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“I will,” he said in his deep baritone, the sound sending a shiver down her spine and settling a warmth deep in her chest.
She drew in a steadying breath and offered him a small smile, reassured by his presence. She trusted him more than she had ever trusted Richard. Unlike his charming yet duplicitous cousin, this man had a reputation for generosity and honor. He had acted decisively to help her. She could not let Richard’s bitter accusations cloud her judgment.
Yet, the quarrel had planted seeds of doubt. What if Philip had secrets of his own? She reminded herself that theirs was a marriage of convenience, not romance. She had no right to expect more than what they had agreed upon. Whatever deeper feelings stirred within her, she must guard them carefully. The duke had already known and lost great love—his late duchess had been that for him.
A murmur rippled through the room. Startled, Annabel realized the vicar had paused. All eyes were on her. Mrs. Harris raised a questioning brow. Stedman regarded her with stern expectancy. Even the vicar gave a faint cough to prompt her, and Philip’s concerned expression made her heart squeeze.
She had missed her cue.
Frustrated with herself for allowing her thoughts to wander, Annabel quickly recovered and spoke. “I will.”
The relief on Philip’s face was fleeting but evident, his warm smile returning as he gazed down at her. His presence steadied her once more.
As the vows resumed, Philip slipped the ring onto her finger, his touch firm yet gentle. When he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, a wave of calm settled over her.
Curse Richard and his venomous words. She would not let his bitterness ruin this moment. He was simply spiteful over losing their battle of wills. His accusations were merely an attempt to plant mistrust where none should exist.
This was her wedding day, and she stood by her choice.
There were no dark secrets to be revealed.
* * *
Philip ate his cake in a mild state of euphoria, the flavor barely registering as he savored the realization that he was now married to the daring Miss Ridley—now the Duchess of Halmesbury. Days of hasty planning had culminated in this momentous occasion, securing Annabel as his wife. The future stretched ahead, promising companionship and shared purpose. He allowed himself a moment to marvel at her seated beside him, her feminine presence a balm to the turbulence of the past few days.
Richard’s arrival had been an unwelcome surprise, but the matter was settled. Annabel, mercifully, remained unaware of the painful past shared by himself, Richard, and the late duchess. This day belonged to them alone, and he was determined to ensure her happiness moving forward.
He felt Annabel’s hand rest lightly on his, her touch warm and grounding. He turned to meet her gaze, and those enchanting brandy-colored eyes met his own. A blend of gold and brown, her eyes held an inner light that seemed to glow even brighter now. She was radiant in her muslin day dress adorned with delicate embroidered flowers. She had captivated him from the start, and he found himself grateful once more for her courage in seeking him out.
“Philip,” she whispered, leaning closer as the baron and the vicar carried on their conversation. “I know this may not be the best moment, but I wish to speak with you about Mrs. Harris before we leave.”
“Mrs. Harris?” He blinked, pulling himself back to the present. His thoughts had wandered toward the journey ahead, the new life they would begin together, and the countless moments he hoped to share with her.
“The baron’s housekeeper,” Annabel clarified.
Her words made him pause. He had noticed how she rarely referred to Filminster as her father, calling him instead “the baron.” It was a telling detail of her life here—one marked by loneliness and emotional distance. The notion made him even more determined to ensure she found warmth and belonging as the mistress of Avonmead.
Annabel’s voice brought him back from his musings. “We are quite close. I know this is very forward, but I would like to offer her a position at Avonmead, if you agree. She has been a great comfort to me. I thought this might be a good time to address it, so she can make arrangements.”
Philip’s face softened at the suggestion. He recalled Mrs. Harris from the ceremony earlier, the cheerful, round woman dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. That someone in this lonely household had cared for Annabel deeply touched him. He had no objection to welcoming the woman to Avonmead if it meant bringing a piece of Annabel’s comfort along with her.
A grin spread across his face as he saw the nervousness in hers. On this day, she could have asked him for anything, and he would have gladly given it. If bringing Mrs. Harris brought his new wife joy, then so be it.
Leaning closer to ensure their conversation remained private, he whispered, “For you, my lovely wife, anything. Anything at all.”
He sealed the promise with a soft kiss to her forehead, content to see her smile widen in return.
Chapter Nine
“Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos.”
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
* * *
Mrs. Harris and Annabel stood wrapped in a heartfelt embrace. They had stolen a moment in the study to say their goodbyes, and both were struggling to speak without tears spilling over.
“You will make arrangements to join me at Avonmead?” Annabel asked softly.
