Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

“… a

nd hereby pledge my troth.” The Duke’s deep voice echoed through the small chapel, steady and sure despite the gravity of the moment.

Isolde’s voice trembled slightly as she repeated the ancient words, the weight of her mother’s pearl-embroidered veil—a family heirloom painstakingly crafted by her grandmother and carefully preserved—seeming to press more heavily with each syllable.

The morning light filtering through the chapel’s stained-glass windows cast muted colors over the handful of witnesses gathered to see the Duke of Meadowell wed his unwilling bride.

“With this ring, I thee wed.” The cold metal slid onto her finger.

The ring felt impossibly heavy on her finger, a golden shackle binding her to this new life.

She waited for some spark of feeling as his fingers brushed hers, some hint that perhaps this marriage might grow into something more than necessity. But his touch remained impersonal, proper, distant.

When the vicar pronounced them man and wife, the words echoed in the nearly empty chapel like a death knell to her romantic dreams. No triumphant ringing of bells, no shower of flower petals, no cheering crowd—just the hollow sound of the vicar’s voice bouncing off ancient stone walls.

“You may kiss the bride,” he said.

The Duke brushed a kiss across her lips with practiced precision, without warmth or passion.

A lord’s kiss, proper and controlled, as impersonal as a business transaction.

Isolde told herself that the ache in her chest was relief, not disappointment.

“Your Grace.” Augustus Wakefield’s voice carried a hint of irony as he approached them afterward, his wife’s hand tucked in the crook of his arm. “I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced to my Jane.”

Isolde found herself facing the man she’d once been betrothed to, studying his features for any trace of resentment. But his smile was genuine, his eyes warm as they met hers.

“Lady Isolde—forgive me, Your Grace,” he corrected himself with a small laugh. “I’ve waited quite a while to thank you properly.”

“Thank me?” Isolde’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“That letter you sent, begging me to disappear at the same time as you?” Augustus’s smile widened as he squeezed his wife’s hand. “Best command I ever obeyed. Though I dare say things worked out rather well for both of us in the end.”

Jane’s eyes sparkled with genuine warmth. “Indeed, they did. Though I must admit, I was rather terrified of him at first. His reputation… you understand.”

“Jane, my love.” Augustus pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Surely, I wasn’t that bad?”

“Worse,” Jane said fondly. “But worth every moment of uncertainty.”

Isolde felt the weight of their pointed glances, their well-meaning attempt to draw parallels between their situation and her own.

“I am glad you found happiness, Lord Augustus,” she managed.

“Happiness finds its way in unexpected places,” Augustus said, his tone becoming serious. “Arthur… he’s a better man than his reputation suggests. If you give him a chance…”

“He needs patience,” Jane added softly. “And understanding. But beneath that rakish exterior beats a heart capable of great love.”

“Arthur has depths few people see,” Augustus continued, his usual jovial manner sobering. “Both my brother and I have known him since our days at Eton, watched him struggle with…” He paused, seeming to catch himself. “Well, suffice it to say, he’s not the cold creature he appears to be.”

“He plays that role very convincingly,” Isolde couldn’t help but observe.

“As did I, once upon a time.” Augustus smiled at his wife. “Until a certain bluestocking saw right through my carefully constructed facade.”

Jane squeezed his hand. “And nearly drove me mad in the process.” She shifted her keen gaze to Isolde. “Marriage to a reformed rake isn’t easy, Your Grace. But there can be surprising rewards for those patient enough to wait.”

“Speaking of which.” Augustus touched his wife’s arm gently. “Perhaps you should sit down, my dear. The excitement⁠—”

“Darling, I’m not made of glass,” Jane protested, though she allowed him to guide her to a nearby pew.

Isolde watched them together, the easy affection between them making her heart ache.

“Duchess.” Arthur’s voice behind her made her start. “The carriage is waiting. Unless you wish to join the others for⁠—”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I’m ready to leave.”

He nodded once, sharp and businesslike. “I shall wait outside, then.”

Isolde turned to face her father, who had been hovering nearby throughout the exchange. Lord Winthorpe’s eyes were already brimming with tears.

“Papa, please.” She touched his arm gently. “I’ll be fine.”

“My little girl,” he choked out, pulling her into a fierce embrace. “I never meant… I should have…”

“Hush now.” She forced brightness into her voice. “You’ll make me cry, and Martha spent ages on my rouge.”

But her father seemed beyond hearing, his shoulders shaking with barely suppressed sobs. Lady Langhall appeared at his side like a guardian angel, her presence both commanding and comforting.

“Come, Jack,” she said softly, pulling him away. “Let us give your daughter a moment with her aunt.”

Isolde watched Lady Langhall guide her father away, noting how naturally he leaned into her strength, how her mere presence seemed to ease his distress. Such easy affection between them, such tender regard.

She’d never have that.

Jessamine stepped forward, her usually stern features softened with emotion.

“Oh, my dear girl.” Her hands smoothed Isolde’s veil with familiar efficiency. “You look so like your mother on her wedding day. The same quiet strength in your eyes.”

“Thank you,” Isolde murmured. “For everything. For taking me in when I ran, for supporting me now…”

“Hush.” Her aunt’s embrace was brief but fierce. “You are stronger than you know, my dear. Remember that.”

The weak spring sunshine seemed to mock the solemnity of the occasion as Isolde descended the chapel steps.

Birds sang in the ancient oaks lining the drive, oblivious to the fact that this was no joyous wedding day. Her mother’s veil, so carefully arranged by Martha this morning, whispered against her cheeks like a goodbye caress.

The ducal carriage waited below, its black lacquer gleaming, the Meadowell coat of arms proclaiming to all the world her new status.

Each step brought her closer to her new life, each click of her heels on stone marking another second of freedom slipping away.

The Duke—her husband—stood beside the carriage, every inch the aristocrat in his formal black coat. No tender bridegroom’s smile graced his features, no warmth softened his emerald-green eyes.

He didn’t offer her his hand as she approached, didn’t speak as she hiked up her skirts to step inside. The footman was more attentive than her new husband, carefully arranging the satin folds of her gown as she settled into the plush interior.

Only when the door closed behind them with a decisive click did the full weight of what had just happened settle over her.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words and uncertain futures.

She was a duchess now. Wife to one of the most powerful peers in the realm.

And she had never felt more alone in her life.