Page 38 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

Anna stepped toward her mother and took her hands gently. “Are you feeling well?”

The Dowager Countess nodded. “Today, yes. I want to see you go to him. I want to remember the way you looked.”

They stood a moment, quiet.

Then Heather clapped her hands. “You must dress now. Or we’ll be late.”

Hours later, in the carriage on the way to the chapel...

Julia leaned forward. “Do you think he’ll cry?”

Anna blinked. “What?”

“At the altar,” Julia said, arching a brow. “It would be very flattering if he cried.”

“He will not cry,” Anna said, though her heart was galloping now.

Julia smirked. “He might. He’s a duke, not a statue.”

Gretchen elbowed her. “You’re not helping.”

The carriage bumped over uneven stone, and Anna took a breath.

She looked out at the chapel spire rising in the distance. The bells would soon ring.

And when she stepped through those doors, he would be there.

Waiting.

The chapel bells rang before they were seen.

Anna stood just outside the small stone church tucked near the edge of Mayfair, her gloved hands clasped tight around a bouquet of lilacs and ivory roses.

The air was cold enough to kiss her cheeks pink.

She felt the weight of the gown, soft silk and elegant with a veil gathered loosely behind her, but it was the hush before the doors opened that made her chest flutter.

Behind her, her mother was seated already, flanked by Heather, who had all but vibrated with joy since sunrise.

“Are you ready?” Julia asked, leaning in to tuck a curl behind Anna’s ear.

“No,” Anna said, breathless, her eyes threatening to water. “But I think I want to be.”

“That will do.”

The doors opened.

The light from within spilled out like warmth in winter. Henry stood near the front, tall, composed until he saw her.

Then something in his expression cracked. Just a little.

He swallowed. His hands fell to his sides, useless.

And still, he couldn’t look away.

Anna walked slowly, aware of every step, every hush, every breath held by those in attendance.

Near the front, Gretchen leaned sideways and muttered, “If he doesn’t cry, I shall do it for him.”

Nathaniel, the Duke of Frayton, seated beside her, smirked faintly. “You’re a bit sentimental, aren’t you?”

“I’m a romantic,” she whispered back. “There’s a difference.”

Nathaniel leaned closer, not taking his eyes off the front. “So if I find you sniffling, I’m to interpret that as strategy?”

“Interpret it however you like,” Gretchen replied sweetly. “You’ll still be wrong.”

He glanced at her, brow raised. She didn’t look back.

At the altar, Anna reached Henry.

He took her hands. His eyes were wet.

“You look– ” he began.

She shook her head. “Don’t. Or I might actually cry.”

He smiled then, gently. “Just as well. I already did.”

The vicar cleared his throat, smiling discreetly.

The vows were said with steady voices. No one stumbled, though Anna nearly forgot her own name when Henry looked at her like that, like the world had just narrowed to the space between them.

The ring was warm from his palm when he slipped it onto her finger.

And when the kiss came, it was brief, chaste, until Henry’s hand lingered a moment too long at her waist, and Anna tilted toward him.

Their lips parted only when the guests laughed quietly, affectionately, and the bells rang again overhead.

They emerged from the chapel as the Duke and Duchess of Yeats, stepping out into a flurry of flower petals and London air.

Anna blinked up at the sky. It had not rained.

“Thank God,” Julia muttered. “I could only survive one soggy wedding this Season.”

Gretchen elbowed her. “Speak for yourself. I had no intention of surviving any Season.”

Nathaniel strolled past, pausing just in front of them.

“You’re blocking my view,” Gretchen muttered.

Nathaniel didn’t move. “You have excellent taste.”

“I was talking about the bride,” she said sweetly.

He smirked. “And here I thought you only noticed dukes.”

She finally looked at him. “Only when they’re underfoot.”

“Then I shall do my best to be a persistent nuisance.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt.”

Henry helped Anna into the waiting carriage. Her skirts rustled softly as she gathered them in one hand, veil slipping gently into her lap. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the sounds of bells and laughter outside.

Inside, it was quiet.

He sat beside her, careful not to crush the delicate folds of her gown, and looked at her. He stared for a moment, just long enough to make her laugh.

“What?” she said, cheeks flushed, breath fogging a little in the winter air.

“You,” he said. “You’re mine.”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “I’ve been yours.”

“Since when?”

“Since you called me difficult and then spent every day proving I was right.”

He laughed then, head tipped back, hand over his heart. She grinned so hard her cheeks ached.

She smiled back, warm and tired and utterly his.

“I can’t feel my feet,” she said, leaning into him.

“That makes two of us.”

“And you’re warm,” she murmured.

“That’s the layers of wool and an undignified level of joy.”

She tucked her face against his shoulder, giggling. “Henry.”

“What?”

“I think I’m deliriously happy.”

He looked down at her. “I think I am too. It’s dreadful.”

She laughed again, full and free, and he caught the sound like it was the only music that mattered.

A beat passed. Her head tilted toward him, shoulder brushing his.

“Are you frightened?” she asked quietly.

He paused. “Only that I’ll never be the man you deserve. I’ll never deserve this.”

“You already are, yes, you deserve this and more.” she whispered.

He caught her chin gently, looked her full in the eyes.

His eyes burned. He reached for her hand and laced their fingers together, bare skin against bare skin, no gloves between them now.

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” she murmured.

“Don’t,” he said. “Let’s never treat it like something ordinary.”

She looked up at him then, eyes glowing.

He rested his forehead against hers.

“And if I’m on my best behavior,” he whispered, “you’ll still be laughing at me when we’re old and wrinkled and terrifying to the servants.”

Her eyes crinkled. “Terrifying?”

“Wicked,” he amended. “Delightfully improper.”

She nodded solemnly. “Like leaving our own wedding reception before the pudding?”

He grinned. “Exactly like that.”

The carriage jolted gently forward. London passed by their windows, but neither of them looked.

They were too busy laughing.

Too in love to look away.

And as the bells faded behind them and the world opened before them, Henry pressed a kiss to her cheek and murmured, “Let this be the beginning of everything.”

“I love you,” she said.

His breath caught. Then he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, slow and certain.

“And I am yours,” he whispered. “Utterly. In every possible way.”

And together, they rode toward the future, his hand in hers, and the world at last unfolding.

The End?