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“I dug up everything I could on Sarling,” Dorian told her. “Followed him several times to confirm he was indeed the filth people suspected, so do not worry that anything has been fabricated to your advantage.”

Lady Eloise nodded, but her fingers linked together as if in slight anxiety. She chewed the inside of her cheek again before she finally spoke. “I did not wish for my betrothed—former betrothed—to have ruined another woman. Heavens knows if there are more like her.”

“I have dug thoroughly,” Dorian assured her. “If there has been another woman, maid, or anyone else at all, they have not made themselves known, nor been rumored about. And if the Marquess had pressed his attentions upon any other people in his employ, the staff would have whispered about it, but there were no other leads. I hope that can reassure you a little more.”

Lady Eloise mustered a smile, but he could see she was still worried.

Dorian took another step closer to her, unable to stop looking at the way the wind toyed with the loose strands of her hair. When he finally looked back at her, he found her eyes already on his.

“I have taken care of Miss Dutton and her child,” he promised. “I’ve ensured they have better housing, too, and that her son will be plenty provided for.” He paused. “And… as my duchess, you will be able to confirm their wellbeing yourself over the years.”

His voice caught at the mention of years, of the reality finally sinking in that this was a permanent arrangement that would not be undone. Lady Eloise would be his duchess until they parted through death.

Years. He watched the word pass through her lips, though she didn’t voice it.

She fell into her own mind again, and, despite only knowing her for the brief part of the morning, Dorian had already acutely noticed when Lady Eloise wandered off in her thoughts, only to snap back into composure.

Her shoulders straightened, and her head gave a little shake, as though she was physically rousing herself. “Well, thank you for everything. I did not… I did not expect the proposal, though.”

“No?” His brow quirked.

“No,” she echoed quietly.

“How could I not have offered when today’s announcement will leave you in social ruin? I needed to provide you with another option. A better option, I may add.”

“Oh, really?” Her own dark brow lifted, and a small smirk hovered at the corner of her lips, not yet ready to form.

It looked as though she wished it to, but held back out of respect or perhaps their lack of familiarity.

“Truly.” Dorian folded his arms into his chest, glancing away casually, as though this was nothing to him. “As your mother said, you are to become a duchess. That is a rank higher than a marchioness, and, despite the ton’s overall opinion of my lack of social involvement unless it benefits me, I am a far better, more honorable man than that bast—” Dorian cut himself off as he looked back at her. He didn’t like how insistent he felt about this. He took a deep breath and regained his control. “Than that man.”

“Very well.” Lady Eloise spoke plainly and politely, as she had earlier, but this politeness had more of a tease to it, as though she amused herself with the proprietary. “So I have gained a better husband. What do you gain out of this arrangement?”

Dorian mouth lifted into a half-smile as he leaned in closer. “Do not trouble yourself with such questions. Only let me assure you that we have both gained something from this.” Before Lady Eloise could answer, he took a step back. “We shall discuss the details of our marriage following the ceremony, but for now, simply rest.”

“Your Grace⁠—”

“Rest,” he interrupted, knowing questions could come later. But before he turned on his heel to leave, he let himself smile a little more at her, a teasing thing. “I do find myself grateful for having received your correspondence, Lady Eloise. I will ensure you do not regret it.”

He sauntered away but paused once more, glancing over his shoulder at his disbelieving bride who stared at him, her mouth open a little.

“And do burn that dress you are wearing. I shall buy you a better one.”

Dorian didn’t let Lady Eloise have another chance to speak before he left, hailing down his carriage and leaving St. George’s chapel far behind.

Only when he was out of sight and earshot of anyone did he let himself slump back against the bench, wondering what he was about to get himself into.

Chapter Three

In her bedroom in Wittby House, the wisteria-covered townhouse in Mayfair with its white exterior and small but well-tended front garden, Eloise stood before her lady’s maid, Emily, who was lacing up her new wedding gown.

The better one that the duke had purchased for her.

To her side, Lady Nancy Baker, the daughter of the Earl of Maystone, stood, beaming. She had been Eloise’s closest friend for many years.

“What a joyous day indeed. I’ll have to say, my lady,” Emily said, shaking her head in admiration at her wedding gown, “this dress is stunning. It suits you perfectly, and fits like a dream. Do you agree, Lady Nancy?”

“Heavens, Eloise, you do look like a goddess who has emerged from the depths of the ocean herself, beautifully caressed by a blessing,” Nancy purred. Her leg was delicately crossed over the other as she perched on Eloise’s vanity chair, her hair tumbling down over the chair’s back. “Stop being so humble. Come, look at yourself. Appreciate yourself. Appreciate the bride you are today.”