Page 122 of Corrupting his Duchess

Gretchen gasped. “Oh, how wickedly convenient.”

Julia sat up straighter. “You mean to say His Grace went to the Archbishop himself?”

“Or had someone go,” Anna said. “I’m not entirely sure, but the license arrived yesterday.”

Heather’s eyes went wide. “That’s terribly romantic.”

“It’s terribly fast,” Julia muttered, but she was smiling too. “Even for a duke.”

Gretchen waggled her brows. “And you don’t look the least bit sorry about it.”

Anna said nothing. She only reached for the ribbon again and looped it between her fingers, her smile softening at the edges.

Julia eyed her. “You’re… glowing.”

“I am not.”

“Oh, she is,” Gretchen said. “You can always tell when a woman has been thoroughly ruined.”

Anna choked on her tea.

Heather blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” Julia said quickly, elbowing Gretchen.

Anna covered her face with her hands, laughing despite herself. “You are all impossible.”

Heather said from the corner, where she was perched beside the window, watching the bustle with bright eyes. “Dukes must have access to things the rest of us don’t.”

“Like efficient bishops,” murmured Julia.

“Or conviction,” Gretchen added, batting her eyes at Anna.

Anna’s cheeks flamed, but she said nothing. Instead, she reached for a piece of lace she had no intention of stitching and tried to look thoughtful.

“Don’t tease,” Heather said, though she was grinning. “She’s going to be a duchess.”

“She’s already glowing like one,” said Julia. “Which is infuriating, because I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a week and I look like I’ve been dragged through a milliner’s cupboard.”

Anna laughed softly, feeling the sound deep in her chest.

“Have you decided what flowers you’ll carry?” Heather asked, looking up. “Mrs. Leeds said she could get white lilacs from her cousin’s greenhouse, but you might prefer peonies. They mean bashfulness.”

“I’m afraid I haven't thought about it,” Anna said, amused.

“Lilacs,” said Julia firmly. “They mean ‘first love.’ Very appropriate.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gretchen groaned. “Let’s not pretend this is some girlish fantasy. She’s marrying a duke. It’s the most practical thing any of us could do.”

It was the morning of her wedding. For a moment, she lay still beneath the weight of her coverlet, the room dim with early winter light. Her fingers curled into the edge of the sheet– fine, but frayed from age. She'd slept in this room for most of her life. Woken to the same wainscoted walls, the soft creak of the window frame, the faint sound of street vendors stirring the city awake.

And now, just before it changed, it all felt different. Quieter.

Her slippers were cold when she stepped into them. The fire had burned low. She wrapped herself in her shawl and padded toward the small washbasin, pouring the water with careful hands. She did not know if brides were meant to feel like this, so full of something she couldn’t name. Joy, certainly. But also a kind of ache, like the last page of a beloved book.

Anna stood by the window in her nightdress and shawl, the air still cool, the city not yet fully awake. Across the room, her wedding gown hung from the wardrobe, all ivory silk and luminous in the pale light.

There was a knock.