Page 18 of Her Beast of a Duke
Isabella was already shaking her head, realizing that she was playing the pianoforte with more vigor. “No. No, I do not need assistance. What is done is done, and there is no point in undoing it.”
She slowed her playing from its accelerated tempo and nodded.
“All is well,” she said. “I am to wed the Duke of Rochdale, and I will be well.”
“That is a lot ofwells,” Hermia said, smiling sadly. “Just… I will not push if you are sure, Isabella, but I know you. All I ask is that you know I am here for you. Always, for anything.”
“I know.” She nodded and then stopped playing altogether. “Hermia, do you wish to have tea by the fountain like we used to?”
Hermia’s face brightened. “I would love nothing more.”
True to his word, the Duke did arrange everything, and Isabella found herself facing down St. Peter’s Church once more.
Dressed in ivory, Isabella walked down the aisle, her arm tucked into her father’s.
This time, her betrothed was there. As he had promised.
The Duke of Rochdale stood waiting, clad in austere black, the cut of his coat sharp and unadorned. He looked less like a bridegroom than a man about to deliver judgment.
Yet the sight of him struck her with a force she had not anticipated. Broad-shouldered, tall, his scar catching the light like a brand, he was no dandy, no frivolous ornament of society. He was stark, unyielding, and impossible to ignore.
Her stomach gave a twist. He looked powerful. Mysterious. And for reasons she could not untangle, entirely captivating.
She caught herself searching for softness in him, for some small token to assure herself, but there was none. No color to soften the black, no flourish to coax a smile. Just him: severe, commanding, and there for her.
Behind her, the very few guests watched as her father handed her to her groom, and she took her place next to the Duke of Rochdale, steeling herself quietly, beneath her mask, as she had always done. Meeting his gaze, she offered a small smile that he tightly returned before they both turned to the officiator.
Her father went to sit on the pew beside the rest of her family without a word.
Her parents, sisters, and the Duke of Branmere all watched on. Peculiarly, Lord Harcross was there, too. Isabella filed that particular question for later, reminded of how he had swept in to squash the outburst of Lord Peregrine’s.
“Dearly beloved…” The vicar began.
Their vows were clinically and swiftly delivered, with Isabella mostly mentally out of herself, going through the motions she knew were expected.
She was not like Sibyl, filled with notions of love and romance, nor was she entirely like Alicia, insistent on a woman’sindependence. Isabella was a realist, like Hermia, and knew she could not survive in this society without a husband.
She enjoyed being a diamond. Now, the diamond stood beside a duke, being declared the Duchess of Rochdale, which was exactly what she needed.
Even if the circumstances are not what I expected.
Once the vows were finished, she turned her head to regard herhusband.His hand was rough and calloused, and she wondered what he thought of her own hands.
Musician’s hands, her mother had always preened.Elegant and coveted.
“You may kiss your bride, Your Grace,” the officiator said.
Isabella’s heart stopped. The Duke leaned in, his shadow falling over her, and pressed the lightest kiss to her mouth. It was chaste, almost austere, yet the heat of him, the firmness of his presence, sent a jolt through her that stole her breath.
My first kiss,she thought, dizzy with the realization.
It was over in an instant. He straightened and turned from her to their guests, leaving her trembling in silence, her lips tingling, her pulse unsteady.
The ceremony had ended, but something had begun inside her she could not name.
Immediately, Lord Harcross approached with the same charm he had entered the balcony on the night of his ball.
“I hear there is no wedding breakfast,” Lord Harcross said, mostly looking to the Duke. “A shame. I was looking forward to a party that was not my own.”
