“Ah,” he said, his face brightening. “Now this is worth the journey.”
The Duke followed his gaze briefly, seemingly anticipating the cause.
Eleanor had reached the rest of those gathered near the front, her pale hair and bright eyes immediately drawing Lord Harrow’s attention in the way she always did to men. He turned without hesitation, as if the ceremony were optional.
“You look as though you are regretting your life choices,” he said pleasantly as he approached her. “Perhaps I might be a better one for you?”
Eleanor grinned at him, and Anne was once again grateful for the distraction.
“Alas, I am happily married,” she quipped. “You shall have to find another young lady.”
“That is the first disappointing thing I have heard all morning,” Lord Harrow groaned.
“Give it time,” she said coolly.
Anne could not believe how much her friend had changed, and she admired her for it. She wished to be outspoken in the same way, although she knew it would never happen for her. She was not the sort of lady people instantly thought was beautiful.
At last, a different kind of silence settled over the space, one that came from instinct. Conversations died down, and the guests’ attention turned to her.
The Duke did not move. He simply watched her walk down the aisle toward him. Lord Harrow stopped speaking mid-sentence.
Anne drew to a halt in front of the Duke, and for a brief moment, neither of them spoke. The space between them felt narrower than it should have, though nothing about it was improper. Ithad happened before, and she wished she knew quite why that was.
The Duke did not seem to be standing in a chapel at all, as though seeing her there altered something he had not accounted for. She held his gaze, unable to look away.
Reverend Collins cleared his throat and began the ceremony, his voice steady as though it was just another ordinary wedding. He spoke of vows and promises, as he undoubtedly did every week, but much of it faded into the background rather than landing with clarity.
The Duke answered when required. Anne did the same. Neither looked at the congregation, and neither looked away from the other for long. When the vows were finally said, there was a brief pause that felt heavier than anything spoken.
Reverend Collins hesitated, then continued, his voice slightly tighter than before. It seemed that he realized he was speaking to a duke, and now a duchess too.
“You may kiss the bride.”
The guests shifted, anticipation thick in the air.
Anne’s expectation was immediate. She assumed distance, formality, something performed for obligation rather than anything with a real meaning. Her gaze remained steady, thoughher body betrayed the faintest anticipation of restraint as her chest rose and fell.
Dorian did not move at once, and the pause was brief but noticeable. Then he stepped closer, just close enough that the space between them disappeared entirely.
His hand lifted and hovered briefly near her face before cupping it with unexpected care, his fingers steady against her cheek as though testing whether she would move away.
She did not.
Something in him softened—not outwardly, but in a way that she felt and could not deny.
Then he kissed her.
It was brief, controlled, and proper in the sense that no rule was broken and no witness could object, but it was not empty. It carried something restrained, something that Anne could not explain.
When he pulled back, the distance between them returned too quickly. Anne did not move immediately, and neither did he.
Applause broke through the chapel, and the Duke leaned slightly closer so only she could hear him.
“For a practical arrangement,” he murmured, “that felt remarkably unwise.”
CHAPTER 8
The first week of marriage was far easier than Dorian had expected.
