Page 17 of Bound By the Duke

In the strangest and sweetest way, her heart ached. There was something oddly comforting in realizing that she never gave up.

The thought settled over them like warm tea.

It was true. Aurelia didn’t give up. Not on piano, or embroidery, or society, or her reputation. And certainly not her list. Not even when the next item on it involved marrying a stranger.

Her laughter faded as she turned back to the mirror. She was still smiling, but there was something behind it now. Like a certain heaviness that was hidden behind the satin and pearls.

Because a wedding gown wasn’t just a dress. It was a promise. And no petals or pearls sewn in the fabric could cover the truth.

She was here to marry a man she didn’t understand. A man who had touched her chin with such aching gentleness, then warned her not to hope for more. A man who had looked at her as if she were a question he didn’t want to answer.

Her fingers clenched the hem of her skirt.

The Duke of Whitmore.

Even his name felt sharp in her mind. It felt cold, like snow that never melted.

Although she hadn’t seen him since that night, he still lingered in both her dreams and fears. Even in the quiet moments between her laughter.

I will not be afraid of him.

That was what she told herself.

She wasn’t marrying a monster. She was marrying a man with a daughter who needed care. A man who had chosen duty over distance. A man who, if she were clever and patient enough, might somedayseeher.

Aurelia lifted her chin.

And if not, then fine.

CHAPTER 5

There was a certain kind of madness that was reserved only for aristocratic weddings. And the Scovell household had caught it like a fever.

Every room was full of something, either ribbons or flowers, opinions or arguments, or cake samples.

Aurelia quietly sat in the center of the chaotic sitting room.

“Lilies are traditional for nobility,” her mother stated, proving that being the Countess of Scovell was so much more than the title. “They represent wealth. And grace.”

“And death,” Nora chimed in cheerfully, entering the room with her cheeks flushed from her morning walk. “They say funeral,Mother.”

“I think roses are more charming,” Celia piped up as she followed behind, brushing a leaf off her shoulder. “Soft pink ones. It’s a wedding, not a coronation.”

Lady Scovell arched a brow. “You’re not the one getting married, Celia.”

“No,” Celia said smoothly. “But neither are you, Mother.”

That earned a sharp intake of breath from her mother.

Almost immediately, Lord Scovell spoke from where he was leaning over a stack of velvet swatches, “Isn’t the duke interested in giving his opinion?”

“He’s aduke,” Lady Scovell answered dryly. “He doesn’t need to bother himself with the preparations.”

“I meant metaphorically.” Lord Scovell shrugged before looking down at the swatches. “Why are there seven kinds of gold thread?”

“Eight,” a maid corrected gently as she passed with a tray.

As for Aurelia, she hadn’t spoken in ten full minutes. She remained seated on the edge of the chaise, her hands folded nearly in her lap, a polite smile fixed on her face. Her thoughts were racing, but she forbade them from slipping past her lips.