Chapter Eleven
“You don’t have to do this.”
Adrian paused in adjusting his cravat, meeting Henry’s reflection in the gilt-edged mirror of his dressing room.
His cousin lounged against the doorframe with studied casualness, arms crossed over his burgundy waistcoat.
But Adrian had known Henry long enough to recognise when calculation lurked beneath solicitude.
“The ceremony begins in less than an hour.” Adrian returned his attention to the pristine white silk at his throat. “Bit late for cold feet, Henry.”
“You could still walk away, you know,” Henry pushed off the doorframe, moving closer. “It’s not too late. You could send word that the ceremony’s cancelled.”
Adrian’s fingers stilled on the cravat. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because she made a fool of you.” Henry’s voice dropped, intimate and poisonous. “The entire ton will know by week’s end. Do you really want to bind yourself to a woman capable of that level of deception?”
Adrian forced his expression to remain impassive, though his jaw tightened fractionally. In the mirror, he watched Henry’s eyes track the movement with satisfaction.
“The arrangement is mutually beneficial,” Adrian said, each word measured and cold. “Her dowry is substantial. The alliance with Bedford strengthens my position. This union was always to be business, not sentiment.”
“Business built on lies—”
“The matter is settled.” Adrian turned from the mirror, his black eyes meeting Henry’s with glacial finality. “I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Henry’s expression flickered—something sharp and resentful passing across his handsome features before smoothing into acceptance. “One would have thought that you’ve had enough scandal for one lifetime.”
The reference to Lady Nicole hung between them like smoke. Adrian’s fingers curled at his sides, a brief tell he immediately suppressed.
“Your concern is noted,” he said, his tone dismissive. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding to attend.”
Henry inclined his head, but paused at the door. “For what it’s worth, Adrian... I hope she proves worthy of the risk you’re taking.”
The door clicked shut before Adrian could respond—not that he would have. Henry’s words carried the veneer of goodwill, but Adrian recognised manipulation when he heard it. His cousin had always possessed a talent for planting seeds of doubt while maintaining an air of innocence.
Adrian returned to the mirror, studying his reflection with clinical detachment. The man staring back appeared every inch the Duke of Devonshire—impeccably dressed in midnight blue, his cravat tied perfectly, dark chestnut hair arranged with precision.
Today, he would marry a woman who had lied to him from their first meeting. Who had observed him like a specimen under glass, cataloguing his habits and vulnerabilities while pretending to be someone else entirely.
Miss Clara Vale… or rather, Lady Cecilia Bedford.
Even now, fury coiled in his chest at the memory of her wide green eyes, that carefully constructed persona of demure competence she projected. How thoroughly she’d deceived him. How completely he’d been taken in by her performance.
His traitorous mind conjured the feel of her against his study desk, the taste of her lips, the way she’d gasped his name.
The fierce intelligence in her eyes when she’d stood before him in the drawing room, chin raised despite her terror, defending her deception with a conviction that had almost—almost—moved him.
But maybe that is also why you are mad, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind. Because now she knows that you are dishonourable enough to have kissed a servant while engaged to another woman--or at least, someone you thought was another woman.
Adrian's expression remained cold, but doubt pooled in his stomach. Was it possible he was… ashamed?
And also afraid? Because if Miss Vale was actually Lady Cecilia, then that meant he was marrying a woman he had actually let in.
And that put him in a very vulnerable position.
St. George’s Church blazed with candlelight and aristocratic splendour, every pew filled with London’s most prominent families. Adrian stood at the altar with mechanical composure, his posture rigidly correct, acknowledging the Archbishop’s arrival with a curt nod.
The organ swelled, and the congregation rose as one. Adrian didn’t turn. Didn’t allow himself to look.
He heard the rustle of silk against marble, the whispered gasps of appreciation from the assembled ladies.
Felt the charged atmosphere shift as Cecilia walked down the aisle on her father’s arm.
Still, he kept his gaze fixed forward, jaw set, every muscle under iron control.
Only when the Earl of Bedford placed Cecilia’s hand in his did Adrian permit himself to glance down.
His breath caught at the sight before him.
Cream silk draped her soft curves with devastating elegance, lace adorning the sleeves with delicate precision.
Her red hair had been arranged in an elaborate style threaded with pearls that caught the candlelight.
But it was her face that held him—those expressive green eyes wide and luminous, her complexion pale but composed, lips parted as though she might speak.
She looked nothing like the plain lady’s companion who’d read to Aunt Flora, and everything like the woman who’d trembled in his arms.
Heat flared low in his abdomen—a sharp awareness he couldn’t suppress. His fingers tightened fractionally around hers before he caught himself. Her pulse jumped beneath his thumb, rapid and telling—she’d felt it too, the brief betrayal of his composure.
Adrian released her hand immediately, turning to face the Archbishop with renewed coldness. This was a contract. Nothing more.
The ceremony proceeded with flawless precision. Adrian delivered his vows in a voice devoid of inflexion, each word crisp and clear—a contract being ratified, not promises being made. Beside him, Cecilia’s voice trembled slightly on “to have and to hold,” but she didn’t falter.
When the Archbishop pronounced them man and wife, Adrian turned to her with cool formality. The congregation expected a kiss. Adrian pressed his lips to hers briefly—a chaste, proper brush that conveyed nothing save obligation.
They were bound now. For better or worse.
Several minutes later, at the wedding breakfast, Adrian moved through the crowds with practised detachment, accepting congratulations with mechanical courtesy while keeping Cecilia at a careful distance.
He found refuge in Nicholas’s company, along with Cassian, discussing pending investment agreements with the focus of a man drowning in social niceties.
“The Manchester mills are producing at unprecedented rates,” Nicholas was saying, swirling brandy in his crystal glass. “If we consolidate shipping routes through Liverpool—Adrian, what are your thoughts?”
Adrian realised he’d been watching Cecilia across the ballroom. She stood with Charlotte and Lydia, her expression carefully neutral, though her hands twisted in her skirts. Even from this distance, he could read the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself as though braced for attack.
“The Liverpool routes,” Adrian repeated, dragging his attention back. “Yes. Consolidation would reduce costs substantially.”
Cassian’s dark eyes were shrewd, missing nothing. “Perhaps we might discuss this tomorrow, when your mind isn’t quite so... divided.”
“I am perfectly focused.”
“Of course.” Cassian’s tone suggested he believed nothing of the sort. “Though I confess, I’m curious about the rather swift progression of your courtship. One week ago, you’d barely acknowledged your betrothal. Today...”
“Today, I’m married.” Adrian drained his own brandy in one swallow. “No more explanation is required.”
Nicholas exchanged a glance with Cassian—the sort of wordless communication that occurred between men who’d known each other too long. Adrian resented the scrutiny, though he kept his expression impassive.
Then, the orchestra struck up a waltz.
Across the ballroom, Cassian’s wife Charlotte leaned close to Cecilia, gesturing toward Adrian with barely concealed expectation. Society demanded the first dance belong to the newlyweds. To refuse would spark exactly the sort of scandal Adrian had married to avoid.
He set down his glass with perhaps more force than necessary.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. Duty calls.”
Cecilia’s eyes widened as Adrian approached, her composure cracking fractionally. Up close, she looked exhausted beneath the careful smile—shadows under her eyes suggesting sleepless nights.
The shadows under her eyes twisted something uncomfortable in his chest—something he immediately smothered. She’d made her choices; now so would he.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsey that managed to convey both propriety and defiance.
Adrian extended his hand without a word. After a brief hesitation, she placed her gloved fingers in his palm.
The waltz required them to stand indecently close.
Adrian drew her against him with impersonal precision, one hand at her waist, the other clasping hers.
Cecilia’s breath hitched—he felt it against his collar, felt the way her body tensed beneath the silk.
They moved into the first turn with practised ease.
Whatever else might be said of Cecilia Ravensar, she danced beautifully.
“Your Grace,” she began quietly, her Scottish lilt soft and uncertain. “I wondered if we might speak later. Privately. There are things I wish to—”
“No.” Adrian’s voice was barely above a murmur, his lips near her ear in a gesture that must appear intimate to observers. “Smile. We have an audience to convince.”
Her sharp intake of breath told him the words had landed exactly as intended. When he pulled back enough to see her face, her green eyes blazed with hurt and fury both.
“I only wished to explain—”