Page 56 of The Duke’s Hidden Runaway Bride

On the morning of her wedding, Ophelia stood beneath the portico of St. George’s with her hand resting upon her father’s arm. The February air was sharp enough to sting, though the sky was blue.

The church was full. Society had not become kinder in a few weeks, but it had chosen prudence. Lady Daventry’s approval, Adrian’s devotion, and Ophelia’s fortune had persuaded many people to discover that they had always admired her.

Those who still disapproved had come to witness the spectacle, which fortunately had been arranged meticulously by Lady Daventry and Lady Elise, rather than Miss Pettibone.

Ophelia’s gown was pale cream, simply cut and embroidered at the hem with a pattern copied from Shirin’s handkerchief embroidery. At her wrists she wore her mother’s bangles.

She did not wear them in defiance now. She wore them because they were Shirin’s, and nothing belonging to her mother need ever be hidden again.

The doors opened. Josiah smiled proudly down at her. The past few weeks had done much to mend their relationship, especially when Josiah had asked quite humbly if he might escort her down the aisle. Ophelia had never considered otherwise, but she deeply appreciated that he had asked rather than assuming it.

Adrian waited at the end of the aisle with Sir Hugh Fenwick beside him. Lady Daventry sat in the front pew, smiling as proudly as though she had intended the match from Adrian’s cradle. Elise was already crying. Miss Pettibone had abandoned any attempt at restraint.

Bronwen stood among the upper servants in a new gown and beamed at Ophelia as she passed.

Then she looked only at Adrian.

He watched her come up the aisle with his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on her alone, as though he still half expected to turn tail and flee.

Ophelia had walked away from one wedding because no one waiting there had seen her. She walked towards this one proudly, to marry the man who had seen her for who she truly was and left the choice in her hands.

When she reached him, Josiah placed her hand in Adrian’s.

Adrian’s fingers closed around hers. His smile began, and neither of them managed to stop smiling through the service.

They made their vows. The bells rang out over Mayfair, and Ophelia James turned to face the gathered Ton as the new Duchess of Calder.

For one stolen quarter-hour on the way to the wedding breakfast, they were alone in the carriage.

Adrian lifted her wrist and kissed the gold of Shirin’s bangle.

“I’m glad you decided to wear these. As I am very glad you decided to come. I had a few moments there before the altar wondering if you would.” There was vulnerability in his glance, and she shook her head at him fondly.

“I never for a single moment considered not coming. Father had to caution me to wait, lest we arrive too early!”

“Truly?”

Ophelia laced her fingers through his. “Everything before was done against fear. Today I did only what I wanted.”

“A dangerous habit.”

“I am told my husband is a poor influence.”

“The very worst.” He leaned in to kiss her. “From this day forth, you are to only ever do exactly what you want to do. That is the privilege of duchesses.”

Plas Eira, ten Christmases later

The kissing bough hung in its place in the great hall, turning slowly above Adrian’s head as he attempted to secure a crab-apple which had become dislodged.

“You have tied yourself to it,” Ophelia observed.

“I have not.”

The red ribbon ran from the bough to his wrist.

Their children began to laugh.

Adrian looked at the evidence and received it with ducal dignity. “The bough has formed an attachment.”