Page 112 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

Members of the aristocracy sat shoulder to shoulder with politicians, military officers, celebrated hostesses, and distinguished gentlemen whose names carried weight in drawing rooms and Parliament alike. Diamonds flashed beneath the morning light spilling through the tall windows, while silks, satins, military scarlet, and jeweled turbans transformed the congregation into a brilliant tapestry of color and consequence.

Every gaze remained fixed upon the great doors, waiting for her.

They opened.

A hush descended so complete that Darcy heard the soft catch of her own breath.

She stepped inside, and for one suspended moment, it seemed the entire church forgot to breathe with her. Her gown was fashioned from luminous ivory satin that shimmered softly beneath the filtered sunlight. Delicate sprays of seed pearls and tiny blossoms worked in silver thread adorned the fitted bodice, while fine Brussels lace framed the graceful neckline and fell in long, elegant sleeves. The skirts flowed around her in gentle folds, and the modest train glided over the stone floor like moonlight upon still water.

Her dark hair had been gathered into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck, with soft tendrils escaping to caress her cheeks. Lustrous pearls had been woven among the glossy strands. In her hands she carried white roses, lily of the valley, and fragrant myrtle, bound with ivory ribbons that trembled with each measured step toward the altar.

Beautiful.

The word seemed to travel soundlessly through the church before whispers rose in a restrained, admiring wave.

Darcy smiled, lifted her chin, and began the long walk forward.

Jane and Emelia stood together near the front, smiling through their tears, while Sarah beamed with such unconcealed delight that Darcy nearly laughed. Beside them stood Lady Caroline, one gloved hand clasped around Sarah’s and the other resting lightly upon Jane’s arm. Their first meetings had not been without reserve. Caroline had loved her mother too fiercely, and understood too well the pain surrounding her father’s other children, to embrace them without hesitation. Yet caution had yielded to curiosity, curiosity to tenderness, and tenderness to a sisterly devotion none of them had expected to form so swiftly. She had taken Sarah driving, argued over novels with Emelia, and discovered in Jane a quiet wit that could make her laugh until all dignity deserted her. Now she looked upon them not as an obligation born of her father’s betrayal, but as sisters she had chosen to love.

Elizabeth lifted a lace handkerchief to her eyes, her radiant smile drawing a look of tender affection from her duke. Agatha leaned close to whisper something that made Lily press her lips together against an irreverent laugh.

Across the aisle, the Countess of Raine sat in the front pew, composed in pale silver silk. She had not yet met Jane, Emelia, and Sarah formally. Time had softened the sharpest edge of her pain, but no one had hurried her toward an intimacy she was not prepared to grant. Earlier, however, when Caroline entered the church with the three girls, the countess’s gaze had rested upon them for a long, silent moment.

Then the smallest smile had touched her mouth.

It vanished almost at once, but Darcy had seen it. She had understood without needing the countess to speak. It was the part of her that still loved the husband who had wounded her, the part that had chosen to forgive him enough that betrayal would not consume every remaining joy of her life. Perhaps in Jane’s thoughtful eyes, Emelia’s proud carriage, or the sudden brilliance of Sarah’s smile, she had glimpsed the man she loved.

Now the countess met Darcy’s eyes and inclined her head. Warmth softened the proud dignity of her features. It was not affection without reservation, nor did Darcy expect such a miracle after only eight weeks. It was something quieter and perhaps more precious: a beginning freely offered.

Sebastian had courted Darcy with a devotion that had become the admiration of London. Never once had he hurried her. Never once had he compromised her reputation. Every morning call had been properly chaperoned, every drive conducted beneath the watchful eyes of a sister or formidable matron, and every evening engagement attended with a propriety so impeccable that even his closest friends had accused him of becoming tediously respectable.

The ton had watched with endless fascination.

The scandal sheets, once so eager to wound, had discovered an entirely different tale to sell. Week after week they chronicled the romance between a young woman who had risen above every hardship placed before her and the earl who loved her openly, steadfastly, and without apology. Darcy had laughed whenever Sebastian read the most ridiculous passages aloud in tones of grave importance before consigning each sheet to the fire.

None of it had mattered.

Not the gossip.

Not the whispers.

Not even society itself.

Only Sebastian mattered.

There had been long walks through Hyde Park, where conversation lingered as sweetly as the summer air; quiet afternoons among paintings and antiquities, where they debated beauty, desire, and truth until nearby attendants smiled knowingly; and evenings at the theatre when Darcy was often too captivated by the handsome gentleman seated beside her to remember anything that had occurred upon the stage.

And on those precious nights when, beneath the protection of darkness, she slipped into Aphrodite to meet him, every stolen embrace and lingering kiss reminded her that desire, when joined with love, possessed a sweetness richer than anything she had once imagined.

Those memories settled warmly within her as her gaze finally found him.

Sebastian.

He stood before the altar in impeccably tailored black, his snowy cravat tied with effortless perfection, his broad shoulders and commanding height making him appear every inch the nobleman he had been born to become.

The expression upon his face stole her breath and stung her eyes with tears.

Wonder.