Page 21 of His Mad Duchess
And then the latch shifted, and the wood gave a soft groan. The doors began to open.
Sebastian’s eyes didn’t leave the chapel doors.
Margaret stepped through like the final answer to a question he’d never wanted to ask. Ivory silk, too fine for Wexley coin, cut to fit her narrow shoulders and the soft line of her throat. A flicker of candlelight caught her hair where it escaped the careful twist, burnishing it dark and warm.
She looked at him only once, then fixed her gaze somewhere just past his shoulder, as if she might find a door still open there.
He felt Edward shift beside him and heard the faint rasp of a cough behind them as guests straightened and skirts rustled.
He did not move. He waited.
When Margaret reached him, she paused, her breath tight in her chest. His expression gave nothing away, but he offered his arm without hesitation. Her hand hovered above the black cloth, trembling just enough for her to pray the candlelight wouldn’t betray it. She hoped he hadn’t noticed… though something in the quiet between them made her fear he had.
The vicar’s bushy brows lifted as he shuffled his book, clearing his throat to fill the silence. Somewhere behind her, pearls clinked faintly, a whisper passing under the rustle of fans.
They faced the old vicar, a ruddy face with white curls and a trembling book in his wrinkled hands. The man cleared his throat once, then twice before beginning.
The vows passed in a hush so deep she could hear the clock in the chapel ticking. Her voice caught once, just once, before she forced it steady. His answers came without pause, low and flat, as if carved from something colder than stone.
“—to love, cherish, and protect?—”
Her mouth twitched at ‘love’. She thought, though she dared not look, that his jaw moved at ‘cherish’.
When the final words fell, the vicar paused. He peered over his spectacles, expectant.
“A kiss, Your Grace?”
Margaret’s breath caught. Her stomach tightened. She didn’t dare breathe. He didn’t turn. His gaze was fixed forward, past her, past everyone. She waited, the edge of her veil brushing her cheek, her hand faintly twitching on his sleeve.
Nothing.
The vicar cleared his throat, gently, then louder, trying to prompt what was missing.
She stared down at her shoes, the pale tip of her slipper peeking from her gown, as if the floor might open and spare her.
For a moment, she thought he might bend, quickly and formally, something that would pass for civility. But the moment stretched too long, and the polite cough from the front pew made her spine stiffen.
Her hand fell back to her side.
When nothing came, the priest snapped his book shut, forcing a kindly smile.
When the vicar found his place, he lifted his hands, voice rounding out the last thin blessing. “And so… you are now man and wife.”
There was no cheer, only a heartbeat of stillness, then a single clap—Cecily’s—and it sounded way too loud.
She felt her own shoulders stiffen. He extended his arm again, and she took it without looking because not taking it would draw more stares than she could bear.
The chapel doors yawned wide, spilling weak daylight across polished stone. Guests dipped shallow bows as they passed.
His voice came low, almost a growl against her ear.
“We leave at once. My carriage is waiting. We’ll ride for Brighton.”
Her fingers flinched. She kept her eyes ahead. “A moment. Please.”
The single pause before his answer told her he’d heard the spine in her voice.
“Be quick,” he said.
