the altar unwillingly. For one dreadful heartbeat she feared she would find it empty.
Is he there?
Foolish though the thought was, part of her still expected Damien to have reconsidered. He had spoken of duty, responsibility, obligation. None of those words resembled affection.
Yet there he stood beneath the carved oak cross, tall and immaculately dressed in black, his broad shoulders impossibly straight.
Relief swept through her so suddenly that it almost stole her strength.
He had come. Of course he had come. Damien was many things, infuriating, stubborn beyond reason, but he was not a man who abandoned duty.
She hated herself for doubting him, yet the fear had lingered all morning.
Seeing him waiting eased a tightness she had scarcely acknowledged until it disappeared.
As she began walking down the aisle, Damien's eyes lifted to meet hers.
The entire chapel seemed to vanish. She scarcely noticed the Duke of Northwick standing beside Damien wearing an expression of shameless curiosity, nor Thalia smiling through suspiciously bright eyes beside Caspian.
There was only Damien. His usually unreadable face softened, imperceptibly, as his gaze travelled over her gown before settling upon the white silk scarf wrapped gracefully about her shoulders.
For the briefest moment, something flickered behind his guarded green eyes.
Admiration perhaps. Or relief mirroring her own.
Whatever it was, it warmed her more than the summer sun streaming through the stained glass.
She found herself smoothing the scarf unconsciously.
His gift rested against her skin like a silent promise.
She wondered whether he noticed she had obeyed his note.
The smallest corner of his mouth lifted, and somehow, she believed he had.
When she reached the altar, Damien stepped forward before anyone prompted him.
Without a word he extended his hand. Seraphine hesitated only an instant before placing her gloved fingers into his.
His grip was warm and steady. The simple contact soothed her racing heart far more effectively than it ought to have.
She glanced up at him. "Your Grace," she whispered.
"Sweetheart," he answered quietly. "You are here."
She fought the urge to smile too broadly. "Were you expecting otherwise?" she asked under her breath.
Damien's eyes held hers. "Given your recent habit of making impulsive decisions," he murmured, "I considered every possibility."
The vicar cleared his throat with gentle amusement. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony."
His measured voice filled the little chapel with quiet dignity. "Marriage is an honorable estate, instituted by God, signifying unto us the mystical union betwixt Christ and His Church."
Seraphine listened, though much of it blurred beneath the thunder of her own heartbeat.
The vicar turned first towards Damien. "Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?
Wilt thou comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live? "
The chapel became still. Seraphine scarcely breathed.
Damien never looked away from her. His voice, when it came, was low, unwavering, and certain. "I will."
Two simple words. Yet they settled somewhere deep inside her heart. Duty might have brought him here, but he had spoken without hesitation. That mattered.
The vicar smiled gently before turning to her.
"Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?
Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live? "
Seraphine swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. She lifted her chin and met Damien's eyes once more.
"I will," she answered clearly.
The words came easily.
The vicar beckoned them to join hands fully. Damien turned towards her and enclosed both of her hands within his own.
"Repeat after me," the vicar instructed.
Damien spoke first, his gaze never wavering. "I, Damien Harrington, take thee, Seraphine Fairchild, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to cherish, till death us do part."
When it came to her turn, Seraphine repeated the vows steadily. As she spoke each promise, she wondered whether they would one day become more than ceremonial words.
Could affection grow where duty had planted the first seed? Could two stubborn hearts learn one another slowly?
The wedding breakfast transformed Wexford House.
Long mahogany tables stretched across the grand dining hall beneath glittering crystal chandeliers, their polished surfaces laden with silver platters of roasted meats, glazed hams, smoked salmon, fresh breads, delicate pastries, preserved fruits, and towering cakes adorned with spun sugar.
Footmen moved with practiced precision, filling crystal glasses with wine while a quartet played cheerful music near the tall windows overlooking the gardens.
Conversation, laughter, and the clinking of glass filled every corner of the room, giving the usually disciplined house an unfamiliar warmth.
Damien stood near one of the windows with a crystal glass untouched in his hand, watching the guests mingle. Laurent laughed at something Rosaline whispered into his ear, while little Jeremy toddled determinedly between the adults before Caspian scooped him effortlessly into his arms.
Thalia was already directing servants despite it being her brother's wedding breakfast, unable to resist organizing every detail.
Lady Branson chatted animatedly with Lady Kane, while Katherine and Hannah admired the floral arrangements that decorated every table. Lord Everend and Lord Shelding stood together discussing horses as though nothing extraordinary had occurred that morning.
"You appear remarkably cheerful," Benedict observed as he wandered over, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing servant.
Flashing his usual effortless grin, he leaned lazily against the window beside Damien.
"Either marriage agrees with you, or you've perfected the art of looking delighted while being secretly miserable.”
Damien cast him a flat look before taking a measured sip of brandy. "I will not appease your jests on my wedding day."
Benedict laughed outright. "I have no intention of making jests, merely an observation."
Damien ignored the remark, though his attention drifted across the room of its own accord.
Seraphine stood surrounded by Rosaline, Thalia, Lady Branson, and the younger ladies, laughing softly at something Katherine had said.
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching the white silk scarf draped elegantly around her shoulders.
The delicate fabric glowed against her gown, making her seem almost ethereal.
She looked happier than he had expected, and somehow more beautiful than she had standing at the altar scarcely an hour before.
My wife.
The thought settled over him with astonishing force.
She is truly my wife.
Not a hopeful possibility. Not a duty waiting to be fulfilled. Not the lady who had once appeared unexpectedly in his drawing room asking him to marry her. She bore his name now. Duchess of Wexford.
His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer than it ought to have, and an unfamiliar possessiveness stirred deep within him. Every instinct urged him to cross the room, stand beside her, and ensure no one troubled her again. The impulse unsettled him almost as much as it comforted him.
"You are staring," Benedict murmured knowingly, following his friend's gaze. He lifted one brow before hiding a smile behind his champagne glass. "I do believe our formidable Duke has discovered he possesses eyes after all."
Damien remained perfectly still. "I am ensuring my guests are comfortable."
Benedict barked a laugh. "Naturally. I often inspect the same guest every thirty seconds when conducting such important duties."
Before Damien could devise an appropriately cutting reply, another gentleman approached with measured confidence.
"Your Grace," the newcomer said smoothly, offering a courteous bow. "Allow me to congratulate you upon your marriage."
Damien turned automatically, irritation already prickling before recognition struck.
Augustus Bowditch. Lord Pemberley.
The same man whose jaw Damien had very nearly broken at Amberhall after witnessing him attempting to lure Seraphine away from the guests.
His expression cooled instantly.
"You possess remarkable courage," Damien said evenly, setting his glass upon a nearby table. "How dare you show your face beneath my roof?"
Augustus merely smiled, the expression never reaching his calculating eyes.
"Surely a wedding is a time for forgiveness." He adjusted the cuffs of his coat with infuriating composure. "Besides, I wished only to offer congratulations to your charming bride."
Damien stepped closer until scarcely a foot separated them.
"I suggest," he said quietly, "that you reconsider."
Lord Pemberley tilted his head with exaggerated innocence before letting his gaze drift towards Seraphine across the hall. "She looks exquisite," he remarked wistfully. "Though I confess, Your Grace, you ought to take greater care concealing your... activities."
Damien's jaw tightened.
Augustus smiled faintly. "That beautiful white scarf she wears could yet prove your demise."
Ice flooded Damien's veins.
Without another word he seized Lord Pemberley firmly by the arm and steered him through a side doorway into a deserted corridor.
The heavy oak door closed behind them with a decisive click.
The pleasant sounds of celebration disappeared, replaced by thick silence.
Damien spun the man sharply and slammed him back against the paneled wall, fisting a hand in the front of his coat.
"What," Damien asked in a dangerously calm voice, "did you mean by that?"
Augustus swallowed, though whether from genuine fear or careful performance Damien could not determine.
"Y-Your Grace," he stammered, lifting both hands placatingly, "I meant no offence."
Damien tightened his grip until the fabric strained beneath his knuckles. "Choose your next words with extraordinary care."
Lord Pemberley nodded rapidly.
"I merely observed that certain... coincidences may invite speculation. Nothing more."
Damien leaned closer, every word emerging colder than the last.
"If you ever threaten my wife again," he said, his green eyes fixed mercilessly upon the trembling Viscount, "I shall ensure every respectable drawing room in England closes its doors to you.
You will find no invitations, no partners at cards, no investors, no acquaintances willing to acknowledge your existence.
Should that fail to satisfy me, I shall see you removed from polite Society altogether. "
Lord Pemberley’s complexion paled noticeably.
"I understand," he whispered hoarsely, attempting to make a weak smile that failed completely. "I only intended to congratulate Her Grace before taking my leave."
Damien held him another moment before releasing him with visible disgust.
Augustus hastily straightened his coat, rubbing at the creases Damien had left behind. "I shall depart immediately."
Damien watched him disappear down the corridor before remaining motionless himself.
His breathing remained controlled, yet inside, something far less disciplined had awakened.
His gaze drifted instinctively back towards the dining hall where Seraphine still laughed beside her sister, entirely unaware that danger had just brushed the edges of her happiness.
The white scarf rested gracefully around her shoulders exactly as he had asked.
A dreadful realization settled upon him.
The scarf.
Augustus had somehow connected it with his secret. Damien closed his eyes briefly, cursing himself with rare bitterness. He had believed the gift thoughtful. Instead, he had placed a visible thread connecting his wife to a danger that should never have existed for her.
Fool.
He had spent years believing marriage would endanger any woman unfortunate enough to become his wife because of his own emotional failings.
Yet the true danger followed him wherever he went, old enemies, ambitious rivals, bitter men nursing bruised pride.
By marrying Seraphine, he had placed her directly beside him where every threat aimed at the Duke of Wexford might now strike her instead.
His chest tightened painfully. The thought of harm reaching her eclipsed every other fear he had ever known.
He would surrender every estate, every title, every fortune inherited through generations before allowing anyone to lay a hand upon her. If forced to choose between his own life and hers, there would be no decision to make. The answer came with startling certainty.
I would die without hesitation if it meant Seraphine lived.