Page 3 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 3

Three weeks later…

T he days had crawled by, each filled with fittings, wedding planning, and the tightening noose of inevitability. Now the wedding gown chafed where the whalebone pressed tightly against her ribs, its stiff silk layers suffocating. Frances sat motionless, her hands clenched in her lap, wondering how lace could feel so much like chains.

The bells tolled.

They echoed through London like a death knell, their mournful chime rolling across rooftops and cobbled streets, shaking the soot from chimney stacks and cutting through the morning mist. They did not sound like celebration. Not to Frances. Each toll rattled in her bones like a sentence passed, echoing the stern voice of her father when he had announced her engagement—cold, final, leaving no room for argument or appeal. Her fingers twisted anxiously in her lap, betraying the fragility of her composure. She clenched them tightly, nails biting into her palms, but even that sharp sting could not dispel the chill of dread crawling up her spine. A heaviness settled in her stomach, thick and cold, twisting with each reverberation. A dreadful rhythm marking the countdown to surrender.

From her vantage point in the antechamber of St. George’s, she could see the spires rising high into the grey April sky, their stone facades wreathed in damp fog. The windows of the chamber were latticed and grimy, casting the room in a muted, distorted light. A fire crackled in the hearth behind her, too warm for the closeness of the room, and yet her fingers felt cold.

Her wedding gown—pale pink with silver embroidered lilies—was beautiful, chosen not by her, but by her mother and Lady Cranford in a well-meaning flurry of silk swatches and eager consultations. It was meant to flatter, to impress, to display Frances like a prized gem to the ton. But as she stared down at the delicate embroidery, all she could see was constraint. The gown had never been hers. It had always belonged to someone else’s vision of her destiny—stitched with their hopes, not her own, each thread pulling her further from her own desires. She shifted on the worn bench, restless as the seconds ticked toward a future she had not chosen. Would never choose.

The maid behind her tightened the final button of her gloves with a solemnity more fitting for a funeral than a wedding.

“You’ll do, my lady,” she said softly.

Frances nodded but said nothing. What could she say? Thank you for making me into an ornament? I am terrified? That the dress chafed, not just at the seams but at her soul? Words crowded her throat, all of them too raw, too real. So she remained silent, swallowing every unspoken truth and wondering when, or if, she would ever be allowed to speak freely again.

Somewhere outside, the crowd was gathering. Nobility. Society. Her father’s allies. Cranford’s future friends and family. None of them had come for love. They had come for spectacle, for the strategic merger of power and wealth wrapped in the illusion of matrimony.

A soft knock at the door drew her out of her trance.

“Ten minutes,” came the footman’s voice.

Frances turned toward the mirror, the movement instinctive. Her mother had once stood behind her in this very posture, years ago, brushing out her hair for an afternoon picnic, humming softly to calm Frances’s nerves. That woman—the one who whispered that a girl must smile no matter how stiff the stays, how unwanted the partner—was long gone, buried beneath layers of duty and disappointment. But the memory rose now, unbidden, brushing against her heart. She studied the reflection in the glass, searching for the girl she used to be. But even her defiance felt threadbare, her courage thinned to near transparency.

Johnathan had refused her. And though she had left his estate with fire in her eyes, it had dimmed with each passing hour. There had been no word. No carriage racing to her rescue. No footsteps echoing through the night. Just silence.

She rose, not out of duty, but something quieter—resignation, yes, yet threaded with a defiant sorrow that steeled her spine as she moved. If she could not halt what was coming, she would at least meet it standing tall.

Each step felt heavy as she walked to the door. One of her father’s footmen waited to escort her to the front of the chapel. Not a friend. Not her mother. Just a hired man, meant to ensure she did not flee. The symbolism was not lost on her.

The corridor outside the antechamber flickered with dim light from iron sconces, their flames wavering in the draughty passageway. Elongated shadows danced, across faded tapestries depicting saints and martyrs—silent witnesses in sorrowful hues. Frances’s footsteps rang softly against the cold stone floor, each step drawing her closer to the altar, to the life being chosen for her.

The organ began to play.

Frances’s throat tightened.

The doors opened.

She stood framed in the doorway, bathed in sunshine, face unreadable. A dozen heads turned. And at the far end of the aisle, Viscount Cranford waited.

He was dressed impeccably, of course. A dark coat with tails, an ivory cravat, a carnation in his lapel. His expression was pleasant. Controlled. Possessive.

She took one step forward.

Something tugged at the edge of her awareness. A tremor in the air… then the doors at the back of the church burst open. A gust of wind tore through the chapel, scattering rose petals. Guests turned, startled cries ringing through the chapel.

Johnathan Seton stood there—his chest rising with labored breath, hair damp with sweat and wind, his cravat askew, and eyes blazing with barely contained emotion. The fury etched across his face was not reckless; it was purposeful—a man come to war.

Frances’s heart stopped. Then surged. Her breath caught painfully in her throat, and her fingers curled around the bouquet she had not realized she was still holding. A thousand thoughts crashed into one another—was it real? Was she imagining him?

He must have bribed the servants, or trailed the invitations. However, he found her—it no longer mattered.

Her breath caught. This was real. He had come.

She felt herself sway, then still, the force of his presence anchoring her to the moment.

She had not dared to hope. But here he was, wild and furious and gloriously out of place—and he had come for her.

His coat flared open, the lapels flapping slightly, as if he had ridden hard and fast. His dark hair was tousled from wind and exertion, a lock falling across his brow. His face, set in determined lines, held no apology—only fury, controlled and blazing like tempered steel. Beautiful, unrepentant fury.

“Frances.”

The whisper rippled down the aisle, first in disbelief, then scandal.

“Frances!” he repeated, louder now, stalking forward, every stride thunder.

Cranford stepped from the altar.

“What is the meaning of this?” he hissed.

Frances’s legs refused to carry her forward. Her knees locked, and her lungs clutched at the air as if it had turned to smoke. The chapel around her spun ever so slightly, the bright morning light at her back now feeling like a spotlight, harsh and exposing. Her breath hitched—a shallow, stuttering sound—and for a moment, it felt as though the entire world had paused with her.

Johnathan’s gaze locked with hers. He did not look away. Not once.

“You do not have to do this,” he said.

“This is outrageous,” Lord Morton shouted, shoving his way to the front. “Remove him at once!”

Johnathan stopped halfway to Frances. He turned, slowly, toward her father. “You would force her to marry a man with a history of cruelty and control? A man whose reputation whispers of bruises and broken spirits?” Johnathan’s voice cracked through the sanctity of the chapel like a whip, and Lord Morton’s face reddened, his mouth tightening into a sneer.

The older man took a step forward, fists clenched. “You overstep,” he growled, voice low and quivering with fury. “This is my daughter. My decision. You know nothing of what is required to protect a family’s name.”

Gasps again. Murmurs rose like thunderclouds.

Cranford’s face twisted. “You have no right?—”

“I have every right,” Johnathan said, his voice cutting like a blade. “She came to me. She begged me for help. I turned her away once. I will not make that mistake again.”

Frances took a step toward him.

The chapel blurred.

Not from tears.

From clarity.

She did not care what society said. What her father shouted. What Cranford growled through clenched teeth. She would not live her life in fear.

“Johnathan,” she said, her voice steady. “Please… take me away.”

An uproar rose behind her.

But she was already running.

Toward the one man who truly saw her. Who heard her when no one else would.

And when she reached him, his hand caught hers, strong and certain, and they fled through the open church doors into the chaos of London. Behind them, the church erupted in a cacophony of scandalized shouts and gasps. Someone shouted Frances’s name—was it her father? A clergyman called out, voice lost in the swell of confusion. One of Cranford’s men surged forward, only to be halted by the wave of shocked guests parting in stunned disbelief. The rustle of skirts, the scrape of boots against polished floors, the rising storm of murmured outrage—all of it blurred into a single, pulsing beat of adrenaline as Frances ran, breath hitching, heart hammering, hand clutched tight in Johnathan’s.

They did not stop running until they reached the corner of the square, breathless and flushed, a chaos of carriage wheels and scandalized whispers echoing in their wake. Frances’s skirts tangled around her legs as she glanced over her shoulder. No one had followed. Not yet.

Johnathan pulled her into an alleyway between two buildings, pressing her gently against the brick wall as he peered around the corner. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and though his grip on her hand was firm, it trembled.

She looked up at him, heart thudding. “What now?”

He did not answer right away. Instead, he studied her as if trying to memorize every line of her face. “Are you certain, Frances?”

She nodded. “There is nothing left for me there.”

He kissed her hard and fast. “Then we ride,” He said. “Now.”

They hurried through the streets, avoiding the main roads, keeping to the shadows. He led her to a mew tucked behind a shuttered row of shops, where his horse and a hired coach waited. When the coachman saw them, his eyes widened, but he climbed down without question. Johnathan gave swift instructions, voice low but urgent. Within minutes, they were rolling through the city, heading north.

Inside the coach, the silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. Frances stared out the window, the city passing by in a blur of grey stone and glistening cobblestones. Beside her, Johnathan sat rigid, his jaw clenched, his hand resting near hers but not touching.

“Do you think they will come after us?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said simply. “But not quickly. They will spend hours trying to get their bearings, or scattered across London seeking our trail.”

Frances exhaled. “I am unsure where we are going.”

“I am not,” he said.

That was enough for now.

As the city faded behind them, and the countryside opened wide and green, Frances felt the tension begin to unravel from her shoulders. Not gone. But looser. She was not safe yet. But she was free.

And beside her sat the only man who she had ever truly believed in.

The journey north was long, the kind of slow passage through shifting landscapes that blurred one hour into the next. As London disappeared behind them, Frances began to breathe again. Not deeply—not yet—but fuller than she had in days. The coach wheels rumbled over the road, and rain began to fall in soft misty sheets, streaking the windows.

Frances rested her head against the windowpane, her fingers tightening around the edge of the velvet seat. Her heart still raced, not from fear now, but from the sheer audacity of what they had done.

Finally, Johnathan spoke. “You should rest. We will not be able to travel log by carriage. Not if we wish to travel fast.”

Frances turned her gaze toward him. “Do you think they will find us? Force me back?”

He did not answer immediately. “If they do, they will wish they had not.”

She blinked. Not in fear, but in surprise. “You are quite certain.”

“Deadly,” he said. Then a pause. “I will not let them take you back. You have my word.”

There was no bravado in his tone. Only promise. And that promise threaded itself into the air between them, a lifeline she had not realized she needed.

When they stopped that evening at a modest inn west of Cambridge, the air was thick with mist and mud, and their clothes clung to them as they descended from the coach. Frances’s gown was no longer pristine, her gloves damp and spotted, but she did not care. She felt more like herself in that moment than she had in weeks. Not Lady Frances Rowley, betrothed pawn of the ton, but the girl who had once stolen her brother’s boots to ride bareback through the fields, who had climbed trees and laughed too loudly, who had dreamed of adventures that did not end at the altar. That girl was not gone. She was resurfacing, mud-streaked and weary, but alive.

The innkeeper took one look at them and raised a bushy brow. Johnathan placed a few shillings on the counter without hesitation. “We will need the room at the back. And privacy.”

Frances blushed despite herself.

The room was small but clean, with a bed of modest size and a single window overlooking the rain-dappled field beyond. A fire crackled in the grate. Frances stood near it, her hands outstretched, trying to chase away the chill.

Johnathan poured water from the pitcher into the basin and dipped a cloth. “Sit.”

She obeyed without argument, her legs aching from the journey. He knelt before her, gently taking one of her mud-slicked shoes from her foot. The warmth of his fingers brushing her ankle sent a flutter down her spine.

“You did not have to come for me,” she said softly.

He glanced up, water glistening on his lashes. “Did I not?”

Frances swallowed. “You said no. I thought you meant it.”

His hands stilled. “I meant to protect you. I thought leaving you to marry Cranford was the right thing. That your name mattered more than your freedom. But when I thought of you at the altar... Frances, I knew.”

“Knew what?”

He looked up at her, voice low. “I would do anything to see you happy.”

The words settled into the space between them, warm and devastating. Her lips parted slightly, but no words emerged. A hand fluttered to her chest, as though to still the rapid pounding of her heart. Her eyes widened, shimmering with a heat she had not expected, the intensity of his words stealing the air from her lungs.

He set the cloth aside. “Rest. We have more road ahead tomorrow.”

But she could not look away from him. From the man who had broken her heart once and now held it so carefully it hurt.

She rose slowly, walked to the window, and stared out at the rain, letting out a long, slow breath as though releasing days of pent-up tension. Each drop of rain trickling down the glass mirrored her own quiet resolve, washing away lingering doubts and leaving clarity in their wake. She saw the path ahead—uncertain, perilous, but hers. She was not running anymore. She was walking into something new—wild, terrifying, and thrilling. “You know they will never let us go quietly.”

He clasped her hands in his. “Fear not, I will protect you. You have my word. Now you need only trust this scoundrel.”

“You are not a scoundrel.” She brushed a kiss against his cheek.

Inside, a shift had begun—subtle but certain. Where fear once reigned, a fragile sense of agency stirred. The ache of betrayal no longer overshadowed the glimmer of trust she was beginning to rebuild—not only in Johnathan, but in herself. She no longer moved through life, merely reacting to others. Now, she reached for it—boldly, deliberately. And that, she realized, was the most terrifying—and exhilarating—change of all.

As she began to lean into that spark of hope, a sudden creak echoed from the hallway beyond the door—footsteps, hesitant and muffled. Her breath caught sharply, muscles tensing as her gaze snapped to the door. She glanced toward Johnathan, meeting his equally wary gaze. The past was not done chasing them. Not yet.