When his turn came, he said the words with such quiet certainty that Aurelia felt each one settle somewhere within her, not as ornament, not as ceremony, but as promise.
To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse.
It seemed astonishing that a marriage could be born from such unlikely beginnings, from a false courtship, devised for convenience and protection, and from letters exchanged under the cover of strategy. It seemed that love had been there before she dared name it.
When the final blessing was given and the words were spoken that made her Lady Westbridge, a quiet murmur passed throughthe church. Clara burst into tears at once, with very little concern for elegance. Thomas offered his handkerchief with the solemnity of a man presenting a battlefield standard, though his own expression was suspiciously bright.
Owen turned to Aurelia. “My lady.”
The words were so absurdly formal, and yet so tenderly spoken, that Aurelia nearly laughed through the tears gathering in her eyes.
“My lord,” she returned.
His smile, rare and unguarded, belonged wholly to her.
Outside, the morning had grown warmer. The church bells rang above them, scattering sound over the village green and through the lanes beyond. Guests spilled into the churchyard in cheerful clusters, their voices rising with congratulations.
Clara came first, as Aurelia had known she would.
“Oh, Aurelia!” she cried, throwing her arms around her with such enthusiasm that Aurelia was obliged to cling to her bouquet for safety. “You are married. You are truly married. And you looked so beautiful, and Lord Westbridge looked so very solemn, which made it ten times more affecting, and I cried dreadfully. Did you see? Of course you saw. Everyone saw.”
“I did notice some evidence of feeling,” Aurelia smiled.
Thomas approached behind Clara. “Clara has borne the ceremony with admirable courage.”
Clara turned on him at once. “I was not courageous. I was overcome.”
“An even finer accomplishment.”
“You are laughing at me.”
“I would never dare.”
“You would always dare.”
“Yes,” Thomas admitted. “But only because you encourage me.”
Clara’s blush was immediate and delightful. Aurelia saw it, then saw the way Harrow looked at her cousin when Clara glanced away, and warmth unfurled within her. Some happiness, it seemed, was determined to arrive in pairs.
The Dowager Marchioness came next, dignified, elegant, and rather less severe than she had been at the beginning of the season. She kissed Aurelia’s cheek with careful affection.
“My dear,” she surprised her, “it would seem that you have made my son very happy.”
Aurelia glanced toward Owen, who was receiving the congratulations of an elderly gentleman with a patience that was already beginning to look tested.
“I hope so.”
“You have,” the Dowager confirmed. “And I am glad of it.”
She paused, as though the next words required more courage than she cared to show. “I was wrong about you … and about your family. I allowed old whispers to stand in place of judgment, and that was unworthy of me.”
Aurelia stilled, touched more deeply than she had expected to be.
“Thank you,” Aurelia replied softly. “That is … generously said.”
“It is truthfully said,” the Dowager corrected her. “Generosity would have been believing better of you sooner.”
It was not an effusion. It was not poetry. But from her, it was no small thing. Aurelia understood the value of it and was touched.
