Page 9 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

The chamber Mrs. Cromwell had arranged for Evangeline's wedding attire seemed almost divinely appointed to underscore the peculiar and extraordinary nature of her circumstances .

The Rose Chamber, with its faded silk hangings and memories of happier times, seemed to mock the practical nature of the ceremony that awaited her with its gentle romanticism and ghostly echoes of a love that had once flourished within these very walls.

Upon the bed lay spread a gown of ivory silk that must have belonged to the late Duchess of Ravenshollow, altered with remarkable skill during the brief hours since Evangeline's acceptance of Lucian's proposal.

The dress was perhaps twenty years out of fashion, its high waistline and long sleeves speaking of an earlier era's sensibilities, yet the quality of the fabric and the exquisite workmanship of the lace that adorned the bodice proclaimed it a garment worthy of ducal rank.

"Her Grace was much of your height and figure, miss," Mrs. Cromwell explained as she assisted Evangeline into the gown with hands that trembled slightly with emotion.

"She would have been pleased to see it put to such use again, I think.

She always said that wedding gowns were meant to carry forward the hopes of one generation to the next. "

The sentiment was touching, though Evangeline wondered what the former Duchess might have thought of a marriage undertaken with such calculated practicality rather than romantic fervor.

Still, as the silk settled around her figure with the whisper-soft rustle of expensive fabric, she found herself grateful for this small gesture toward tradition and ceremony, however abbreviated the proceedings might prove to be.

When the final touches had been applied to her appearance —her hair arranged in a style that complemented the gown's classical lines—Mrs. Cromwell approached with a worn velvet box that she handled with particular reverence.

"His Grace requested that you wear these," the housekeeper said, opening the box to reveal a stunning set of pearls that caught the morning light like captured moonbeams. The necklace was clearly ancient, its lustrous pearls graduated with mathematical precision, while matching earrings nestled beside it like sleeping dewdrops.

Evangeline stared at the jewels with something approaching shock. She had expected nothing beyond the borrowed gown, certainly nothing of such obvious value and historical significance. "These are magnificent, Mrs. Cromwell. Are you certain His Grace intended them for me?"

"Oh yes, miss. These were his mother's pearls, and her mother's before that. Every Duchess of Ravenshollow has worn them on her wedding day for near two centuries. His Grace was most particular that you should have them."

The weight of tradition and expectation settled about Evangeline's throat along with the pearls, their cool smoothness against her skin a tangible reminder of the legacy she was accepting along with Lucian's name.

As Mrs. Cromwell fastened the clasp with practiced efficiency, Evangeline caught sight of her reflection and barely recognized the elegant woman gazing back at her from the looking glass.

"You look beautiful, miss," Mary ventured from her position near the door, her young face bright with the sort of romantic enthusiasm that the occasion's practical nature could not entirely suppress.

"Begging your pardon," Mary corrected herself hastily, "what I meant to say was—"

"Thank you, Mary," Evangeline interrupted gently, sparing the girl further embarrassment.

Whatever awaited her in the morning room, she was determined to approach their wedding ceremony with the dignity befitting both their stations, regardless of the unconventional circumstances that had brought them to this moment.

The morning room had been transformed during her absence into something resembling a proper wedding venue, though the hastily arranged flowers and hastily assembled witnesses could not entirely mask the improvised nature of the proceedings.

Lucian stood before the makeshift altar that had been created near the tall windows, his imposing figure clothed in formal morning attire that emphasized both his impressive height and the military bearing those years of civilian life had not entirely erased.

He had clearly taken as much care with his appearance as she had with hers, his dark hair styled to minimize his scars and his linen pristine despite the early hour.

Yet even dressed as befitted his rank and station, he could not entirely disguise the tension that held his powerful frame rigid or the wariness that flickered in his dark eyes as he awaited her approach.

The vicar—a nervous little man who had clearly been roused from his breakfast to perform this unexpected duty—clutched his prayer book with hands that trembled slightly as he prepared to unite two strangers in holy matrimony.

The handful of servants who had been summoned to serve as witnesses stood along the walls with expressions that ranged from curiosity to concern, their presence lending an air of formality to proceedings that might otherwise have felt more like a business transaction than a sacred ceremony.

When Evangeline entered the room, Lucian's gaze fixed upon her with an intensity that made her stomach clench with sudden anxiety.

His dark eyes swept over her transformed appearance with an expression she could not read, his scarred features revealing nothing of his thoughts as he took in the sight of his bride approaching their improvised altar.

The prolonged scrutiny made her acutely conscious of every detail of her appearance, and she found herself wondering if the late Duchess's gown was perhaps too much for someone of her humble origins, if the ancient pearls looked presumptuous upon her throat, if her efforts to appear worthy of his rank had somehow fallen short of the mark.

His continued stare suggested displeasure of some sort, though she could not determine whether he found her wanting in beauty, elegance, or simple appropriateness to her new station.

"Miss Hartwell," he said finally, his voice carrying no warmth or approval as she took her place beside him.

"Your Grace," she replied with equal formality, though she detected something in his manner that suggested he was not entirely pleased with what he saw before him.

"I trust Mrs. Cromwell made the arrangements to your satisfaction?"

"The gown is exquisite, Your Grace. I confess myself surprised by your generosity in allowing me to wear such precious family heirlooms."

"They are yours by right now," he replied curtly. "The Duchess of Ravenshollow has always worn them. I merely follow tradition."

His dismissive tone stung, though she kept her expression carefully composed. "Of course. I would not wish to presume upon sentiments that were not intended."

"Presumption seems to be a talent of yours, Miss Hartwell."

"As does harsh judgment seem to be one of yours, Your Grace."

The sharp exchange drew curious glances from the assembled servants, though neither bride nor groom appeared to notice their audience's discomfort.

Lucian's jaw tightened visibly at her retort, while Evangeline lifted her chin with the defiant pride that seemed to emerge whenever he attempted to intimidate her.

"Perhaps we might proceed with the ceremony," he said coldly. "I have estate business that requires my attention this afternoon."

"Naturally. I would not wish to inconvenience you further with the tedious necessity of acquiring a wife."

"You seem determined to make this as difficult as possible."

"I am merely matching the tone you have set, Your Grace. If you find my manner disagreeable, perhaps you might consider adjusting your own."

"I find your manner exactly what I expected from a woman in your circumstances."

"And what circumstances are those, precisely?"

"Desperate ones, Miss Hartwell. Otherwise, you would not be standing here accepting charity from a man you clearly consider beneath your notice."

"I have never considered you beneath my notice, Your Grace, merely challenging to endure."

The barbed exchange might have continued indefinitely had not the vicar cleared his throat with obvious nervousness, clutching his prayer book like a shield against the tension crackling between the prospective spouses.

"Perhaps, Your Grace, if we might begin the ceremony?" the vicar ventured with the sort of careful diplomacy that suggested he had presided over difficult unions before.

***

The sight of Evangeline Hartwell entering the morning room struck Lucian with the force of an unexpected blow, though he was careful to keep his expression impassive as she approached their improvised altar.

The transformation was so complete, so utterly stunning, that for a moment he forgot to breathe, forgot to maintain the careful emotional distance that had served as his primary defense against the world's cruelties.

His mother's gown seemed to have been created specifically for her slender figure, the ivory silk turning her skin luminous and bringing out depths in her dark eyes that he had not noticed during their previous confrontations.

The ancient pearls at her throat caught the morning light in a way that made her seem almost ethereal, like some medieval saint stepped down from a cathedral window to grace his dark world with impossible beauty.

She was magnificent, and the realization filled him with a complex mixture of pride, despair, and something approaching panic.

This exquisite creature was about to become his wife, bound to him by law and sacred vow, yet she might as well have been a star for all the hope he had of ever truly possessing her affection.

The very beauty that made his chest tighten with unexpected emotion would be wasted on a man like him, squandered on someone whose appearance inspired revulsion rather than desire.