Page 24 of The Duchess’ Little Miracle

By every law of nature, taking a step was nothing more than shifting mass from one point to another. Muscles contracted. Weight transferred. Friction held. It was ordinary. Predictable.

So why did it feel impossible?

Seraphina’s heart pumped fast, each beat harder than the last. That kind of pulse belonged to exertion or mortal danger, not to a woman standing motionless in ivory silk. The beautiful gown Euphemia had selected suddenly weighed a hundred pounds, dragging at her shoulders, pinning her to the floor as though the earth itself had decided she wasn’t meant to move.

‘Science does not account for this,’ she thought, her fingers tightening around the small, neat bouquet of winter blooms. ‘There is no mathematical formula for the precise weight of an irrevocable choice.’

The church was nearly empty, yet the echoing silence pressed against her chest. There were no gawking crowds, no rows of gossiping society matriarchs fanning away the chill. The congregation consisted of a tiny, scattered group. Her sisters stood near the pews with anxious, watchful eyes, and two men waiting near the altar.

One was William, standing tall, his spine a rigid line of discipline. Beside him stood Anthony Thorne, the Duke of Glenhaven, a man Seraphina recognized instantly from past ballrooms and recent, tense whispers. Anthony was known as a master of influence, a man who observed the world with lazy, but razor-sharp indulgence. His presence here as William’s sole witness was proof enough of how tightly bound his affairs were with the host of secrets William carried.

Seraphina forced her legs to move, each step an exercise in willpower.

‘You chose this,’ she reminded herself, fighting the dizzying impulse to lift her skirts and run for the street. ‘It is a transaction. A pragmatic partnership to secure your freedom, protect your family, and unravel the mystery of the blackmail.’

Yet as she neared the altar, the reality of what she was doing threatened to overwhelm her. William turned his head to look at her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, his eyes caught hers in that moment and it made her chest tighten, leaving her feeling suffocated.

He was infuriatingly handsome, a fact her mind had logged the first time they met but was now forced to confront up close. His features were almost unnervingly symmetrical. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and dark hair styled away from his face.

But it was his stillness that rattled her most. William looked so infuriatingly calm, so collected, as though he were just... standing.

Is this not affecting him at all?

A prickle of irritation cutting through her rising panic. Was this monumental shift in their existences merely another transaction to be checked off his daily ledger?

As she took those final steps toward him, the pristine of their arrangement began to fracture under the weight of reality.

Is this a mistake? How can this possibly work?

Her mind, usually her greatest refuge, turned traitor, feverishly poking holes in the very plan she had helped construct. What if their assumptions were flawed? What if the blackmail threat wasn’t resolved as quickly as they calculated? Worse still, what if the legal parameters failed them? What if the petition for an annulment was denied, or the evidence required proved impossible to secure without ruining them both?

She would be permanently bound in a marriage that she did not want in the first place, trapped in a charade with no exit strategy. Every contingency she had so neatly mapped out on paper suddenly felt laughably fragile in the shadow of the altar.

The vicar’s voice rose, and Seraphina jerked, forcing herself not to think in that moment. It was no use.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God...”

The rest of the service dissolved into a blur. The ancient Latin phrases, the traditional English vows, the rise and fall of the vicar’s cadence... it all flowed past Seraphina as though she were submerged underwater. She heard her own voice answer when prompted, steady and deceptively calm, a trained response from a mind that refused to break under pressure. She felt the cold band of gold slide onto her finger, a metallic ring marking a fundamental shift in her existence.

Then came the murmur of signatures in the parish register, the scratch of a feather quill against parchment, and it was done. Seraphina, who governed her life by empirical truth, was now, by law and canon, the Duchess of Norwyn.

Even the ride back to the Sterling estate where they stayed in Mayfair was a blur. She had stared out the window, refusing to let her sisters see that she was doubting even her own mind.

Trunks lined the front hall, heavy straps pulled tight around her wardrobe, her writing desk accessories, and padded boxes containing her notebooks and instruments. The house smelled faintly of dried lavender, beeswax, and the winter air blowing in through the open front door where footmen were hauling her luggage toward the waiting carriage.

Inside the drawing room, Seraphina stood near the window, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. Her fingers were ice-cold. Inside her chest, the terrifying panic was still hammering away at her composure.

“Seraphina, you must breathe.”

Leonora’s gentle voice broke through the noise in her head. Seraphina turned, forcing a perfectly composed smile onto her face.

“I am entirely calm,” Seraphina said, her voice rising slightly too quickly. “I am merely reviewing the travel itinerary in my head. The distance to the Norwyn estate, the speed of the carriage, the road conditions⁠—”

“You are smoothing your skirt for the fifth time in two minutes,” Euphemia replied softly, coming closer to lay a warm hand over Seraphina’s trembling fingers. “It is completely acceptable to be terrified, you know. I was terrified when I took my vows, and on the entire journey to the estate. I cannot even recall half of it.”

“I am not terrified,” Seraphina insisted, though the lie tasted hollow.

“It is a life,” Euphemia corrected gently. “You must remember, Seraphina, despite the unusual nature of your agreement with His Grace, society will not view you as a guest in his home. You are the Duchess now. There will be estate accounts to oversee, tenant requests, domestic staff expecting leadership, and social obligations to navigate. You cannot simply retreat into your books and pretend the world outside your study does not exist.”