She pictured herself walking into the grand church near her home, filled with family and friends. At her side, her father would have beamed at her, and her walk down the aisle would have been accompanied by oohs and ahhs from those who loved her best.
She had envisioned looking out toward the altar and seeing the man she loved turning toward her, his face alight with joy, his gaze locked onto hers as he awaited her arrival at his side. He would have taken her hand, kissed it softly, and together they would have begun their life as husband and wife.
But that was not to be.
As the duke’s carriage rolled to a stop, reality settled on her. There was no chapel, no wedding flowers, no bridesmaids. Instead, she was bound for the registry office, marrying not as the daughter of nobility should, but as a commoner, as one of those unfortunate souls who could not wed within the Church of England. Her father would be rolling in his grave. Or would he? This was in part due to his actions.
The carriage soon came to a stop, and as soon as it did, the telltale sound of horse manure splattering onto the road drew her attention. One of the two stately black horses had lifted its tail and done its business in the road. The stench accompanying this sight was overwhelming, and she felt her eyes water.
Unsure if these tears were due to the horrid smell or her equally horrid situation, she pinched her nose shut while beside her, Millie chuckled.
“What a lovely welcome,” she said, smiling as though this should be amusing.
The Duke of Leith stepped down from the carriage, his fine suit impeccably tailored, his dark hair slicked back, cufflinks gleaming in the morning sun. He offered a small, polite smile before catching sight of the horse’s activity.
“Well,” he said with a smirk, “that is unfortunate.” He turned and positioned himself in such a way as to keep her from seeing the mess directly.
“Lady Charity,” he greeted her with a bow, as if to start over. “Lady Millie.”
Millie curtsied in return. “Your Grace.”
“I trust you are well this morning?” he inquired of Charity, who was just now recovering from the unfortunate assault on her nostrils.
Trust that she was well? She wanted to scoff. She was far from well. The night had been restless; Millie’s nightgown, which she had borrowed, had been too long, tangling around her feet, and Millie, in their shared bed, had been a restless sleeper, kicking in her slumber.
She ought to have taken the guest room, but they’d arrived so late that Charity hadn’t wanted to bother the maids with making up another room. Besides, she had thought it might be comforting to have her cousin beside her. And it had.
They had spoken for a long time before falling asleep, and the conversation had eased her somewhat. Alas, no comfort could chase away the dreadful anticipation of the morning ahead. When sleep finally found her, it was plagued with dreams—or rather nightmares—of what was to come. The thought that bothered her the most was how her mother would take this news.
How in the world would she explain to her that she’d married in a registry office? And how was she to explain that this marriage supposedly took place days ago?
What an impossible situation he has placed me in, and why? For my own good, as he insists on saying?
“Lady Charity,” the duke’s voice pulled her from her reverie. She blinked, realizing Millie had already stepped into the carriage.
“Allow me,” he said, proffering his hand. She hesitated before placing hers in his grasp, allowing him to assist her into the carriage. She settled beside Millie, who had taken the seat across from a young, blond-haired gentleman. He inclined his head with a pleasant smile.
“Thomas Banfield,” he introduced himself. “Marquess of Ruslip.”
She nodded, recognizing the name. His father was the Duke of —, an uncle to Eammon. The previous evening, Millie had spent hours detailing family connections, even sketching out a family tree to prepare her for the alliances she would soon be bound to.
“This is my cousin,” the duke added before tapping his walking stick against the roof, signaling the coachman to depart. The carriage lurched forward, jostling Charity in her seat as she bumped into Millie.
“Everything is arranged,” the duke informed her. “The registrar will ensure the records reflect that we were wed three days ago, even though we are only getting married today.”
Charity’s hands folded in her lap, her fingers tightening around one another in hopes of stopping them from shaking. Alas, it was too late. The duke had already noticed and glanced down at her hands with what could only be described as a pitying look.
Oh, how she resented that pity.
She met his eyes. “So, you have had a busy morning, it seems, if it is all arranged. All of London will believe we have already been wed. But what of my mother? What am I to tell her?”
He let out a breath, his jaw tightening. “It is being handled. Your mother will meet us at the registry office, along with mine.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “What?”
“I spoke to my mother last night on my return and told her what had transpired,” he explained. “She censured me rather severely and insisted that no young lady should be wed without her mother present. She has gone to your mother this morning to explain the situation.”
Charity stared at him.
