With Ophelia, he’d know what he was getting into. They had an arrangement. From the time they’d met at her father’s house to the time theirs engagement was announced, they had had almost five months to get to know one another. First they had spent time together in Venice for two months and then, they had written to one another several time – perfectly acceptable after they were betrothed.
He felt he knew her, they had come to agreements regarding their future from everything starting with living arrangements to the eventual need for an heir. Everything was set. Everything was clear. Now, the future was muddled.
He’d wanted security, safety which he would have had with Ophelia, now he’d have upheaval and uncertainty with Emma.
What if she decided she wanted more? How would he explain to her that he’d never in his life consent to a true match? A true marriage?
Memories of his childhood flashed before him, of his parents and their constant fights and arguments. His father’s violent outbursts and philandering ways which had hurt his mother so much. No, he’d never have a marriage like this. Never in a million years.
As he entered the silent halls of his manor, he dismissed the thought, reminding himself that he was a man of reason, of unwavering will. And yet, in the quiet of the night, as he climbed the stairs to his chamber, the image of Lady Emma’s face lingered still, her eyes bright with the shimmer of unshed tears, haunting him as he closed his door and prepared for the long, uncertain days to come.
CHAPTER 16
Emma
The bells of St. James tolled in a low, solemn rhythm, echoing through the heavy stone walls and down the candle-lit aisles as Emma clutched her brother’s arm, taking her first steps toward her waiting husband. Every sound, every glance seemed magnified by the hush of the congregation, all eyes fixed on her. The air within the church was thick with the mingling scents of beeswax candles and faint lavender; her heart pounded in her chest, a rapid, erratic beat that didn’t seem to settle.
Four weeks had passed since she’d come to her agreement with Evan, and as Alexander predicted, the entiretonhad shown up for their wedding.
As they entered, her gaze was drawn upward to the high vaulted ceilings, where gilded beams met rich mahogany carvings, each arch a testament to the weight of history bearing down uponher. Stained-glass windows lined the nave, casting shades of ruby, emerald, and sapphire across the gathered crowd. Sunlight streamed through, dappling her ivory gown and turning the lace at her sleeves into a constellation of shifting colors. It would have been the perfect venue for a wedding, if the man she was about to wed wasn’t – well, her intended husband.
“Deep breaths,” her brother said beside her as Emma’s grip on Alexander’s arm tightened as they approached the altar. “Are you certain? There is time to sprint away.” He winked at her as he spoke and Emma managed a smile.
“I shall not cause another scandal for the family. The last thing we need is a runaway bride.”
Her brother looked down at her with an encouraging nod, his steady presence a lifeline amid the sea of whispers and murmurs. How odd that she should look to him now for strength, when she’d despised him just weeks ago.
Perhaps in light of her present predicament, their squabbles of the past had lost some of their bite. The two had gotten along better these past few weeks, they’d sat together and played chess, talked about their lives and even discussed their father, who had written them desperate letters begging for their visits at Newgate. Neither had gone, but it was good to have Alexander to talk to about this matter.
Her attention inevitably shifted to the man awaiting her—the Duke of Wells, standing poised and regal as any groom shecould have imagined, though, of course, he was anything but the groom of her imaginings.
Evan, as they had agreed she’d call him, looked entirely composed, his gaze fixed forward, only shifting slightly when she neared. His hair was brushed neatly back, a dark, thick wave that framed his strong, chiseled face, and he wore an expression of calm indifference, as though this day meant little to him beyond mere duty. His dark suit fit him impeccably, the silken vest catching the faint glow of the candlelight and accentuating the sharp line of his jaw. His broad shoulders and poised stance made him look almost unapproachably dashing—too dashing, she thought with irritation, almost angry at herself for even noticing.
When their eyes met, Evan’s look softened ever so slightly, and she thought she saw a hint of something less formal there. “You look lovely, Emma,” he murmured under his breath as she came to stand beside him.
The unexpected warmth in his words unsettled her, and she could only nod, forcing her gaze down to the floor as her cheeks flushed against her will. The truth was, these weeks had been unrelentingly uncomfortable; her every move, every whispered conversation scrutinized by society. Yet the announcement of her impending marriage had unexpectedly softened the harshest voices, with stories of her “tragic devotion” to Evan cropping up in the society papers.
The gossip painted a highly romanticized version of events: Lady Emma, steadfast in her love for the Duke, who hadbriefly courted her years ago, thwarted at every turn, eventually compelled to crash Ophelia’s wedding in an impetuous act of devotion. In the tale, Evan was a reformed rake, ready to settle thanks to Lady Ophelia’s influence, only for true love to resurface and alter his fate. It was all nonsense, of course, but she had to admit that the tales, however absurd, had eased her reputation, even garnering sympathy from some who had only recently looked down on her.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” the vicar’s voice boomed, and Emma forced herself to refocus, standing rigidly beside Evan as the ritual commenced. She closed her eyes, willing herself to stay calm, but the grandeur of the church—the looming arches and dark wood pews filled with faces she knew had condemned her only weeks prior—was overwhelming. She could feel Evan’s presence beside her, feel his eyes on her intermittently, but she dared not meet his gaze again. This ceremony, this act, was already a heavy enough burden without the risk of facing whatever flickered behind his gray eyes.
The vicar droned on, his voice blending with the hum of the congregation. Time seemed to stretch in strange, heavy intervals, each pause and proclamation turning in her mind, making her feel as if she were drifting farther from herself, from her own sense of control. It was one thing to think about this wedding in the abstract, quite another to feel it unfolding, irrevocable, around her.
At last, it was her turn to speak her vows. Emma’s throat tightened, and she feared, for a moment, that she wouldn’t be able to form the words. She drew a deep breath, barely able to lift her gaze to the vicar as she repeated the lines. “I, Emma,take thee, Evan, to be my lawfully wedded husband…” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper, and she hoped no one else could hear her reluctance—yet the quiet resolve as well. The words tasted foreign, bitter almost, but she pushed through them, uttering each line with the weight of her decision pressing down on her.
When she finished, she realized that her hands were shaking slightly. Beside her, Evan spoke his own vows, his tone steady, the words precise and practiced. There was something strange, almost surreal, about hearing her name leave his lips in such a binding context, and she wondered if he felt it too—the weight of what they were committing to, even in such a perfunctory sense. And then, in what felt like both a heartbeat and an eternity later, it was done. They were pronounced husband and wife.
Emma tried to ignore the subtle thrill that ran through her as Evan reached for her hand, steadying her as they turned to face the crowd together. The congregation stirred, a sea of rustling silks and murmurs, and Emma felt the weight of hundreds of eyes upon them. Somewhere in the crowd, she spotted a few familiar faces—those who had looked upon her with such disdain only weeks ago, now softened by the new stories swirling about her supposed heartbreak and rekindled love. It all seemed unreal, like a play in which she was merely an actor, going through the motions.
Her brother, Alexander, stood among them, a flicker of pride in his eyes, and she felt a pang of gratitude for his steadfastness, even as he led her into this marriage, the likes of which no one in her family could fully approve. Yet they had each given their support, and they did so now. Hanna and Edwin, Arabella andHenry – they stood alongside Alexander. The only face missing was Ophelia’s but of course, Emma had not expected her to attend, though she’d received an invitation as a curtesy.
Evan leaned in slightly, his voice barely a murmur. “Shall we?” he asked, and she nodded, her throat too tight to reply. As they made their way down the aisle, past the curious, admiring gazes of theton, she felt her new reality settling around her, heavy yet inescapable.
Once they were outside, the crowd spilling out to follow them, she managed to glance up at him. He met her gaze, and for a moment, there was an unreadable softness there—a slight crease in his brow, an almost-smile in his eyes. The look was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual composed indifference. But it was enough to leave her wondering, perhaps even hoping, that this union would not be quite so cold as they had both feared.
And though it would take time, and perhaps more resilience than she thought she possessed, Emma felt a small spark of resolve settle within her, even amid the weight of her doubts. She had made her choice, and, for better or worse, it would now shape the course of both their lives.
The wedding breakfast was a grand affair, filled with the splendor Hayward Manor could so easily provide, yet Emma felt strangely apart from it all, adrift among the glittering chandeliers and bustling elegance around her. The long table was draped with silks and lace, adorned with gleaming silver andcrystal. Guests filled the space, all eyes turning periodically to observe the newlyweds, while servants flitted by with dishes of roast pheasant, delicate pastries, and perfectly poached salmon. A picture-perfect scene, Emma thought absently, and yet she could not have felt more out of place.
