Page 82 of How Not to Marry a Duke

"I now pronounce you man and wife," he said firmly, before either of them could interrupt again. "You may—well. You already have. Repeatedly."

The congregation erupted.

Charlotte cheered with the enthusiasm of a child who had been promised she could throw rose petals and had been waiting for this moment with increasing impatience. James joined in a beat later, his contribution more of a general shriek than anything intelligible. Charles, bewildered but determined not to be left out, added his own voice to the chaos.

Hope, who had been stationed in the second pew with strict instructions to remain dignified, abandoned her post entirely and launched herself at Florinda's skirts with the battle cry of a child who had been dignified quite long enough.

"You are a duchess now!" she announced, clinging to the white muslin with sticky fingers that suggested someone had given her sweets to ensure good behaviour. "Marmalade says duchesses get to do whatever they want!"

"Marmalade is not an authority on aristocratic privilege," Margot said, but her voice was thick with tears and she made no move to dislodge her daughter from Florinda's gown.

Lord Raventhorn stood beside her, one arm wrapped around her waist, his face caught between laughter and tenderness. His eyes met Frederick's across the chaos, and he inclined his head—a small gesture, barely perceptible, but unmistakably an acknowledgment.

Take care of her, that nod seemed to say. She is ours, and now she is yours, and if you hurt her I shall find architectural ways to make your life extremely uncomfortable.

Frederick nodded back. He understood. He would have expected nothing less.

"Are you crying?"

Lord Raventhorn's voice cut through the chaos, low enough to be private despite the celebration erupting around them. Frederick turned to find him watching Margot, whose face was wet with tears she was making no effort to hide.

"Absolutely not." Margot's voice emerged somewhat strangled. She pressed a handkerchief to her eyes with the air of a woman who had been caught in an undignified act and refused to admit it. "There is dust in this church."

"There is no dust in this church. I watched the vicar's wife sweep it myself."

"Then I am crying." She lowered the handkerchief and met his eyes with the kind of fierce dignity that Frederick had come to associate with the Ashbourne women. "Do not tell anyone."

"I would not dream of it."

"I mean it. If you breathe a word⁠—"

"Your reputation for stoic practicality shall remain entirely intact." He caught her hand, raised it to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles that lingered just long enough to make her blush. "Though I confess I find your tears rather becoming."

"You are impossible."

"I learned from your daughters."

The Dowager intercepted him before he could reach Florinda.

"Frederick." Her voice carried the particular tone that had made him straighten his spine reflexively since childhood. "A word."

"Mother." He stopped, aware that Florinda was watching from across the church, her smile fading into caution. "If you intend to voice objections, I should warn you⁠—"

"I do not intend to voice objections." The Dowager's gaze moved past him to Florinda, assessing in the way that had made debutantes tremble for three decades. "I intend to offer congratulations."

Frederick blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Do not make me repeat myself; it was difficult enough the first time." She drew herself up with the rigid dignity that had never, in his memory, wavered. "Your wife—" The word emerged stiff, as though she were trying it on for size. "Your wife has good family, good breeding, and apparently the fortitude to marry a man who reads his correspondence aloud during wedding ceremonies. She shall do."

"She shall... do."

"Do not fish for compliments, Frederick; it is unbecoming in a duke." But her eyes had softened—a crack in the ice so small he might have imagined it, except that he had spent a lifetime learning to read her. "She makes you laugh. I told you once that it was more than I ever had." A pause. "I find I meant it more than I realised."

Frederick's throat tightened. "Mother⁠—"

"We have matters to discuss. Arrangements to be made." Her gaze moved briefly toward Caroline, who was being embraced by Florinda with the careful gentleness one offered to fragile things. "But that can wait. Tonight is for joy." The word emerged as though it cost her. "Tomorrow is for practicalities."

She swept toward the door, and Frederick found himself face to face with his sister.