Before Blanche could fully gather herself, Fanny pressed forward, throwing her arms around her with unrestrained affection.
“You have always taken care of us. Today, it is your turn to be happy.”
As her sister pulled away, Blanche turned to the mirror, taking in the woman reflected before her. For years, she had believed herself small, invisible in ways that had nothing to do with stature. But today, there was quiet strength in her posture, certainty in the way she carried herself.
I am doing the right thing for my family.
Outside, the rhythmic clatter of hooves signaled the arrival of the carriage—its gleaming ebony finish a testament to Heath’s impeccable taste.
Lady Gooldwer wasted no time. “Come, come—no dawdling! This is the event of the season!”
Fanny shot Blanche a conspiratorial smile. “All will go splendidly, Mother. You need not fret over every detail.”
Lady Gooldwer scoffed, adjusting the bejeweled clasp at her throat as she stepped into the carriage. “That is precisely what someone who has never planned a wedding would say.”
Blanche chuckled, settling inside. Through the window, the London streets blurred past, the city alive with the pulse of the day.
Then, as St. George’s Hanover Square loomed before them, a hush fell. Blanche’s fingers curled around the edge of her gown.
A flicker of warmth spread through her chest at the memory of the park and Heath’s touch. The way his lips had lingered against hers. It had unsettled her then, sent a rush of heat through her veins.
And now, standing before the chapel, she could still feel it.
Fanny nudged her gently. “You are flushed, dear sister. Surely the anticipation of being wed is thrilling you.”
Blanche stiffened, hoping the color in her cheeks would fade.
The heavy oak doors swung open with a deliberate grace, revealing the grandeur within. St. George’s Hanover Square rose before her, its vaulted ceilings stretching toward heaven, bathed in the glow of countless chandeliers. The air was thick with quiet anticipation, murmurs fading into reverent stillness as Blanche stepped forward.
And then—her gaze found him.
Heath stood at the end of the aisle, every inch the commanding presence the world knew him to be. Yet, as her eyes met his, something flickered beneath the surface—something unreadable, something undeniably real.
She reached him, the space between them narrowing until the barest brush of his fingers grazed hers.
“I wondered if you might flee, Lady Blanche,” Heath murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “I must admit, I had a speech prepared should you bolt.”
Blanche inhaled, steady despite the storm beneath her ribs.
“Then I am afraid you shall have to save it for another occasion, Your Grace.” A tilt of her lips, a gleam in her eyes—subtle, but unmistakable. “I fear I am quite determined today.”
A quiet hum of amusement traced Heath’s expression before the ceremony began, the world narrowing into this singular moment—this irreversible step forward.
She swallowed, willing herself to steadiness. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it with grace.
She had entered this chapel as Lady Blanche. She would leave it as the Duchess of Woodrey.
Ten
“It appears Mother is the true bride today,” Fanny murmured, her voice laced with quiet mischief.
Blanche bit back a smile, watching as Lady Gooldwer basked in the endless stream of admiration, her elaborate gown a cascade of silk and ornaments.
Compliments surrounded her, praises for the wedding, for the arrangements, and—as Lady Gooldwer was keen to remind everyone—for her most dutiful and well-raised daughter.
“She has endured great hardships, you know,” Fanny continued, adjusting the delicate lace at her wrist. “Arranging such a splendid match. A most taxing experience, I am certain.”
Blanche exhaled softly, casting a glance at her sister, whose eyes shone with unmistakable amusement.
