Page 40 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)
EPILOGUE
4 months later
“Are you ready?” Millie inquired as she looked at her cousin.
“I am,” Charity replied, a broad smile on her lips. “And this time, I truly feel it.”
“You ought, for at last you are. A true bride—and you look every inch the part.”
Millie stepped back to admire her cousin, and Charity smiled at the attention.
“You must look at yourself,” she said, spinning her gently. Charity gasped at her own reflection, scarcely recognizing the woman who stood before her.
She wore a gown of ivory silk taffeta, fashionable and yet suitable to her own taste. The skirt was full and so wide, she wondered if she would even be able to sit. Her hair, styled simply yet beautifully, had been twisted into a series of soft coils and pinned at the nape, with not a single false lock among them.
“And see,” Millie added, “your hair is simply lovely.”
“Yes, it is,” Charity said, her voice filled with gratitude. “Thanks to Jean and Stevens, who did it for me. They had the good sense to forego the false hairpieces Mother so loves.”
“Millie, I am so pleased with it all. Thank you—for helping me, for helping us.”
Millie waved her hand dismissively, though her cousin's gaze caught the emotion in her eyes.
“Please, think nothing of it.”
“Nothing? It was everything. You have stood by me since the beginning. You held my hand, you bore witness, you kept my secrets, and you rebuked me when I needed it. You are a sister to me. Eleanor feels the same.”
“Oh, do hush now,” Millie said, her eyes growing misty. “That is enough praise. The last step awaits, and then—to the chapel. Your groom is waiting.”
“Indeed. My groom.”
She could not help but smile. At long last, she was to be wed. Legally and technically, they had been man and wife for six months, though the falsified date on their registry certificate had remained undiscovered. There was no mending that without either confessing to the deception—which would cause scandal—or nullifying and repeating the process. Neither wished for such bother. And so they had told society that they deeply regretted having only married in a registry office and now wished for a proper church wedding, surrounded by family and friends.
Eammon had declared this would be their true wedding, the day they would both forever hold sacred. She had agreed.
With the assistance of his mother, they had secured St. George's, Hanover Square, one of the loveliest churches in all London. Lydia Hayward, along with her sister and daughters, and several of her other relations who were parishioners, had made this possible, despite it not being Charity’s home parish.
Charity followed Millie downstairs, where her mother and sister awaited.
“Charity, do you not look lovely,” her mother said. “I only wish you had worn the false locks. They suit you so well.”
“Mother, she does not like them,” Eleanor interjected firmly. “And she is a duchess. Surely, she may decide for herself what to wear in her own hair.”
Charity smiled. Her younger sister had grown bolder in recent months, something Charity took great delight in. Their mother opened her mouth to object, but thought better of it and said instead, “Of course. Indeed, you are a duchess now.”
“In any case,” Eleanor said, “you look beautiful. I know Eammon shall not be able to take his eyes off you.”
“I daresay that is so,” came a familiar voice.
Charity turned to find her mother-in-law, the dowager duchess, standing nearby.
“Lady Pembroke,” she said, “might I have a word with my daughter-in-law before we enter the church?”
“But of course, Your Grace,” her mother said and beckoned the others to follow her out.
“Your Grace,” Charity began.
“Call me Lydia, please, when it is just the two of us. Come, sit with me.”
“I shall, though I am not certain I can,” Charity laughed. “I have not sat since donning this gown.”
“Then let me assist you.”
With care, Lydia helped her arrange the voluminous skirts so she could perch on a bench.
The two women had grown quite close in recent months. Lydia often visited Hayward, and together they had taken Ambrose and Hector to see the village children twice each month. Eammon joined on occasion, using the time to meet with tenants and villagers. Lydia also dined with them every Sunday.
Charity was still sometimes overwhelmed by the sheer number of Eammon’s relations, but she had grown fond of them. Thomas remained Eammon’s closest confidant, and Charity was grateful, knowing how important the friendship was to her husband. Lately, she had noticed an increasing fondness between Thomas and Millie as well.
She shook away her musings and turned her attention back to Lydia.
“You look rather dreamy,” Lydia said. “Have you envisioned the ceremony?”
“I have. And it shall be glorious.”
“I am certain it will be,” Lydia replied, taking her hand. “Charity, I wished for a moment alone to thank you—for accepting Eammon for who he truly is. It has been a burden for him to keep the secret so long. A burden for his father as well.”
“Do you ever regret it?” Charity asked softly. “For Eammon still wrestles with it. I think a part of him longs to let the truth be known.”
“I understand. Sometimes I wonder, too. Would he have fared better as simply our ward? Might life have been less heavy, less concealed? And yet, I think of all he has achieved. He is respected in the House of Lords. The tenants adore him. He has done so much good.”
“Indeed, he has,” Charity said. “Though I believe he would have been just as excellent a solicitor, or colonel, or physician. He is one of those rare men who would excel in any path.”
Lydia smiled. “How fortunate that you regard my son so. And I agree. Do you think we erred in what we did?”
Charity paused. “Life may have been easier without the secret, but I do believe he was born to lead—even if not born legally to the title. I wish, truly, the Lords might change and allow wards and adopted children to inherit.”
“We tried,” Lydia sighed. “My husband’s brothers sought to persuade him to put forth just such a proposal. But he feared it would draw scrutiny to his own situation. He was not wrong. Still, I hope the day may come. Not Eammon, but for others. That brings me to something else—your children. Will you tell them the truth?”
Charity blinked.
“I do not know,” she said. “Now that my father's Book of Confidences is destroyed, there is no need for them to know the truth. It would only weigh on them.”
“I agree,” Lydia nodded. “And I believe Eammon does as well.”
“Yes,” Charity replied. She and Eammon had discussed this and agreed. If they had sons, they would not tell them. And for daughters, it mattered not.
“Well then,” Lydia said warmly, “shall we go to the chapel?”
Charity nodded, rising with her mother-in-law’s help. Together, they stepped outside. The church loomed grand before them, just beyond the narrow path from the parsonage. The day was bright and crisp. Charity closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of her father. Surely, he was with her, if only in spirit.
At the church door, Lydia paused.
“I have a wedding gift for you—though it is not solely for you. It is for us all.”
“Oh?” Charity asked, surprised.
“I shall tell you now, so you may walk the aisle relieved.”
“Markham will be sentences to transportation to the New South Wales colonies. He shall not bother us again.”
Charity sighed with relief. After his arrest, Markham had made all sorts of claims regarding the Book of Confidences, raising interest from the authorities. Knowing that the book may become subject to whatever trial Markham would be put on, Charity and Eammon had decided to do the only thing they could—they had looked through it, had taken only the most pertinent information, burning the rest.
Word quickly spread that the book had been destroyed, though some would always whisper about its continued existence.
This hadn’t affected Markham or his trial, however. He had been tried for kidnapping her, attempting to blackmail a nobleman, and attempting to kill both Thomas and Eammon. All his ramblings about the book had not helped him, for it only made those investigating his case more interested in why he would want it so badly. A thorough accounting of his family and their businesses was ongoing and would soon yield results. Not that it would change anything, what with Markham in New South Wales.
“We are free of him,” Charity said.
“Indeed, we are free. Now, go,” Lydia said, smiling. “Go make an honest man of my son—in the eyes of God.”
The doors opened. At the signal, Charity stepped inside. The church was filled with friends, family, and London society. But she saw none of them.
Her gaze fell only on him.
Eammon stood at the altar, beside the vicar and Thomas. As she walked, it was as if she moved through mist. He saw only her. And she, only him.
He offered his hand. She took it.
“My beautiful Charity,” he whispered. “How long I have waited for this day.”
“As have I,” she replied.
“Nothing and no one shall ever part us again,” he said in a firm tone that made her skin tingle.
They smiled at one another, and both knew it was true. At last, they were to be husband and wife. No secrets remained to keep them apart. No man living would dare come between them. They were one, united for all time.
The End?