Page 102 of The Earl’s Marriage of Convenience

He had come to rely upon her. But after today that distance would end. She would be his wife. The new Lady Devon.

And if he were to be entirely honest—a resolution he had determined was only appropriate on one’s wedding day—he could not have chosen better. Her lineage, perhaps, might have been more advantageous. But that was neither her doing nor within her control, and in truth, he found that it mattered far less than it once might have.

Because it was precisely that history—that complexity—that had shaped her into the woman she was. Refined. Resilient. Intelligent. She was, in every meaningful way, his equal. And yet a quiet, unwelcome thought lingered. Did she see it as he did?

She had no true alternative. The arrangement had been necessary. Logical even. But Edwin found, with growing clarity, that necessity was no longer sufficient. He did not merely want her compliance. He wanted her choice. He wanted her. Not as ornament or as obligation. But just as she was.

Her wit.

Her insight.

Her laughter.

The way her gaze would meet his and, in a single shared glance, communicate more than words ever could. These were not things he had ever thought to hope for in a marriage. And yet he had found them. In her. And if she did not yet feel the same—

He would give her time. Years, if necessary. He would make it his purpose. His valet adjusted the final details of his coat, drawing him back to the present.

The ceremony would take place at St. George’s Church at ten o’clock—a setting both fashionable and formidable, its pale stone façade and elegant portico long associated with society’s most prominent unions. Inside, the church rose in graceful symmetry, its high ceilings and arched windows allowing soft light to filter through, illuminating the polished pews and the central aisle that would soon bear witness to their vows.

Upon arrival, Edwin was greeted by Hawthorne and Henley near the front of the church, where the groom traditionally waited. The low murmur of early guests filled the space, punctuated by the quiet authority of the vicar as final preparations were made.

“You look unusually composed,” Henley observed, folding his arms. “I had expected at least a hint of nerves.”

“I am composed,” Edwin replied evenly.

Hawthorne gave him a measured look. “That is not what he asked.”

Edwin allowed himself the smallest smile. “I am … prepared.”

Henley laughed softly. “That is not reassuring.”

Before Edwin could respond, the vicar approached, offering a respectful inclination of his head. “We shall begin shortly, my lord. The bride is expected momentarily.”

At that, something shifted. Subtle, but undeniable. The congregation began to rise.

Edwin turned.

And saw her.

Eliza entered on Hawthorne’s arm, her presence at once drawing the attention of every person within the church. Her gown, a soft shade of blue, moved with quiet elegance, its design both modest and exquisitely fitted—revealing just enough to suggest the form beneath, while maintaining every standard of propriety.

She was, quite simply, extraordinary. Her gaze lifted, finding his. A small smile touched her lips.

He felt, absurdly, as though he could read her thoughts in that single moment. As she reached him, Hawthorne placed her hand in his. Edwin closed his fingers around hers—and felt, with quiet certainty, that he would never willingly release them again.

The ceremony began.

The vicar’s voice carried through the church, measured and resonant as he recited the familiar words from the Book of Common Prayer. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation…”

Edwin listened—though not entirely.

Because beside him, she stood.

When the time came, he spoke his vows clearly, without hesitation. “To have and to hold … from this day forward…” His voice did not falter. Not once.

And when she answered, her voice, steady and soft, met his with perfect clarity.

A moment passed, small, but immense.