And her father—her father’s hand on Penelope’s shoulder tightened until it hurt.
“Your Grace,” the vicar managed. “Might I offer my congratulations on your marriage.”
“Of course.” Alastair’s voice had recovered. “You are too kind.”
He offered his arm to Penelope without looking at her. She took it because she had no choice, her fingers resting against the wool of his coat. Together they walked down the aisle toward the chapel doors.
Outside, the rain fell steadily. Carriages clattered past in the distance. A small crowd had gathered despite the weather—onlookers drawn by scandal, eager to glimpse the notorious
Duke and his hastily acquired bride.
The whispers started the moment Penelope and Alastair emerged.
“—refused to kiss him?—”
“—what sort of marriage?—”
“—the baby, forcing them?—”
The words stung. Beside her, Alastair’s expression remained neutral, as though he could not hear them. But his arm beneath her fingers had gone rigid.
His carriage waited at the base of the chapel steps, the ducal crest gleaming despite the rain. A footman hurried forward with an umbrella, shielding them as they descended.
“The child is already at Blackmere House,” Alastair said quietly. His first words to her since the ceremony. “Along with a wet nurse and your belongings. We leave for the country estate within the hour.”
Not a question. A statement of fact.
Penelope nodded.
Her parents approached. Brief farewells followed—her mother’s hands squeezing hers too tightly, her father’s gruff instruction to “write soon.”
Hyacinth caught her just before she climbed into the carriage, pulling her into a fierce embrace.
“You can write to me,” she whispered. “Any time. About anything. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Penelope managed.
Then the footman was handing her up into the carriage, and Alastair was climbing in after her, and the door clicked shut.
The interior smelled of leather and rain-damp wool. Penelope settled onto the forward-facing seat, arranging her skirts while Alastair took the seat opposite. The carriage lurched into motion, carrying them away from the chapel, away from her family, away from everything familiar.
Neither of them spoke.
Penelope kept her gaze on the rain-streaked window, watching London slide past. Alastair sat perfectly still across from her, one leg crossed over the other. The space between them felt vast despite the carriage’s modest size. She could hear him breathing. Could feel him there, this stranger who was now her husband.
Minutes passed. The city began giving way to countryside, buildings growing further apart. sky met earth at a horizon she could barely see through the rain.
“I apologize.”
His voice cut through the quiet. Penelope flinched. She turned from the window to find him watching her.
“For what?”
“For putting you in a position where you felt you had to marry me.” He paused. “And for attempting the kiss when you clearly did not wish it.”
Penelope’s cheeks burned. “It was expected. The vicar said?—”
“Expected,” he repeated, bitter. “Yes. Rather like this entire arrangement. Expected. Required.