Page 17 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)
CHAPTER 17
T wo days later, they stopped in an English village.
They had already said the words.
Once, in haste. With wind-chapped lips and ash-stained clothes and hearts beating.
But this time, it was their choice—standing in a church, motivated by love alone.
Frances stood in front of the mirror in the little room off the chapel, the simple muslin gown she had chosen brushing against her ankles. There were no silks. No diamonds. No servants or society matrons to fasten her hair and whisper about dowries and reputation. Just her and the moment—and the weightless, wondrous certainty that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Her breath caught as her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, anticipation curling tight and electric in her limbs. Not dread. Not fear. Just anticipation.
She touched the small sapphire ring on her finger—the one Johnathan had given her beneath the moon—and smiled.
Someone knocked once on the door.
She turned. “Come in.”
It was Johnathan.
He looked devastatingly handsome in a charcoal waistcoat and a fresh cravat tied with more care than he had probably ever given a cravat in his life. His gaze found her and softened. His breath caught. “Frances…”
She arched a brow, feigning calm. “You are not supposed to see me before the ceremony.”
“I could not wait.”
She tried to scowl, but failed miserably. “If this marriage starts with you breaking tradition?—”
He crossed to her in two long strides and kissed her forehead. “Then it starts exactly the way it should.”
She let her hands rest against his chest. “We are really doing this.”
He brushed his fingers over her cheek. “We are doing it the right way.”
And for the first time in weeks, there was nothing between them but stillness. No frantic gallop of horses or breathless declarations. Just a slow exhale of relief, of peace.
“I had a dream once,” she said, “when I was a girl. I imagined standing in a little chapel. No orchestra, no gowns, no guests. Just me, and someone who saw me—not as a bride or a name, but as a person.”
He touched her chin gently. “Then we are about to make your dream come true.”
She smiled. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”
“Marrying you is the most sensible thing I have ever done. That is why I am doing it twice. No room for speculation. No room for anyone to deny the legitimacy of our union or our love for one another.”
Frances leaned in, their foreheads touching. “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“No matter what the world says after this… promise me you will not let me go.”
His hands tightened around her waist. “Frances, my love, I will spend every day of my life proving that I am the man who deserves to hold on.”
He gave a teasing grin.
“And also the man who makes the best tea in our household.”
She laughed, the sound bursting from her as she pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes shining.
He took her hand. “Shall we do it again?”
She laughed. “I suppose we must.”
The chapel was small—really, it was more a room with high windows and a simple altar carved of weathered wood—but to Frances, it felt like a cathedral.
The vicar stood beside the officiant, grinning as if he knew the whole truth of them. A few curious villagers had gathered quietly outside the window, but no one intruded. The air was warm, touched by late sunlight that filtered in through the panes.
Johnathan turned to face her, his expression steady.
He looked every inch the duke, but he wore none of that arrogance now. Only reverence.
“I am not here because I must be,” he said as they joined hands. “I am here because I cannot imagine a future without you. Because when I think of home, I think of your laughter. When I think of strength, I think of your defiance. And when I think of love—I think of you.”
Frances drew a sharp breath, her gaze briefly dropping as she pressed her lips together, willing them not to quiver. She held his hand tighter.
“I once thought love would be a burden. That to care for someone would be to surrender a piece of myself,” she said. “But then I met you again, and you reminded me that love—true love—does not take. It gives. It makes room.”
Her voice broke.
“You made room for me, Johnathan. Even when I was messy, and frightened, and furious. And now, I want to spend every day making room for you.”
The vicar closed his bible. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. Again.” He smiled.
They both nodded, smiling through the tears.
“You may kiss your bride.”
He did not wait.
And when his lips met hers, it was not a kiss of triumph or conquest. It was a kiss of peace. Of finally. Of yes.
Outside, the villagers clapped.
Inside, the world spun quiet and slow.
They had chosen one another—again.
Not under duress.
Not under pressure.
But in the stillness of love, where every vow could be whispered, and every tomorrow chosen freely.
They did not leave the chapel right away.
Instead, Johnathan pulled her gently into one of the back pews, lacing their fingers together as the soft golden light slanted through the high windows.
For a long while, they sat in silence.
Frances let her head rest against his shoulder, her gaze on the wooden floorboards beneath their feet, worn smooth by decades of whispered vows and quiet hopes. A tremor ran through her as the thought struck—how close they had come to losing all of this, to letting it slip away like mist at sunrise.
“I cannot stop thinking,” she murmured, “about how close we came to not having this.”
Johnathan’s thumb brushed slow circles along the back of her hand. “We did not have much time to think back then.”
“No,” she said. “Just time to run.”
A pause.
“Is there anything you wish we had done differently?”
He turned to look at her. “Running?”
She nodded.
Johnathan tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the question. “I regret that it was necessary. That you had to ask for my help in the middle of the night. That you were afraid. But I do not regret where it brought us.”
A tightness coiled in Frances’s throat, and she lowered her gaze, blinking as she drew a slow breath to steady herself.
“I am still angry at my father,” she admitted. “And Cranford. And the whole structure that made them believe they had the right to trade me like a coin purse.”
Johnathan’s grip tightened. “You do not have to forgive them. Not now. Maybe not ever.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “But I do not want to let that anger eat at my future, either.”
He smiled faintly. “You are stronger than I ever was.”
Frances sat up straighter, meeting his gaze. “That is not true. You gave me the choice. You did not try to claim me. You gave me the chance to walk away.”
“I almost did not,” he said, his voice low. “That morning at the church—when I took your hand—I did not know if I was rescuing you… or stealing you.”
“You were saving both of us.”
They leaned into each other again, the space between them warm, solid, real.
A moment later, Frances gave a small laugh. “You know what is odd?”
“What?”
“I am not afraid of London anymore.”
He blinked. “No?”
“No,” she said. “Let them wrinkle their noses and gossip over tea. Let them exclude us. I have a husband who knows me. I have a name I chose. And I have something most if them will never understand.”
Johnathan grinned. “A sharp tongue and no patience for fools?”
“That too,” she said, elbowing him gently. “But also… freedom. Love.”
She glanced down at her lap, brushing a finger along the sapphire ring. “In truth, I pity them.”
“Indeed,” Johnathan said, then pressed a kiss to her hand.
They left the chapel just before noon, the sun high above and the sky a wide expanse of unblemished blue. The villagers outside offered nods and smiles, and the vicar—still standing at the corner of the building—gave them a small salute.
“No more weddings today, I hope?” Johnathan asked him with a wink.
The man chuckled. “Not unless one of the goats seeks a match.”
They laughed and wandered back toward the inn, but Johnathan tugged her gently off the path, toward the edge of the fields behind the stables.
“Come with me,” he said. “There is something I want to show you.”
“Johnathan, we have to pack.”
“You will thank me.”
He led her through the tall grass and past a half-crumbling stone wall, and there, just beyond, was a wide field opening up into a ridge overlooking the hills they had crossed to reach Scotland. The breeze carried the scent of lavender and wild mint. Bees hovered lazily over the brush.
Frances stilled.
“Oh.”
Johnathan grinned. “I thought it deserved a proper goodbye.”
They stood at the crest of the ridge, looking back at the path they had ridden so frantically, so fearfully, just days ago. The same hills. The same trees. But everything had changed.
“Do you remember the night we made camp by that crooked tree?” Frances asked softly, pointing to a knot of twisted oaks in the valley below.
He nodded. “You told me I snored.”
“You did.”
“I was trying to impress you with my rugged wilderness survival.”
She laughed. “It was adorable.”
They stood quietly, hand in hand, until Frances spoke again.
“Will it always be like this, do you think? Scandal chasing us. The past nipping at our heels?”
Johnathan turned to her.
“No,” he said. “One day, we will be the ones leading. Not running.”
Frances stared at him. “Leading where?”
“Anywhere you like.”
And just like that, the ache in her chest eased.
Because she believed him.
The walk back to the inn was quiet. It was the stillness of two people who had said all that mattered—and now only wished to be near one another.
When they reached their room, the midday light had turned buttery and soft, slanting across the wooden floor. The hearth had burned low, but the coals still held a glow. Frances set her bonnet on the bed and began gathering the last of her things—her brush, her books, the ribbon she had worn that night they danced under the stars.
Johnathan leaned against the doorframe, watching her.
She looked up, catching the faint tilt of his head and the softened curve of his lips. “You are staring.”
“I am memorizing.”
Frances raised an eyebrow. “Memorizing what?”
He stepped into the room, his expression suddenly serious in a way that tugged at something deep inside her. “You. Here. In this moment. Before we return to the world.”
She stilled.
“I want to remember you like this,” he said, “before the gossip columns and the invitations and the stares. Before, we are the subject of someone else’s narrative again.”
Frances crossed the room slowly and took his hand. “Then remember this too.”
She drew him close, pressing her forehead to his.
“I love you,” she said softly. “Not because you saved me. But because you did not ask me to be anyone but myself.”
His arms closed around her, the warmth of his coat seeping into her skin as she pressed her face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of wood-smoke and something uniquely him. “And I love you, Frances Seton, Duchess of Hargate, because you made me remember who I was supposed to be. Not the rake, not the duke. Just the man who could stand beside you and not flinch.”
They held each other, the quiet rhythm of their breath the only sound, as if the world outside had paused to give them this moment, suspended in golden stillness.
And when they pulled apart, the world felt quiet—but not empty.
Together, they finished packing.
They shared one last meal in the common room, smiling at the same innkeeper who had welcomed them nearly a sennight ago, before everything had changed. He offered them a wink and a bottle of blackberry wine “for the road.”
By dusk, the carriage was ready.
Frances stood just outside the inn, the sapphire on her finger catching the golden light. She watched the horses being harnessed, the wheels checked, the bags loaded.
A quiet thrill ran through her limbs, her breath catching as warmth curled low in her belly. No fear. Only anticipation.
Johnathan came to stand beside her, the breeze tugging at his coat as he looked out across the hills. The clouds shifted above them, casting soft shadows over the landscape as if even the sky paused to witness the moment.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded. “I think I have been ready since the moment you pulled me from that church.”
He looked at her, eyes full of something deeper than joy—something like awe. “I will never forget what it felt like to see you turn toward me instead of away.”
Frances reached for his hand and kissed the inside of his wrist, just above the pulse. “Then let us go show the world what we chose.”
Johnathan offered his hand, and Frances stepped up with a smile, skirts whispering against the polished step. Their hands remained joined as they settled side by side, the carriage swaying gently into motion.
As it pulled away, the village faded behind them, the chapel’s small spire dipping below the hill.
Frances rested her head on Johnathan’s shoulder.
And the carriage rolled on, carrying not a runaway bride and a reckless duke—but a wife and a husband, forging a new beginning, one chosen under starlight, sealed by fire, and held together by the unshakable truth of love.