“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will.” The Duke’s voice did not waver. His eyes found Mary’s and held them.
The rector turned to her. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
The words settled over Mary.
Love. Honor. Keep. Forsaking all other.
Vows written for couples who had chosen each other, spoken now by two people who had not. She looked at the Duke, steady and unreadable before her, and the weight of what she was promising pressed against her chest.
“I will,” she said.
The Duke took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. His grip was warm and sure. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
Mary searched his face as he spoke the words, “With my body I thee worship.”
A vow made by a man who had not touched her, to a woman he had married out of necessity. She looked for a crack in the composure, some sign that the words meant more than ceremony required.
She found nothing.
They signed the register. It was done.
A man with auburn hair and an amiable smile approached them the moment they turned from the altar. He clapped the Duke on the shoulder with the familiarity of someone who had earned the right to touch him.
“Blackholm.” He grinned. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Quentin.” The Duke’s voice carried the faintest edge of warmth Mary had yet heard from him. “Try not to make a spectacle of yourself.”
“Too late.” Quentin turned to Mary and bowed with a flourish that was half charm, half theater. “Your Grace. Lord Quentin Hale, Marquess of Suntley. I have known this man since Eton, and I can assure you he is marginally less terrifying than he appears.”
Mary smiled despite everything. “Only marginally?”
“I would not wish to oversell him.” Quentin’s eyes sparkled. “Welcome to the family, such as it is.”
The Duke steered Quentin away with a hand on his elbow, and Isabella appeared at Mary’s side. She looped her arm through Mary’s and pulled her toward the window, away from the other guests.
“Tell me the truth,” Isabella said, keeping her voice low. “How are you?”
Mary looked out the window. The gardens of Blackholm House stretched below, green and manicured and unfamiliar.
Five days ago, she had been standing in a vestibule in a different wedding dress, preparing to marry a different man. Now she wore a ring that belonged to a duke she had met once, and somewhere upstairs, a baby slept in a crib that had not existed in her life a week ago.
“I am married,” Mary said. “Beyond that, I have not the faintest idea.”
“Mary…”
“I am frightened.” The words left her before she could catch them. She pressed her lips together. “Not of him. He is cold, but I do not think he is cruel. I am frightened because everything has happened so fast, and I have not had a single moment to feel any of it.”
Isabella tightened her grip on Mary’s arm. “Then feel it now. Right here. I am not going anywhere.”
Mary leaned into her friend’s shoulder for one breath. Two. Then she straightened because the Duke was crossing the room toward her, and she was a duchess now, and duchesses did not lean.
“It is time to go,” the Duke said. “There will be no wedding breakfast. We will go directly to the house.”
Mary nodded. She embraced Isabella, crossed to her father, and stood before him.
Lord Langham looked at her with an expression caught between relief and guilt. “At least one of my daughters is not ruined,” he said.