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For a man she had never met, allowing the children to participate in today's ceremony struck Eliza as an act of genuine thoughtfulness, and hope had quietly settled in her heart.

As a result, the four orphaned children were now being dressed in their little gowns, each lovingly hand-sewn by Mrs Didley from pearl-white linen she had found at the market.

Meanwhile, Eliza had turned their outdoor lessons into treasure hunts. Together they searched the hedgerows and village lanes for flowers worthy of a bride's bouquet. Their efforts had produced something delightfully imperfect: a single pale pink rose picked by little Alice, two fern fronds discovered by Henry, a stem of Queen Anne's lace found by Cora, and two delicate sprays of waxflower chosen by Mary.

It was enough.

That was the extent of her wedding preparations.

She rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her gown. Fashioned from smooth white silk, its beauty lay in its simplicity rather than ornamentation. The high-waisted bodice gathered neatly beneath a square neckline, softened by modest puffed sleeves resting gently upon her shoulders. From beneath the bust, the skirt fell in graceful folds before extending into a modest train.

The only jewellery she wore was a small silver locket resting against the hollow of her throat. It had belonged to her mother and was the only tangible piece of her she possessed. Eliza gently closed her fingers around it for a moment before letting it fall back against the silk.

There was no extravagance worn by society brides.

A wave of panic tightened her chest.

Would this be a gown fit for a Duchess?

Her fingertips drifted over the cool fabric.

Then again, she was not marrying in Mayfair before the ton. She was leaving a village of scarcely eight hundred souls for a man she had never met.

The dress was hers, and she would wear it with pride. The distant rumble of carriage wheels upon the cobbled lane drew her from her thoughts.

Her fingers instinctively tightened around the stems of her bouquet.

It was time. Alice ran forward and wrapped both arms around Eliza's skirts.

"I don't want to go," she wailed, and Eliza ran her fingers through the four-year-old's hair in an attempt to soothe her.

Mrs Didley opened the cottage door before falling still.

Outside stood two immense coal-dark carriages, each drawn by magnificent black horses whose polished harnesses gleamed in the morning light. Upon each carriage door was embossed the unmistakable crest from the letters they had received: the House of Buckingham.

For a moment, Mrs Didley stared.

Then, quietly gathering herself, she ushered Henry, Mary, Cora, and little Alice towards the first carriage. Mrs Didley settled them into their seats, and Eliza was unsurprised by the chorus of gentle reprimands that followed, for they had never ridden in a carriage before.

Eliza remained in the doorway.

She looked back into the little cottage one last time—the faded hearth, the worn wooden dinner table, the staircase she had climbed a thousand times.

This had been her home.

She caught Mrs Didley's eye and received only the smallest of smiles before the carriage door closed upon the children and departed. Eliza realised, with sudden certainty, that this would be the last time she ever left Windleham's orphanage as its daughter.

The second carriage rolled silently into place.

A sharply dressed gentleman opened its door with silver threaded through his dark hair. His face revealed nothing. No welcoming smile. No reassuring words. Only a slight inclination of his head as he removed his top hat.

The carriage awaited.

Beside her, Mr Didley adjusted the collar of his Sunday clerical coat before offering her his arm.

"This..." His voice faltered.

"This was not how I imagined your wedding day, Eliza."