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“No.” Beech took her hand to kiss it. “Pease Porridge Perfect.”
Her heart was so full it started to leak out the corners of her eyes. “I love you, Marcus Andrew Beecham. I love you so much I don’t mind that you’re Duke of Warwick.”
“Because I’m the right Duke of Warwick,” he said with assurance. “And I love you Penelope Anne Pease.”
In front of them, the vicar cleared his throat. “If you two would be so good as to follow the order of the service?”
“We will,” they said together.
And they did.
And when the fellow at last pronounced them husband and wife, Penelope took Beech’s dear, different, familiar face in her hands, and kissed him with all the love she had left in her leaky heart.
But it was enough.
Because she could read the truth of his words in his beautiful grey-green eyes—apart they were two damaged people, but together, they were perfect.
Perfectly united in love.
What a difference one duke had made.