Page 7 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
Chapter Three
“I, Leonard, take thee, Beatrice, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The Duke’s voice resonated through the chapel with uncompromising clarity; each word was pronounced with such precision that one might have mistaken it for a military command rather than a sacred vow.
His blue eyes, fixed on Beatrice’s face, revealed nothing of his thoughts as he slipped the golden band onto her finger, a simple circle that now bound her irrevocably to this enigmatic stranger.
Three days had passed since her aborted wedding to Philip, three days of hurried preparations and whispered speculation throughout the ton. The Duke had been true to his word,securing a special license with remarkable efficiency, allowing this hastily arranged ceremony to proceed without impediment.
The chapel was adorned much as it had been for her previous attempt at matrimony, though the guest list had contracted further still. Beatrice’s immediate family occupied the pews.
As for the Duke, he had invited a single gentleman whom Beatrice had learned was Adrian Threapleton, the Marquess of Tillfield.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the vicar announced, his weathered face betraying a hint of bewilderment at the unusual circumstances surrounding this union.
The Duke stepped forward, his towering frame casting Beatrice in shadow. With deliberate movements, he lifted her veil and regarded her with cool assessment before leaning down and pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was perfectly timed to satisfy proprietyandsuggest genuine passion.
Yet, despite its brevity, Beatrice felt an unexpected warmth spread through her at the contact.
Merely the tension of the moment, she told herself.
As they turned to face the assembled witnesses, now officially Duke and Duchess of Stagmore, Beatrice caught sight of Isabella’s stormy expression. Her twin’s disapproval waspalpable, a silent accusation that cut through the chapel’s reverent atmosphere.
The subsequent proceedings passed in a blur of formal congratulations and subdued conversation. No wedding breakfast had been arranged; there would be no celebration of this pragmatic alliance. Instead, the Duke’s carriage awaited outside, prepared for their immediate departure to his country estate.
“Remember what I said,” Isabella whispered fiercely as she embraced Beatrice before their departure.
Breaking from their embrace, she turned her attention to the Duke, who stood nearby, deep in conversation with the Marquess of Tillfield.
“Your Grace,” she called, her voice carrying clearly despite its controlled volume, “should any harm come to my sister, you will answer to me.”
The Duke regarded her with the same impassive expression he seemed to reserve for all interactions, merely inclining his head in acknowledgment of her threat. “Your concern is noted, Lady Isabella.”
“It is not concern, Your Grace, but a promise,” Isabella retorted, maintaining eye contact with a boldness that few would dare display to a man of his rank.
Beatrice moved quickly to intervene, placing a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. “Bella, please.”
Before the situation could escalate further, their stepmother approached, her serene countenance a balm to the simmering tension.
“My dear Beatrice,” the Duchess of Ironstone said, embracing her stepdaughter with genuine affection, “we’ll miss you dearly. Please, feel free to visit whenever you please. Our home is still yours, no matter where you are.”
“Thank you, Christine,” Beatrice replied, grateful for her unwavering support throughout the tumultuous events of the past few days.
Her father stepped forward next, his usual severity softened by paternal tenderness as he gazed on her.
“You have conducted yourself with dignity throughout this… unusual situation,” he said, his voice low enough so that only she could hear. “I am proud of you, Bea.”
Beatrice gave him a small smile, her chest filling with warmth. “Thank you, Father.”
Henry and Eleanor pressed forward then, their youthful enthusiasm providing a welcome respite from the strained formality that had characterized the proceedings. Eleanor flung her arms around Beatrice’s waist with characteristic abandon.
“Will you write to us from your new home?” she asked, her bright eyes wide with anticipation. “Henry says it’s a terribly grand estate with a maze in the gardens!”
“Of course I will write, dearest,” Beatrice promised, smoothing a hand over her half-sister’s dark golden curls. “And perhaps you might visit when we are settled.”
Henry stepped forward with all the ceremony his eleven years could muster, bowing low. “Congratulations, Your Grace,” he said, his voice measured, almost stiff with formality, “on your—on your marriage. I wish you every—every happiness.”
Beatrice couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at her lips. “Oh, Henry,” she said, kneeling slightly to meet his gaze.