Page 3 of His Duchess to Remember

“No!” Hugo shot his sister a look. “No one else is walking you down the aisle but me. I am just saying, I would rather walk you to the carriage and back to our home.”

Octavia rolled her eyes. “Even if the King of England was waiting at the altar right now, you would fuss and complain.”

“Certainly I would, since he is already married.”

Octavia chuckled, glad to see some of her brother’s humor returning. “I am your little sister. You do not know what you will do without my wit and charm around the manor. I understand it, but it is time to let me annoy someone else.” She grinned. “Now, you have exactly thirty seconds to walk me through those doors, or I shall call for Dominic.”

“Have you seen a side of him that I have not?” Hugo said, puffing out a breath. “Is he affectionate in his letters? He would not be the first gentleman to be useless with his words unless they are written down.”

Arm crossed, Octavia began to count.

She managed to reach twenty-five seconds before Hugo broke, offering out his arm to her. “Very well, you win. Who am I to tell my rascal of a sister what her heart desires? You will just do as you please anyway.”

“Exactly.” Octavia smiled up at him. “Fighting me would be a fruitless battle.”

He managed a laugh. “If twenty-four years of knowing you have taught me anything, it is assuredly that. Although at least you grew out of stomping your feet and screaming so loud you could shatter glass.”

“If you had delayed any more, you might have discovered that I still have a scream and a stomp in me somewhere,” she teased, as Hugo reached for the church door and pulled it open.

There were just five guests in attendance: Evelyn, Dominic, his daughter Harriet, Octavia’s friend Victoria, and an older gentleman on the other side of the church whom Octavia did not recognize. None were smiling, but that was no matter; this wedding was for her, not for them.

The moment Octavia’s attention snapped to the man at the altar, however, her legs nearly faltered.

My husband…

He was a giant, blocking out the sunlight that filtered through the stained glass window above the altar. Far taller than she remembered, his shoulders so very broad, with powerful arms and a muscular chest that seemed to be punishing the seams of his shirt, seeing how far they could be pushed before they tore.

He was not even wearing proper attire, standing there with a glower upon a face flecked with scars, dressed in just a shirt and a kilt.

Octavia’s gaze darted to the bare gap between the hem of his kilt and the top of his red and white socks, matching the pattern of his tartan. Shapely calves made her forget how to breathe for a moment.

Malcolm Gale, the Duke of Highcastle, as scarred as he was dangerous. Battle-hardened and devoid of warmth… but, goodness, he would have been breathtakingly handsome if he were not so frightening: wild green eyes, a mane of dark brown hair, his features so sharp, so defined they might have been carved by a gifted sculptor.

“Last chance,” Hugo whispered.

“Do not start again,” Octavia whispered back, taking a steadying breath.

Her soon-to-be husband might have been a duke, but he was nothing like any English gentleman she had ever met. And though she was still certain of her choice, she would have been lying if she had said that some of her courage had not begun to waver.

Malcolm barely took her hand when Hugo reluctantly gave her away, and dropped it a moment later. Even through her glove, Octavia had felt how rough his palm was, her eyes tracing the scars that slashed across his forearms, with his sleeves rolled up.

The couple turned to face the priest, standing a polite distance apart, not a hint of affection or the hope of affection between them.

Please, do not let this be a mistake, Octavia prayed, as the ceremony began.

CHAPTER TWO

Octavia had assumed that saying goodbye to her brother and Evelyn, as well as her friends, would be the hardest part of this marriage endeavor.

What she had not considered was the terrifying anticipation that came with spending days alone and confined in a carriage, heading ever northward, realizing with each endless mile just how far away she would be from the people she loved.

Malcolm had chosen to ride ahead of the carriage, and though they stopped each evening at roadside inns, she had not seen her husband since they left the church. At those inns, he had already retired to his own chambers by the time she arrived, and had set out in the morning before she re-entered the wretched suffocation of that carriage.

Would he even notice if I just asked the driver to turn around and take me home?

She doubted it.

By the time the carriage passed through tall, towering gates of black iron, Octavia had lost all sense of time and distance. Had it been days, weeks, months, since she left her family? She could not say.