Chapter 28 #2
“Oh, my dear.” Philippa pressed a lace handkerchief to her eyes, giving up any pretence of composure as she stepped closer to adjust the veil. “My nephew is the luckiest man in England. In the world. He does not deserve you.”
“He saved my life.” Nell turned from the mirror and took Philippa’s hands in hers, squeezing gently. “He saved my children. I think that earns him a little luck.”
“He would say you saved him right back.” Philippa squeezed her fingers in return. “And he would be right.”
Oliver appeared in the doorway, dressed in his first proper suit — dark blue wool with a cream waistcoat, his dark hair combed back from his face. He looked uncomfortable and proud, his shoulders squared as he attempted to appear impossibly grown up. Nell’s eyes burned at the sight of him.
“The carriage is ready.” A sudden, jagged catch in his throat betrayed him as he adjusted the fit of his new waistcoat, the sound hovering between boy and man. “Are you — are you ready?”
Nell crossed to him and cupped his face in her hands. “Ready to walk me down the aisle?”
“Ready.” He covered her hands with his own — his palms startlingly large and warm against her skin — and gave a single, solemn nod. “Let us go get you married.”
The carriage ride through the village felt like a dream.
Snow had blanketed everything in white, turning the familiar streets into something magical and strange.
Villagers had come out despite the cold to watch the procession pass, calling out blessings and throwing dried flowers and winter berries that scattered across the snow like crimson confetti.
The church rose before them, its ancient stone walls draped in holly and winter roses, candles glowing warm in every window. Half the ton had come, it seemed — carriages lined the lane while footmen stamped their feet against the cold and fine ladies in furs hurried inside.
Some had come to celebrate. Others had come to gawk and whisper behind their fans about the baker who had caught a viscount. Let them all see. Let them witness what love looked like when it refused to be defeated.
Nell waited in the vestibule while the guests settled, Oliver standing solid and steady at her side. Through the closed doors she could hear the murmur of the crowd, the rustle of silk, the first strains of music.
The doors swung open.
Lily went first, scattering rose petals with the serious concentration of a child performing a holy task, her brow furrowed as she ensured the path was perfect.
Then Nell and Oliver stepped through the doorway, and the world fell away.
She saw Dominic at the altar, and nothing else existed.
He stood tall and straight in a dark blue coat and cream waistcoat, his dark hair brushed back from his face.
The candlelight caught the silver of the scar on his jaw, and his grey eyes fixed on her with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs.
His friend, Alistair, stood beside him, grinning broadly as he nudged Dominic’s arm.
Catherine dabbed at her eyes in the front pew.
Philippa was already openly weeping. Near the back, Edmund stood with his arms crossed, watching with a quiet, resigned peace.
None of it registered beyond a faint awareness. There was only Dominic.
The walk down the aisle felt endless. The walk down the aisle was over too soon.
Oliver placed her hand in Dominic’s, his small fingers steady as they transferred her from son to husband. “Take care of her.” The request fractured, catching on a wave of emotion he was fighting to contain.
“Always.” Dominic’s hand closed around hers, warm and strong. He met Oliver’s eyes with the solemnity of a soldier’s vow and gave a short, firm nod. “I swear it.”
Oliver stepped back to stand beside his sister. His hand found Lily’s, and they watched together — the children Nell had borne and raised and protected, witnessing their mother pledge herself to a man who had earned their trust with blood and bullet and promise.
The vicar began to speak, the familiar words of the marriage service washing over Nell like music.
The vicar turned to Dominic, prayer book open in his weathered hands. “Do you, Dominic James Westmore, Viscount Westmore, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” Dominic spoke without a trace of doubt, the words ringing through the rafters as he squeezed her fingers.
The vicar shifted his attention to her, his expression softening. “And do you, Eleanor Whitmore, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.” She lifted her chin and held his gaze without hesitation. The gold band slid onto her finger beside the ruby, a perfect circle that completed the promise.
The vicar raised his hands in a small gesture of blessing. “You may kiss the bride.”
Dominic leaned in, one hand cradling her face, the other settling at the small of her back. “Finally.” He pressed the word against her lips so softly that only she could feel it.
Their kiss deepened, full of promise and relief. She pressed into him, her hands fisting in the lapels of his coat, and when they parted the church erupted in cheers and applause. Lily’s delighted squeal of “They are married!” bounced off the rafters.
Nell laughed through tears, and Dominic laughed too, pulling her against him and holding her the way a man holds something he never intends to let go.
He pressed a warm kiss into her hair, murmuring her name against the strands.
She tipped her head back to look at him. “Take me home.”
Bramwell Park had transformed into a vision of light and colour.
Flowers and candles filled every corner, casting warm glows that chased away the grey of winter.
Musicians played in the gallery, the strains of violin and pianoforte drifting through the halls.
Nell moved through the crowd in a happy daze, shaking hands and accepting congratulations, but her hand never left Dominic’s.
He stayed close, fingers threaded tightly through hers, shadowing her with a steady, protective presence.
When the crowd thinned for a moment, he leaned toward her, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the back of her hand.
She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, inhaling the scent of sandalwood.
He pressed a teasing hand lower on her back, leaning close until she felt the warmth of his chest against her. Her cheeks flamed, and he laughed quietly — a low, delighted sound that made her heart ache.
Daphne rose from the head table, a glass of champagne held high in her good hand. The splinted wrist rested in her lap, but her eyes were clear and fierce and bright. Silence fell over the room.
“A toast.” She gestured toward the couple with the glass.
“To the woman who survived everything life threw at her and found love anyway. To Nell — Lady Westmore now — the bravest person I know. And to Lord Westmore, who had the good sense to recognise a treasure when he found one.” She winked, mischief sparkling.
“May you have the happiness you deserve. Both of you. Always.”
Alistair Thorne, the Marquess of Waverly, was watching Daphne with an expression that made Nell’s breath catch.
There was something sharp and hungry in his gaze, a look that felt entirely too familiar.
He was the only son of the Duke of Patterson and the sole heir to one of England’s oldest titles, yet he watched Daphne Wells the way a starving man watches a locked kitchen.
“Your friend is staring at Daphne.” Nell murmured the words to Dominic, nodding subtly in Alistair’s direction.
“Is he?” Dominic glanced over, and a smirk curved his lips as he adjusted his cuff. “They have been sniping at each other all day. She called him an arrogant peacock with more hair than sense. He called her a sharp-tongued menace who would not know a compliment if it bit her.”
“That sounds like trouble.” Nell leaned her shoulder into his.
“That sounds like the beginning of something.” His smirk widened into a grin as he took a long draught from his glass. “I recognise the signs.”
Indeed, Alistair was approaching Daphne now, cutting through the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who had never been told no in his life.
Daphne saw him coming and stiffened, her chin lifting in that stubborn way Nell knew so well.
Alistair said something — Nell could not hear what — but Daphne’s cheeks flushed red with anger.
She snapped something back, sharp enough to make nearby guests wince, and Alistair threw his head back and laughed.
Daphne turned on her heel and stalked away, her silk skirts swishing with every furious step.
Alistair watched her go with an expression Nell recognised all too well.
It was the same look Dominic had worn in those early days, when he had been fighting his attraction with every stubborn bone in his body.
Poor Daphne had no idea what was coming.
The children had been swept up by a group of well-wishers.
Lily basked in the attention like a flower turning toward the sun, chattering happily about her flower-girl duties and displaying her pink ribbons to anyone who would listen.
Oliver stood nearby, watchful as always, but there was a lightness to his shoulders that had not been there before.
He looked like a boy at last — not a protector, but a nine-year-old in a new suit eating cake and trying not to get cream on his waistcoat.
Philippa was weeping into her handkerchief again, declaring to anyone within earshot that this was the happiest day of her life and that she had always known Dominic would find someone worthy.
Edmund found them near the windows, a glass of champagne in hand and a genuine smile softening his features. “Congratulations.” He clasped Dominic’s hand firmly, then turned to Nell with warmth in his brown eyes. “Both of you. I have never seen two people more deserving of happiness.”
“Thank you, Edmund.” Nell squeezed his arm. “For everything. You were there when we needed you most.”
“That is what friends do.” He raised his glass. “To the future. May it be kinder than the past.”
They drank together, and for a moment the three of them stood in comfortable silence, watching the snow fall soft against the windows. The candlelight caught Edmund’s face, and Nell thought he looked lighter than she had ever seen him — like some old weight had finally begun to lift.
“Now.” Edmund set down his glass and gestured toward the dance floor. “I believe the music is starting, and I would very much like to see Lord Westmore attempt a waltz without stepping on his bride’s feet.”
Dominic laughed. “I will have you know my footwork is impeccable.”
“We shall see.” Edmund’s eyes crinkled. “We shall see.”
The evening deepened and the candles burned low. The children were drooping with exhaustion, and Martha appeared to shepherd them off to the nursery wing.
“Be good for Martha.” Nell crouched to kiss them both, smoothing Lily’s wild curls and straightening Oliver’s already crooked cravat.
“Have fun!” Lily giggled, poking her brother in the ribs. Oliver rolled his eyes with all the world-weary exasperation of a boy twice his age.
But then Oliver hugged her. Tight and fierce, his thin arms wrapped around her neck. He pressed his face into her shoulder for just a moment before pulling back.
“I am glad you are happy, Mama.” He said it quietly, just for her. “You deserve it.”
Then they were gone, Martha herding them up the stairs with promises of bedtime story. Nell stood in the emptying ballroom with tears on her lashes, and arms wrapped around her from behind. Dominic pulled her back against his chest, his chin resting on top of her head.
“Ready to go upstairs, Lady Westmore?” He pressed the question against the curve of her ear, the words a low vibration in his chest.
She turned in his arms and looped her hands around his neck. “I thought you would never ask.”