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“Thank you, Miss Dutton,” Eloise said earnestly. “I appreciate you coming here. I know it must not have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” the woman answered, ducking her head. “But His Grace convinced me.” Lowering her voice so only Eloise could hear, while the chapel was still riveted in its cacophony of exhilaration, she added, “He said a young lady needed the help only I could assist with. I couldn’t let another woman suffer in the same way that I have suffered at the hands of this dishonest lord.”

Eloise kept her smile up, but staggered back a step or two, wondering if Erica thought Eloise was somewhat compromised in the way she had been by Lord Salford, and that was why she had needed to marry with haste.

Before she could manage another response, the duke moved closer to Erica, his shoulders tense. “Thank you, Miss Dutton. As promised, you will be safe, and your efforts today will be financially rewarded.”

“Your Grace, I do not need⁠—”

“It will be delivered, nonetheless. Think of it as provisions for your son that you do not have to worry over, not for a while.”

At that, the woman’s shoulders sagged. Her hand had slipped from Eloise’s already, and she clutched her son protectively to her chest. While Eloise’s attention was on her, she could feel the burn both from her father and Lord Sarling, who were arguing quietly but vehemently, only pausing to cast glares in her and the duke’s direction.

Eloise did not dare to look at them, not yet.

Instead, she watched as Erica bowed her head in silent thanks once more and fled St. George’s chapel in a flurry of pale blue skirts that had seen better days. Eloise’s chest tightened, but the duke was sizing her up. She could feel his attention, and it was the only thing that could make her turn toward her father and…

Well, she supposed, her former betrothed.

“Lord Sarling—” Her father was cut off by an angry cutting motion of the marquess’ hand.

“I will not hear another word from your wretched company today, not here, not now, not ever,” Lord Sarling spat, stomping away from Eloise and her father. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, casting one last glance at her.

“I will not forgive you for this.” He cast an accusing finger at Eloise, and her breath caught even as she forced her chin to lift higher. “Nor you.” He spat the last words, glaring at the Duke of Oldcliff.

Despite his confident anger, the Marquess’ face was flushed, his mouth tight with embarrassment. At least, Eloise hoped it was. Goodness knew he deserved it.

She cared little for his threat, and only gave him a pleasant smile. They both knew she had not wanted to be at the altar that day.

Turning on his heel, Lord Starling was at the mercy of the onlooking ton, his name whispered beneath breaths, his presence bearing the brunt of giggles and pointed fingers and questions. His hands clenched as he moved his head left and right, taking in the humiliation, before he ducked down and fled the chapel.

Eloise felt she could breathe—if only a little more than before—when she saw the marquess disappear beyond the chapel doors, his voice distant but enough that she heard him hail a carriage.

“Eloise.”

Eloise looked at the departing, confused guests, who left their pews as though they were unsure of what to do, whether they ought to leave, or stay to see what further dramatics unfolded. Eloise only wished to be one of them, able to leave freely.

Her desire only heightened when she saw the duke striding down the aisle, and the sight of his shoulders blocking Erica made her stomach sink a little, although she didn’t know why.

Freedom, her mind offered. They can both roam wherever they wish, and Miss Dutton is protected by him. What do you have now?

“Father?” she murmured, forcing her attention away. “I know that this will cause a scandal, will it not? I am sorry to have troubled you.”

“There is no trouble, Lady Eloise, but am I to assume the wedding is canceled?”

“Well!” Eloise’s father spluttered, his voice breaking in panic, “If there is no groom, then there is no wedding, of course! It does not take much observation, Father Harrington!”

His voice was high, almost hysterical, and Eloise fought the urge to step back, to put more distance between herself and her now-scandalized parents.

“Papa,” she said, her voice thinner than she’d have liked, “Papa, do not panic. His Grace saved me from such an ill-fitted match. You understand His Lordship was not for me, surely? And to have wed a man who has a secret son! Certainly, you want better for me. Surely, you are grateful for me to have escaped such a fate?”

Her voice rose with too much hope when Eloise wished to sound firmer, but her mother’s hand was pressed to her chest, her face whiter than usual as she watched the guests filing out. Her mouth moved as though she wanted to say something, but no words came out, even as it was clear she was desperate to stop the congregation, desperate to find some way to reverse what had happened.

“Mama?” Eloise dared to say, moving toward her lost-looking mother.

As soon as she did, her mother’s blue eyes—the color Eloise had inherited, though her mother’s looked sharper, more of an ice chip than the warm, vast sea Eloise often thought her own reminded her of—snapped to her, and the worry and panic faded, replaced by a cold snarl.

“I would not look so calm if I were you, Eloise,” her mother sneered. “After such a scandal, you will end up a spinster! And who are your father and I to stop such a conclusion? You have had four failed Seasons, child. That is far too many.”