Chapter Six #2
Still as a statue, dressed in a black frock coat with a white waistcoat and a dark blue cravat pinned with a simple pearl. His hair was neatly combed for once, though the stubborn wave still curled near his temple. He looked… devastatingly proper.
A storm beneath a mask of restraint.
Lydia met his eyes for the briefest moment as she reached the front of the church.
He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
She returned it.
That was all. No warmth or shared smile. Just the echoing awareness that every eye in the room was watching.
The vicar cleared his throat and opened his prayer book.
He was a thin man in his sixties, with a high, bald dome of a head and tufts of white hair just above each ear.
His black cassock looked too large for his slight frame, sleeves hanging past his wrists as he turned the pages of the book with meticulous care.
A pair of spectacles perched low on his nose, and he peered over them with the solemn gravity of a man who had officiated more noble unions than he cared to remember and suspected this one would end in scandal.
His voice, when it came, was gentle but firm. Anglican perfection.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God…”
As the ceremony began, Lydia’s eyes flicked to the second pew on the right.
Lady Beatrice Montclair Ravenshaw sat like a marble carving: tall, poised, and forbidding.
Her gown was deep plum silk with a stiff, high collar, buttoned all the way to her chin.
Her auburn hair, streaked with silver, was arranged in an elegant coil beneath a black feathered hat, pinned with military precision.
Not a strand out of place. Her gloves were black. Her pearls were flawless.
She looked like a woman attending a funeral rather than a wedding.
Her face, lined but regal, was unreadable. Not a twitch of emotion crossed it, save for the slight narrowing of her eyes when Lydia’s name was spoken aloud by the vicar.
If she had opinions, she kept them behind perfectly still lips.
But Lydia could feel them. Just as surely as she could feel the weight of the veil on her head and the heat of every single stare.
The ceremony unfolded in measured, reverent tones. A ritual of sacred tradition wrapped in cool detachment. The vicar’s voice echoed beneath the high vaulted ceiling of St. George’s, as steady and ancient as the stone columns surrounding them.
He turned to Lydia first.
“Miss Lydia Grantham,” he said, “do you take this man, Nicholas Montclair, Duke of Hawthorne, to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honour, and obey, until death do you part?”
There was the faintest pause. Just long enough for a few heads to lift in the pews.
Lydia drew in a slow, quiet breath.
“I do.”
The vicar turned to Nicholas next.
“Your Grace, do you take this woman, Lydia Grantham, to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold…”
Nicholas's voice was smooth. Low and measured.
“I do.”
His words echoed through the church.
The exchange of rings came next, the gold band slightly too cool against her skin and heavier than expected. His hands were steady as he slid it into place.
When the vows were finished, the vicar raised the prayer book.
“By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
There was a long pause.
And then the vicar said, with grave solemnity, “You may now kiss the bride.”
Nicholas turned to her. Not with the cool indifference she expected, but with something unreadable tightening the line of his jaw.
And then, before she could brace herself, his hand lifted, not to shake hers or touch her shoulder but to cup her cheek with slow, deliberate care.
Lydia’s breath caught, and the moment stretched.
He bent his head and kissed her. Not lightly, not dutifully, but thoroughly.
It was a kiss meant for an audience. Measured but undeniably possessive, timed to suggest devotion, practiced to perfection. His lips were warm, his hand steady against her skin, and for a single, sharp second, her knees nearly forgot their purpose.
When he pulled back, her veil trembled, and a beat of silence swept the church.
Then came the applause. It was loud and convinced.
From somewhere in the crowd, a woman sighed audibly.
Nicholas turned back toward the vicar with the faintest smile, offering Lydia his arm without looking at her again.
Lydia, still reeling from the kiss, hesitated a moment before she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and let herself be led back down the aisle.
Her heart was pounding, but her face was calm.
They moved together as if they had always done so. As if this weren’t a stage, or a mask, or a carefully crafted illusion.
She didn’t look up at him. He didn’t look down at her, but their arms were linked, and the crowd rose to their feet.
Outside, the late spring sunlight was blinding. Carriages lined the curb in elegant order, and the wedding party spilled onto the steps of the church, surrounded by congratulatory murmurs and low bows.
“What was that?” she asked out of the corner of her mouth.
“They wanted a show,” Nicholas said quietly. “So, I gave them one.”
Lydia said nothing, but her pulse fluttered strangely in her throat.
She was a duchess now, and the world as she knew it would never be the same.