Her vows were spoken in a trembling voice, one that grew stronger as she found her courage somewhere between each word.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
The phrase startled her. So final. So soon.
Alasdair took her hand. He bent over her face and pressed his lips to hers—slow, deliberate, reverent.
She felt her throat close. The gesture felt so… undeserved. So gentle.
She had been wed.
It was done.
Everyone had expected Elizabeth Brighton to make a good match. She was beautiful, demure, came from a reputable family.
And yet here she stood, wrapped in congratulations from sisters who clung to her like she might disappear.
“Oh, dearest sister. Congratulations,” Marianne murmured, pulling her into a warm embrace. “Don’t let Lady Grisham poison this for you. You made a good match.”
Elizabeth wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t a love match, not the kind young girls whispered about behind fans. It was a match born of necessity. A lifeline offered and accepted. Not because of love, but because neither of them could bear to let the other sink.
She glanced around. Could it have been worse? Absolutely. She had spoken to enough indifferent or openly cruel men to know how easily she might have ended up with someone who saw her only as a decorative vessel.
“Will you be going to Scotland now, Lizzie?” Daphne asked, tugging on her sleeve and blinking back tears.
Elizabeth knelt beside her, kissing her cheek. “No, darling. The duke has a home here in London and Redmoor. It’s close. I’ll visit often.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Daphne sniffled, wrapping her arms around her neck.
Nearby, Victoria gave Alasdair a withering glare and crossed her arms.
“If he hurts you,” she declared, “I will write to everyone who might help me ruin him. I will start a campaign.”
Alasdair’s eyebrows shot up, then he laughed. “I’ll do me best to avoid such a fate, lass. I’ve made me vows and I meant them.”
Wilhelmina stepped forward, nodding. “We’ll be watching you, Your Grace. We know how quickly a marriage can go wrong.”
“I understand,” he said solemnly.
Marianne added, “We all know the nature of this arrangement. But whether it began with rescue or not, what matters now is what you make of it.”
“Not forced, nae,” Alasdair said, sounding genuinely affronted. “I offered for her. Because I wanted to.”
Dominic, Duke of Oakmere, gave a nod that made Elizabeth’s chest warm. “She’s more than just a quiet young lady in society, Redmoor. She’s beloved. I trust you won’t forget that.”
“I willnae,” Alasdair promised. “I made the offer because I ken her. Not just her pretty face, but the lass herself.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard. That voice, that truth, settled somewhere low in her stomach.
And then, of course, Lady Grisham stepped forward.
“I suppose I must offer my congratulations to the Duke and Duchess of Redmoor,” she said, her tone glacial.
“If you can manage it, Lady Grisham,” Elizabeth replied. She kept her voice even, but steel glinted beneath it.
Her stepmother’s nostrils flared. “I am not surprised that you chose the worst possible match. Your foolishness never changes.”
Elizabeth turned to face her. Her sisters stood at her back. She no longer needed to cower.