His heart stilled.
Where was she?
He pulled out his pocket watch. He wasn’t early, nor late. No, he was perfectly on time. Panic surged in his chest. Had she changed her mind?
A voice broke through his spiraling thoughts.
“She’ll come,” Alcott said calmly, appearing at his side.
Evander swallowed. “And if she doesn’t?”
“Then you recover and move on.”
He turned towards his friend. “You make it sound simple. I practically begged the Archbishop of Canterbury for a special license.”
Alcott was about to respond when the door opened with a gentle creak.
And there she was.
Olivia stood in the doorway, bathed in soft light, wearing a simple pink gown embroidered with delicate white flowers. Her golden hair was swept into an elegant coiffure, two soft curls framing her face. But it was her expression that undid him—serene, composed, and utterly radiant.
And in that moment, he knew, without a doubt, that Olivia was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Alcott bumped his shoulder. “You’re staring.”
He didn’t care.
Crossing the nave in long strides, Evander stopped before her. “You came.”
She smiled up at him. “I told you I would.”
“I know,” he said, his voice thick. “But Alcott had his doubts.”
“Not true,” came the retort from behind him. “I merely encouraged him to run while he still had the chance.”
Olivia tilted her head. “Why would you run?”
“Alcott has a well-documented aversion to matrimony,” Evander said dryly.
“Ah,” she said. “That explains everything.”
The chapel door opened once more, and in walked Wilton, Dosia, and the Dowager Lady Wilton. Wilton spread his arms dramatically.
“Shall we make this wedding official?”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Please ignore my brother. He’s far too excited.”
“We all are,” the dowager interjected.
As they stood near the chapel’s entrance, Olivia cast a glance over her shoulder. “Is no one from your family here?”
Evander inhaled through his nose, not quite able to suppress the flicker of tension in his brow. “My father is… not enthusiasticabout our union, to put it mildly. But my mother—” He gave a faint, wistful smile. “My mother will be overjoyed once she hears.”
Understanding flashed in Olivia’s gaze. “Shall we get married, then?”
He offered his arm. “I am ready, if you are.”
Before she could respond, a tall, slightly stooped man in worn clerical robes approached them, spectacles perched on the edge of his nose. “Good morning,” he said, his voice crisp but warm. “I am Reverend Appleton, vicar of this parish. I understand there is to be a wedding?”
