This was irrevocable. The moment she spoke those vows, she would belong to him in law and name. She would become the Duchess of Blackmere, bound to a man who had promised her everything except anything that mattered.
She thought of Marianne. Somewhere out there, her closest friend had given up her child to protect it. Had trusted Penelope with this impossible burden. And Penelope had failed already, hadn’t she? Failed to protect the baby’s reputation, failed to shield it from scandal, failed to do anything except tumble headlong into this disaster.
“Miss Hartwell?”
The vicar’s prompt carried concern now.
Alastair’s head turned toward her. Waiting. Everyone was waiting.
“I do,” Penelope whispered.
Her mother’s handkerchief pressed against her face. Her father’s hand found Penelope’s shoulder and squeezed once.
The vicar turned to Alastair. Penelope found herself watching the man beside her. His profile was sharp in the chapel’s light. He swallowed visibly. His breathing came too controlled, too measured.
“I do.”
The vicar continued, clearly eager to finish.
“Then by the power vested in me by the Church of England, I now pronounce you man and wife.”
The words landed heavy. Penelope felt them in her bones.
“You may kiss the bride.”
The vicar stepped back.
Alastair turned to face her fully for the first time.
Penelope looked up at him.
He moved closer with grim determination. His hand lifted, hovering near her waist without touching. Asking permission without words.
The chapel had gone quiet.
Penelope tried to prepare herself. It was only a kiss. A formality. A brief press of lips that meant nothing beyond social convention.
But when Alastair leaned in, when his face drew close enough that she could see the darker in his eyes, could smell sandalwoodand something underneath that was simply him—her mind went blank.
She couldn’t move.
Every muscle seized. Her breath stopped. Her hands clenched into the silk of her gown. She stood frozen. If she fled now, it would make everything infinitely worse. But if she stayed?—
This was real. This man was her husband, and she did not know him, did not trust him, did not?—
Alastair stopped.
His face hovered near hers, close enough that she felt his breath. His eyes searched hers. Whatever he saw there made his expression change.
He stepped back.
He did not kiss her. Instead, he inclined his head and turned away to face their small audience, his usual composure sliding back into place.
But Penelope had seen it. That flash in his eyes before he’d concealed it.
The silence stretched.
Her mother made a small sound. Hyacinth’s eyes had gone wide. The vicar cleared his throat, clearly uncertain how to proceed.