The chapel at Carden Hall was a miniature cathedral of pale stone and leaded glass, built for ancestors who believed in the spectacle of repentance.
On the morning of her wedding, Rose stepped across its threshold and felt the air close around her, all cold sanctity, and the heavy, drowning perfume of lilies.
The nave was brimming with the titled and the merely ambitious. The ton had arrived in droves, hungry for scandal. Even the local gentry, uninvited but undeterred, craned their necks from the vestibule for a glimpse of the bride, whisked away from a convent.
Rose’s parents somehow conjured her siblings from wherever they had traipsed off to. Her elder brother, Basil, stood with their father in the vestibule, faces locked in stoic masks. Heryounger sister Violet, already taller than Rose and twice as pretty, watched with wide, unblinking eyes from a front pew.
Rose kept her gaze fixed on her father’s shoes as they began the march. The slippers were shined to a military polish, the steps perfectly measured. She could feel the weight of every eye, a physical pressure against her skin.
At the altar, the duke waited. In a cutaway coat of midnight blue, he looked tall and commanding, except for his hands, which were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white as bone.
As Rose reached him, her father leaned in, eyes fixed forward.
“Stand tall,” he muttered.
Then, he surrendered her arm. The duke’s hand was warm and dry, trembling just enough to betray the statue-like mask on his face. Rose nearly flinched at the heat of him.
“You look beautiful,” the duke whispered, the words intended only for her.
Rose turned her face away, her profile carefully neutral. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be charming,” she said softly. “We’ve made a deal, haven’t we?”
“Of course we have.”
As the vicar began the preamble, the duke’s thumb brushed the inside of her elbow through the thin silk of her glove. It was a fleeting, proprietary touch that seemed to draw a boundary around them, isolating them from the hundreds of staring eyes.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the delicate lace of her veil. “You don’t have to be afraid, Rose.”
“I’m not,” she replied, though her pulse hammered a frantic denial against his palm.
“Liar,” he mouthed, a faint, wolfish curl to his mouth.
The vicar turned to the congregation. “If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
The silence that followed was agonizing. Rose caught sight of Lord Aldworth, who offered a wink that felt like a lifeline.
“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?” the vicar intoned.
The duke didn’t hesitate. “I will.”
The words were not a mere response; they were a deliberate force that claimed the air between them.
When it was her turn, Rose found her voice strong and clear. “I will.”
The duke took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers as he began the formal vows. “I, Felix Greycliff, take thee, Rose Newell, to be my wedded wife… to have and to hold from this day forward… to love and to cherish, till death us do part.”
As he spoke, the green in his eyes burned with a hunger she did not yet understand. It was as if his eyes were boring directly into her soul, and yet, she was surprised to find that his gaze was not entirely uncomfortable but almost intoxicating.
His gaze did not waver as she repeated after him, “I, Rose Whiteridge, take thee, Felix Greycliff, to be my wedded husband.”
Once the vows had been exchanged, they moved to the vestry to sign the register. The duke held the pen with a steady hand, and his signature was bold. Rose signed her maiden name for the very last time, her hand only slightly trembling, marking the end of her life as a free woman.
The vicar smiled, closing the book. “I pronounce that they be man and wife together.”
The tension in the chapel snapped like a frayed cord as they turned to face the pews. The duke gripped her hand firmly, guiding her down the aisle. He did not let go, his body acting as a shield against the press of the crowd, the leering jokes, and the frantic congratulations.
