“I do,” he said, “but not in the way you think.”
He was so close, she could feel the warmth of his shoulder through the fabric of his coat. The flowers between them, ridiculous and gorgeous, seemed almost a joke.
She found herself wanting to ask if he could ever stop performing. If, when the world was silent and there was nothing left to prove, he could simply be.
Instead, she said, “We will be the talk of the season.”
August tilted his head. “Is that so terrible?”
Eliza looked to the triplets, now engaged in a friendly argument over which of them would be maid of honor, and thought,Perhaps not.She looked back at August, searching, as always, for a glimpse behind the mask.
“Not if you can bear it,” she said.
He smiled, softer now. “With you, I can bear anything.”
It was a beautiful line. It was also a lie.
But it warmed her, nonetheless.
As the sisters pulled her into their plans—trims, venues, who would wear what—August watched her with that sameimpossible warmth, the light of the performance never leaving his eyes.
Eliza wondered whether he had a heart at all. And what manner of man was he once the mask was off?
Four
“Eliza Miranda Hartwell, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?”
The vicar’s words hung in the chapel air, echoing through every rib in Eliza’s chest. She blinked, as if the blur before her might resolve into a different universe—one where she had not agreed to this, where she was not on the verge of becoming a marchioness for the sake of a moment’s indiscretion.
Beyond the vicar’s right ear, she could see the Hartwell crest etched into the memorial plaque: a reminder that her family had once been more than footnotes. To her left, August stood as if sculpted from confidence, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He did not look at her, but she felt the warmth of his hand beneath hers, solid and inescapable.
There were only thirty people in the chapel—enough to fill the pews but not the silences.
Eliza became aware of the tension in her jaw, the way her knuckles paled against the white gloves. She would have laughed at her own melodrama, but there was no air for it.
“I will,” she said.
The vicar’s smile was a duty. He turned to August, repeating the question.
Eliza stole a glance. August had the grace to not seem bored though she suspected he had performed this scene a hundred times in his mind—perhaps with a different bride or perhaps with none at all.
He said, “I will,” without hesitation.
The ceremony moved along, vowels and consonants stacking into the centuries-old exchange. Eliza responded on cue, her voice sounding distant. She listened to herself as though she were somewhere in the rear pews, the last guest to arrive.
When it was time for the ring, she raised her hand automatically. August slipped the band over her finger. For a moment, his thumb lingered at her knuckle, as if in silent apology for the world outside the chapel.
“You may salute your bride,” said the vicar, his lips twitching with the forbidden joy of the phrase.
August inclined his head and pressed his lips to her gloved hand, neither lingering nor perfunctory. The pressure was real, the gesture absolute. Eliza found herself oddly grateful for its restraint.
The vicar pronounced them man and wife.
There was a scatter of applause, two polite coughs, and then the odd, shuffling moment where one’s life split cleanly into before and after.
Eliza looked down at the ring. It suited her which annoyed her more than she expected.
August offered his arm. She took it, not as a prop but as a necessity—her knees were threatening insurrection. They turned as one to face the congregation.