Page 85 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

Alice’s throat tightened before any sensible thought could arrive to govern it. She was accustomed to this by now, or she should have been.

His gaze found hers and held it for a beat longer than the errand required, and the heat of it settled low and steady beneath her ribs. Then his eyes moved past her to Rachel, and his expression resolved into grounded calm.

“The chapel is ready,” he said. “Whenever you are.”

Rachel looked at Alice. Alice looked at Kenneth.

“We are ready,” Alice said.

Alice had not been inside the chapel before. It occupied the east corner of the grounds, older than the castle itself, its narrow windows admitting light in long pale shafts across a dark oak altar. The air was cool against her bare arms and carried the scent of old stone, and the quiet pressed close around them as they entered, close enough that she felt Kenneth’s sleeve brush her wrist and did not step away from it.

The pews held few enough people that their faces were distinct across the distance. Jonathan sat near the front with one ankle crossed over the other and an expression of careful warmth he would have denied if anyone had been ill-mannered enough to name it.

Lucy, who had arrived the previous afternoon with her parents in a flurry of embraces and questions Alice had not yet finished answering, sat in the second row with her gloved hands folded and her eyes already bright.

Lord and Lady Barlington sat beside their daughter, benevolent, unhurried, long since resigned to the fact that Lucy’s attachments governed their calendar.

The twins sat in the front pew. Freddie wore his good coat and had been persuaded, through a campaign of negotiation that consumed the better part of the morning and required the full measure of Miss Leyton’s diplomatic reserves, to keep his boots on the floor. Charlie sat beside him, hands in his lap, his green eyes cataloging the chapel stone by stone, already composing the drawing he would make of it later.

Kenneth walked Rachel down the aisle.

He moved as he moved when something mattered, unhurried, his arm firm beneath her hand, his pace matching hers. Alice watched from the front pew and felt the whole of it gather behind her ribs: Kenneth, who had been jilted at the altar by this woman not five months ago, was walking her toward another man, steady, unshakeable, certain.

He delivered Rachel to George, who stood at the altar in a coat that was not new but had been brushed and pressed until it yielded everything it had to give. George’s hands were steady. His eyes, when they found Rachel’s, held nothing in reserve.

Kenneth took his seat beside Alice. His knee settled against hers through the layers of wool and silk, and the warmth of it arrived at the base of her spine and spread upward, the low persistent pull she had stopped pretending she could govern. She thought, not for the first time and not for the last, stay.

The ceremony was brief. The curate spoke as someone who had said these words for decades and still believed them. Rachel’s voice was clear. George’s was quiet and direct and carried the weight of a promise made by someone who had nothing to offer except the promise itself.

Freddie maintained his silence for the duration of the vows. Alice considered this privately, and decided to acknowledge the achievement later.

Charlie’s head tilted during the exchange of rings, studying the gesture with careful attention, and when the curate pronounced them husband and wife, he reached over and tugged Alice’s sleeve without looking at her.

“She is smiling,” he said very quietly. “With her whole face.”

Alice looked at Rachel. Indeed, she was.

The wedding breakfast was laid in the long dining room.

Mrs. Finch had arranged the table with the dahlias and copper chrysanthemums Alice had mentioned in passing two days ago. Candles burned despite the morning light filtering through the tall windows, and the whole effect was warm and bright and looked like something more than one pair of hands had shaped.

The food was plentiful and included, at Freddie’s emphatic and loud request, the currant rolls.

“Mr. Mercer.” Freddie had claimed the seat beside George and had been conducting a thorough interrogation since the soup. “Is the school in Dorset very large?”

“Reasonably,” George answered with contained amusement, still learning that mealtimes at Bearmoor operated by their own principles. “I’ve heard the grounds are extensive. There are playing fields.”

“Is there a lake?”

“A pond, I believe.”

“Ponds are inferior to lakes.” Freddie considered this with visible disappointment, then recovered. “Can we visit?”

“You would be most welcome.” George glanced at Kenneth, who inclined his head once. “The cottage is not grand, but there is room.”

“I do not require grand. I require interesting.” Freddie reached for another roll. “Charlie, the school has a pond.”

“I heard.” Charlie was watching Rachel, who sat with one hand resting on the swell of her belly and her head inclined toward Lucy, the two of them deep in a conversation Alice could not hear from her end of the table. “Will the baby like music?”