She had expected to see Aunt Martha’s face drawn and pinched with barely contained outrage, but Lady Hartwell sat in stoic satisfaction, as if she had orchestrated every minute of this event. In the Vestiere pew, Dorothy Vestiere dabbed her eyes with the lace edge of a handkerchief. Eliza recognized the move: a matriarch declaring her emotions for the benefit of the audience but not so much as to lose command of the room.
At the head of the family row, the triplets were all in a line, the world’s most intimidating row of bridesmaids, faces distinct yet nearly identical. April was already on the verge of tears, May wore a look of profound study, and June was clearly engaged inthe mental mathematics of how long it would take to get back to the breakfast spread.
Eliza braced herself for the crush, the parade, the moment when she would become an object to be admired, congratulated, and, inevitably, dissected.
She had not counted on Dorothy Vestiere.
Before she could so much as adjust her veil, the Duchess stood, bypassed her own son, and enveloped Eliza in a hug. Not the stiff, ceremonial embrace of aristocracy but something closer to the tackle of a retired governess. “Oh, my dear girl, welcome to the family.”
Eliza, startled into honesty, managed, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Dorothy released her only to take her face in both hands, as if inspecting for counterfeit. “You are more beautiful up close. I hope you are prepared to take charge of these ruffians,” she said, gesturing toward the sisters.
Before Eliza could form a reply, April launched herself into the triangle of space between them, clapping her hands and announcing, “You must tell us how you managed it!” She lowered her voice, “Did he promise you anything shocking? Or was it pure strategy?”
Eliza, caught between offense and laughter, replied, “It was very sudden.”
May interjected, “We mustn’t overwhelm her, April. She has just undertaken a greater feat than Napoleon.”
June sniffed. “I wager she will have him whipped into shape by Michaelmas.”
Lady Hartwell advanced, her cane rapping a quick warning. “If you intend to harass my niece, you will do it at a distance. The bride requires breathing space.”
Dorothy, undeterred, looped her arm through Eliza’s. “Nonsense! She is a Vestiere now. She will adapt or perish.”
Eliza’s spine straightened, not from duty but something else—an unexpected swell of inclusion.
They were escorted out through the church’s side door, circumventing the worst of the onlookers and eager gossips. The morning air was sharp and invigorating, and for the first time, Eliza felt the weight of her new title settle onto her shoulders—not as a chain but as a very stiff, very expensive shawl.
At the waiting carriage, August guided her in then joined her inside. As the door shut, the sisters peered in through the glass, waving, pressing their faces for a better look at the newlyweds. Dorothy and Lady Hartwell engaged in a polite skirmish on the church steps, their debate clearly centered on which of them had engineered the match to greater effect.
Eliza smoothed her skirts and looked at her new husband.
He regarded her with a mix of humor and something softer, almost weary. “You were magnificent,” he said. “The performance of a lifetime.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I did not faint if that is what you mean.”
He shook his head. “I mean you did not run. That puts you leagues ahead of the usual bride.”
She allowed herself a smile. “I am quite determined when necessary.”
August’s answering grin was real, and for a brief moment, she wondered if perhaps they were both more than their parts.
Outside, the carriage began to move, the sounds of the city replaced by the cadence of hooves and the creak of springs. Eliza looked back through the window and saw Lady Hartwell’s cane raised in triumph and the sisters already quarrelling over bouquets.
She looked ahead into a future as unknown as it was inevitable.
I am not alone,she thought and found, to her surprise, that it was not so very frightening after all.
“You have been secretly studying me.”
Eliza blinked, and the carriage returned to focus: the heavy blue upholstery, the rhythm of the wheels, August’s outstretched leg and perfectly composed slouch.
“Pardon?” she said.
August lifted a brow, one corner of his mouth threatening a smile. “It is not a criticism. Merely an observation. I imagine you have already catalogued my every flaw and mannerism. Is that not the specialty of the Hartwell women?”
She regarded him. “If you fear I am preparing a report for the family, you may be at ease.”