Page 8

W ith one little comment, the Duke had made Dorothy question everything.

He was, indeed, the reclusive Duke that had been the subject of discussion at the ball, and Dorothy was to marry him.

She did not know the extent to which her life would change, but even if he had no qualms about her leaving her new home she did not like that he would not be accompanying her.

Though not very well versed in the ways of the ton, she knew what was said when one member of a marriage attended an event without the other.

They were seen as unfortunate, and assumptions were made that their marriage was miserable.

Dorothy did not want that for herself, and so if it came to it she would not attend at all.

It upset her greatly, as she had enjoyed events; they gave her time with her friends, and even if she was not successful in other endeavors it was at least something, and she would no longer have that.

She sighed, looking at herself in the mirror and adjusting her wedding gown.

A special license had been acquired at the Duke's request. He claimed there had been no need to wait, her father explained, and so the wedding day had been arranged for two weeks after the promenade.

She had thought her parents would be proud of her for doing so well that he wished to marry her as quickly as possible, but they had said nothing, as though she had only done what they had expected and nothing more.

Her mother entered as she thought about that.

"How are you feeling?"

"Nervous."

"That is normal. Every bride feels like this on her wedding day, even the ones that adore their husbands."

"That makes me feel a little better, I suppose. Do I look all right?"

"You do. The modiste has worked wonders with this gown, has she not?"

She had, indeed. Dorothy was unsure of how she had done it, but she had made the gown in such a way that her flaws were hidden away from view. She turned in the mirror to look at herself from the side, and winced at the fact that her soft stomach poked through.

"Yes," her mother sighed, "the diet did not work as well as I had hoped. The modiste seemed to know that, though."

"It appears so. I am sorry, Mother."

"Do not be. It is not your fault that you look like this. I blame your sister."

Eleanor seemed to be blamed for most things, but Dorothy tried not to mind that; it was better that her sister took it than her.

"Will there be many people in attendance today?"

"Your father has invited many members of the ton, but as far as I know there will be nobody from the Duke's family there."

"I see. Has he told you why?"

"No, although I can make my assumptions. Shame, I suppose,"

"Shame?"

"Of course. He is not marrying a prized jewel of a young lady, after all. He is marrying you."

Her tone had been so sweet that had Dorothy not been listening she would have thought her mother was complimenting her.

Unfortunately, she had been listening and she had not been surprised by what she had heard.

It did not matter what she did. She could have been marrying a prince, and her mother still would have been unable to say something kind to her.

She had always been undeserving of her family's affection, and that would never change.

"Come along now," she continued. "We must leave for the church."

Dorothy nodded, biting her lip.

The carriage ride was endless. It continued on and on, and her parents watched her the entire way.

She had fixed a smile on her face, an attempt to feign pleasure about what was to happen, but she knew it was not convincing.

Fortunately, she also knew that her parents did not care how she was feeling.

As long as she made it down the aisle and recited her vows, they would be content.

She could no longer see herself, save for her reflection in the window, but she became all too aware of how she looked.

Her sleeves began to dig into her arms, stinging, and her corset had been fastened too tightly and caused her breathing to become shallow.

She tapped her foot on the floor rapidly, trying to think of anything else but how dreadful she felt.

She was not a beautiful lady worthy of a duke, even a recluse.

"Do not disappoint me today," her father said in a calm but firm voice. "I expect you to do this well. It is not difficult, only a few vows."

"Yes, Father."

"And walk properly. You are to stand as tall as you can, even if you are not…"

He trailed off, but Dorothy knew what he had meant.

"And smile, a nicer one than that. You are supposed to be filled with joy."

Yes, Dorothy thought, her wedding day was supposed to be joyous, and her smile was supposed to be genuine and warm.

She was supposed to be in love with the gentleman that she was marrying, but she was not.

It was expected that she would at least pretend to be, but she was not a good liar.

It was not possible for her, no matter how hard she tried.

"Are you not happy?" her mother asked. "You ought to be. This is everything that a young lady could possibly ask for."

"It is, I know. I am happy. It is all simply overwhelming. I have never been the center of attention like this, and I do not know what to do."

"You will do what is expected of you and nothing less. I have given too much to this match for you to ruin it, and so you will not."

Dorothy nodded, and decided that she would not disclose any other fears about what was to come, as they quite clearly did not care.

They reached the church, and her mother entered, leaving Dorothy with her father. She willed him not to say anything to her, and mercifully he did not. The wait continued, and she suddenly found herself quite eager to begin the ceremony so that it could be done with.

At last, the time came. She took her father's arm, and began the walk down the aisle.

She could see the tall and broad man waiting for her at the altar, and she wondered what he was thinking.

Was he trying not to recoil at the sight of her?

Was he rehearsing his vows? Was he simply waiting for it all to be done with?

Thinking helped her reach the altar quicker.

Once there, the ceremony began. The Vicar began speaking, but Dorothy was not listening.

All that she could hear was her father's voice, instructing her to smile and remain silent unless spoken to.

She looked up at the Duke, but he was not making such efforts.

His face was stern, serious, in a way that she had never seen.

She thought that he was regretting his decision, and that he would turn on his heel and run out of the church if given half a chance, but the ceremony continued and his feet remained planted there.

"Therefore," the Vicar proclaimed, "if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."

Dorothy could think of a reason or two, and she could see from the smirk forming on the Duke's face that he also could, but no objections were made.

Dorothy wondered, for a moment, what would become of her if by chance someone had one.

She would have likely been cast out of her home, a disappointment forever and always, and sent to the Highlands to be with her equally dreadful sister.

She wondered for a moment if that would have been such a terrible thing.

"Morgan Lockheart, wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

It was time for the vows. All that they had to do was utter two simple words, and then it would all be done with, but Dorothy did not think she could do it.

She could feel her throat closing and it was not even her turn to speak.

She looked at her groom, and wondered if he would take this opportunity to change his mind after all.

The Duke looked down at the Vicar, then to the guests, and then back to her.

"I will," he said at last, and Dorothy swore she heard a sigh of relief.

"Dorothy Godwin, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?

Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live? "

"I will," she replied, perhaps too quickly.

It was the only way she could have responded at all.

The second part came, the part they had had to memorize, and both said it at quite the pace.

Dorothy was pleased that she was not the only one to have done so, though she knew it must have looked strange to those in attendance.

Neither one of them were comfortable, and they quite clearly both wished to be anywhere else but there, but that could not have been a surprise to anyone.

Regardless, it did not matter, for the rings were then exchanged and the ceremony was over with and they were wed. She was a wife, a duchess, and now living the life that many young ladies would have done anything to lead.

She should have been grateful, and in many ways she was, but in some ways she wished she could have simply declared spinsterhood as Cecilia had done. She felt out of place among the congregation, the group of perfectly prim and proper guests.

"Congratulations!" Beatrice said brightly at the wedding breakfast, once they found one another. "You look so beautiful."

"I do not. I look like a strange statue, especially with how tense I felt."

"Even if you did, statues are beautiful. You must give yourself more appreciation. It is difficult being a bride."

"How would you know?" she laughed. "You are not yet married."

"Indeed, but I have been to many weddings. Nobody ever seems completely happy to be at the altar, even the most blissfully in love couples."

Dorothy smiled, trying to believe her friend.

She had not known Beatrice for as long as she had known Emma and Cecilia, but she knew that they were the most like one another.

Though she did not say it, she hoped that Beatrice would find a man that made her as happy as she deserved to be, one that would encourage her to bake even if it was an odd hobby to have.

"Oh!" Beatrice gasped. "Your husband approaches. I shall leave you both be."

Beatrice curtseyed quickly to the Duke before leaving. Dorothy willed her to stay, so that conversation might have been easier, but she did not.

"That was all right, was it not?" she said in an attempt to make conversation.

"Yes, it was a perfectly fine wedding. Do you know any of the people that were in attendance?"

She wanted to say yes, that her friends were there, but after the way he had reacted to their existence she was reluctant to do so.

"A few of them."

"Is that to say the vast majority were for your father's sake?"

"It would seem so, yes. Did you know anybody?"

"I do not know many people, and I have no family to speak of. I had left your father in charge of inviting guests. I hope that he has found his endeavor successful."

"You truly do not like social climbers, do you?"

"I cannot stand them. Shall we go?"

"Now?"

"Yes. I would like to return to my– our household. There is much to be done."

"I thought that it was prudent for us to stay and thank our guests."

"And I thought that part of your vows was to obey me."

Dorothy took a step back, shocked by how he was speaking to her.

This was not the gentleman that she had met in the garden, nor was he the man that had taken her on a promenade and enquired about her passions and promised her a tutor.

He had, indeed, changed the moment they were married, and she hated it.

"I will leave with you in a moment," she nodded solemnly. "I wish to say goodbye to my friends, first, especially if I shall be forbidden from seeing them again."

She quickly made her way to them, and tried with everything in her to keep her composure, though she knew that it was faltering.

"I knew that this would happen," Cecilia sighed. "Come now, you did so well."

"He hates me," she whimpered. "The Duke hates me."

"He does not," Emma assured her. "He is as nervous as you are, believe me. Levi was just the same. You mustn't let this overwhelm you. It is a long and difficult day, but it shall pass and the two of you shall grow to like one another, and–"

"I will not be seeing any of you," she interrupted.

"Not for a while, at least. He is the recluse, the Duke that locks himself away that you were talking about.

He refuses to attend events, and it is not as though I can go to them alone.

I will be spending my days tending to my household and very little else, especially as I learn what to do.

I will not be able to see you for a long time. "

"Oh, Dot," Beatrice said gently, "that is not true. We can visit you whenever you please."

"He will not allow it," she whispered. "You did not see the look in his eye when he told me he dislikes most people. I do not know what I am going to do."

"Well, stay with us for a while, and we can talk about it."

"I cannot. I must leave with him. Now."

She turned to see him waiting for her expectantly.

"I have to go," she continued, straightening herself and wearing that same rehearsed smile. "I will write to you."

She sighed as she returned to her husband, wishing that she could do more.