Dorothy shot him a sharp look.
She was standing outside the chapel, the crisp morning air brushing against her cheeks, and she could feel the nerves fluttering in her stomach like restless birds. She wore a gown of deep crimson silk, the fabric catching the light in subtle, molten waves. The bodice was fitted, delicately embroidered with gold thread along the neckline and cuffs, accentuating the elegance of her slender waist. The sleeves puffed slightly at the shoulders before tapering gracefully to her wrists, where tiny pearl buttons held them fast. A sweeping skirt fell in soft folds to the ground, its hem brushing the tips of her polished shoes, and a delicate train pooled gently behind her. Her hair was arranged in an intricate style, curls pinned back with jeweled combs, and a slender veil of ivory tulle framed her face, softening her sharp features.
From head to toe, she was the picture of refinement and grace, the daughter of a Viscount poised to become the wife of a foreign duke.
In a few seconds, she would be ushered down the aisle, and the thought made her heart skip a beat. She was to marry the Duke of Walford, a man she did not know, and her mind was a tempest of curiosity and apprehension.
“Why were you so insistent that I marry Lord Hensley, anyway?” she questioned, watching the chapel doors closely. “You knew the sort of man he is. Surely you must have known it.”
Howard looked at her for a short moment. Then he turned his gaze away toward the chapel steps, as though searching for words among the stone and morning light. “It is true,” he admitted finally, “that my concern for my health, my age, made me anxious to see you settled. But that was not the whole reason.”
Dorothy frowned. “Then what was the reason, Papa?”
He drew a steadying breath. “Lord Hensley is my good friend. I know him. I know his honor, his character, his…his ways of managing those he is bound to protect. I trusted that he would treat you with respect, care, and...” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “...and diligence. Regardless of what society may whisper, or the rumors that may follow him, he is not a man who would cross me, or wrong you.”
Dorothy’s cheeks flushed, a mixture of indignation and disbelief. “But that is not right. You do not know the things he said to me. He might save face in front of you, but...he is not a good man.”
Howard’s eyes softened briefly as he regarded her. “At least now, you will be a duchess. You will marry a duke. A man of rank, of immense wealth. Surely that is something to be grateful for.”
Dorothy opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, the chapel door swung open with a soft creak, and a hush seemed to fall over the morning air.
Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall.
Dorothy repeated to herself, each step a careful negotiation with the trembling in her legs. The chapel felt impossibly long, the polished floor gleaming beneath her feet, the murmurs of the congregation fading into a distant hum. She lifted her gaze, and there he was, standing at the front of the altar, impossibly still, impossibly composed, and yet every bit as commanding as she had imagined.
Her heart lurched at the sight of him. The dark coat he wore was perfectly tailored, the fabric catching the light in subtle waves, and the gold embroidery along the cuffs and collar lent him an almost regal air. His cravat was white as snow, sharp and precise, and it drew attention to the strong line of his jaw and the set of his mouth. But it was his eyes that caught her most. Dark, steady, and thoughtful, watching her approach.
She swallowed hard, adjusting her grip on the folds of her crimson gown, and felt a shiver run down her spine, not from the cold, but from the impossible mixture of awe and fear that radiated from the man before her. She could not look away; every inch of her attention was fixed on him.
Magnus’s presence made the chapel feel smaller, closer, and yet entirely unreachable. The more she walked, the more she felt that strange pull, a gravity she could neither resist nor fully understand.
Do not fall.
She told herself again.
Dorothy’s breath caught as she reached the top of the aisle. She paused and raised her gaze to meet Magnus’s. For a heartbeat, they simply stood like that, the chapel hushed around them, the world narrowing to the space between them.
Then, almost imperceptibly, she felt his eyes travel over her, from the delicate sweep of her neckline to the curve of her shoulders, the folds of her gown, the small, trembling hands that clutched it. There was something deliberate in the way he observed her, a calculating attentiveness that made her pulse quicken. She could not read his expression, could not tell what he thought or felt, and that uncertainty thrilled and unnerved her all at once.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a haze, each vow and whispered promise folding into the next without trulyregistering. The murmur of the congregation, the gentle intonation of the officiant, all blended into a blur around her. Dorothy could barely remember the words she had spoken, or the ones Magnus had said in return.
All she knew, all she could feel, was that this was her wedding day. The beautiful, surreal ceremony was her wedding day. Her one-in-a-lifetime moment, and yet, impossibly, she did not feel entirely present. Her mind spun with a thousand thoughts, each more distracting than the last, leaving her suspended between awe, excitement, and a strange, surreal disbelief that this day, this life-altering day, was actually happening.
“Dorothy, as duchess, your first and foremost duty is the management of the household. It is no small task. You will oversee a great number of servants, from the housekeepers to the kitchen staff, the gardeners to the stable hands. It is your charge to ensure that all runs smoothly, meals are served promptly, guests are attended to, and the estate is kept in impeccable order.”
The morning light filtered softly through the tall sash windows, casting a gentle glow over the pale silk of Dorothy’s wedding gown. She sat by the window in what had once been her childhood room, the familiar walls now feeling strange and distant, as if the very air whispered of the life she was leaving behind.
Her sisters, Emma and Cecilia, sat close beside her, their expressions a mix of warmth and earnestness.
“You are no longer Dorothy Lockhart, I’m afraid,” Cecilia added. “You are now Dorothy Fitzgerald, Duchess of Walford.”
Emma nodded, patting her on the arm. “Dorothy, you must learn to delegate wisely, knowing whom to trust with what and how to address concerns without ever losing your composure. Your presence alone sets the tone for the entire household.”
Emma’s eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. “Also, do not think your days will be empty of social obligations. Balls, dinners, and countless gatherings will fill your calendar. Your role as hostess is vital. You must appear gracious, attentive, and ever poised. Remember, every gesture, every word spoken is a reflection of the family’s honor. Be cautious.”
Cecilia’s tone softened. “Alongside all this, there is the matter of charity and community. It will fall upon you to champion causes. Whether it be aiding the villagers on the estate or supporting the local church. Your benevolence will not only ease many burdens but also strengthen your family’s standing in society.”
Dorothy’s gaze drifted to the delicate lace at her wrist. “I got married today,” she said quietly, almost to herself.
