Chapter One

“Three hours until I wed a woman I have known for ten days. Tell me, Garrett, is that madness or merely poor planning?”

His valet of seven years gave no answer, only attacked the cravat with the grim resolve of a man confronting a battlefield. Marcus Pemberton stood before the looking glass, shoulders taut as over-wound clockwork. This was the third attempt, and still the folds refused to lie as they ought. Garrett’s fingers moved with practised precision, but Marcus knew the fault was not his valet’s. It was his own blasted collarbones—or rather, the nerves that made every movement stiff and uncooperative.

He reached for his pocket watch with fingers that betrayed his struggle for composure. The dial blurred before his eyes, each minute dragging him nearer to Miss Catherine Beaumont, a woman he had known for exactly ten days.

He exhaled through his nose, lowering the watch with the air of a man uncertain whether time was friend or foe. Garrett gave a discreet cough.

“Waistcoat, my lord.”

Marcus blinked. He had been standing there like a stone carving, offering neither arm nor cooperation. He lifted his arms and murmured an apology. Garrett, unflappable as ever, assisted him into the waistcoat and began fastening the buttons with care.

The fine mirror before him reflected a figure that looked marginally respectable. The dark coat suited him well enough. His collar was crisp. The cravat bore no resemblance to the careless knots he usually tied himself. His hair, though resistant to combs, had been subdued. But the man staring back at him looked more like a nervous clerk than an earl.

Two weeks ago, he had stood in this very room, oblivious to the gathering storm. The library had been in a state of elegant chaos. Ancient coins jostled for space beside half-translated Latin inscriptions, and parchment scraps sat curled beside chipped fragments of Roman pottery. His desk had disappeared beneath correspondence, excavation reports, and five separate copies of Tacitus. And Mrs Thornberry, his loyal housekeeper, had stood in the centre of it all, her expression somewhere between horror and vindication.

That morning’s post had delivered the Society of Antiquaries’ reply to his own letter. He had written several weeks before, proposing that Penwood host their annual gathering, describing his recently elevated status within the field. By this, he had meant only the progress of his scholarship—his growing catalogue, his recognised translations. 

But the Society had understood otherwise. Their letter confirmed, in florid terms, that not only would the gathering be held at Penwood Manor, but that they looked forward ‘with particular anticipation to making the acquaintance of the Countess of Penwood, whose hospitality, refinement, and management would doubtless do justice to the occasion’.

Marcus had stared at that passage for a full minute before the implication took root. They believed him not merely elevated in scholarship, but soon to be elevated in domestic state as well. Worse still, they implied that such a change had been decisive in selecting Penwood as their host. A bachelor’s household might be tolerated for casual visits, but never for so elaborate an occasion.

He remembered the cold, overwhelming sensation in his chest as he realised years of labour and reputation, built in study halls and dig sites, could unravel before a single evening of scholars whispering about his “misrepresentation.” To correct them would be to confess that his elevation was only academic, not domestic—and what then? Rivalry was merciless in such circles. A scholar who could not govern his own household might be dismissed as unfit to order his evidence.

And so, with the peculiar clarity of one facing professional ruin, he considered his options. Mrs Thornberry had suggested engaging a temporary housekeeper of refinement. Marcus had shaken his head. No housekeeper, however competent, could be presented as a countess. If the Society expected a Lady Penwood, then a Lady Penwood there must be. 

Marriage, after all, was a matter he would have to address sooner or later. Better to settle it now, in service of both his domestic order and his scholarly standing. A practical arrangement, nothing more. With the same logic by which he might acquire a rare manuscript, he had resolved upon it. That very afternoon, he penned a letter to Thomas Beaumont, the barrister whose sister he recalled with unusual clarity: Catherine Beaumont, whose written advice on a misfiled deed had lingered in his memory for its precision—and for the way she had cited the Roman legal code.

Now, ten days later, he was to marry her.

Garrett stepped back, inspecting his handiwork with the same gravity he might apply to polishing boots or decoding an obscure cravat configuration from The Art of Dressing with Taste. Marcus ran a hand through his hair, immediately regretted it, and attempted to smooth the result.

“Would you care for a glass of sherry, my lord?” he asked.

Marcus looked at the decanter on the sideboard. He considered it for a moment, then shook his head.

“No, thank you,” he said.

Garrett inclined his head respectfully and moved to adjust the cuffs of the second coat, neatly laid upon the chair. Marcus returned to the mirror. He ought to appear calm, composed—stoic, even—as befitted an earl undertaking a necessary duty. Yet his stomach churned with a leaden dread, tempered by something far less definable. He did not fear Miss Beaumont. On the contrary, he had admired her composure, her brisk clarity of thought. She had visited Penwood twice since their agreement, and on both occasions had displayed a quiet efficiency that left him vaguely awed.

She had observed the state of the library without flinching. She had inquired into the guest list, the dining arrangements, even the plumbing, with such assured practicality that he had found himself content to follow her lead. The experience had been, most curiously, restful. 

And yet, this was marriage. It was no mere contract for land, nor the procurement of a new cabinet for antiquities. He would share his household with her. She would occupy the same halls, sit at the same table, and reside within the same estate. The presence of another person—one who might discern his flaws, his distractions, his midnight returns to the study—was a different beast, and he did not know how to brace himself for such scrutiny.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Garrett moved to the door and exchanged hushed words with the footman before turning back.

“The carriages have arrived, my lord,” he said.

Marcus nodded, his hands automatically reaching for his gloves. The leather resisted, or perhaps his fingers had forgotten how to move properly. He forced a breath, willing stillness into limbs that did not cooperate. He adjusted his spectacles, squared his shoulders, and stepped toward the door.

“Let us be done with it, then,” he said solemnly.

The door to the garden opened with a thud, admitting a gust of morning air. Marcus looked up to see Alexander Sinclair, Baron of Elmsworth—and his closest friend—windswept and ruddy-cheeked from his ride across the lower pasture. His greatcoat hung loose about him, the breeze having ruffled his dark hair into disarray. He paused just inside the threshold, boots damp with dew and surveyed the room with an expression that blended amusement and familiarity.

“You look like a man preparing for execution,” he said as he crossed the study.

 Garrett, with the discretion of long service, excused himself quietly, leaving the two friends alone.

Marcus exhaled deeply and leaned against the side of the desk, grateful for his friend’s presence. 

“That is not far from the truth,” he said, shaking his head.

Alexander shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the arm of a nearby chair before lowering himself into the one opposite. The leather groaned beneath his long frame. He glanced at the untouched tea tray, then at Marcus.

“Well,” he said, reaching for the cup and sipping without ceremony. “If you had any last-minute thought of flee, I doubt the horse would oblige you. Mine very nearly turned back twice on the road here.”

Marcus allowed a faint smile but said nothing.

Alexander watched him for a moment before continuing more softly. 

“You are not certain,” he said with gentle compassion rather than judgment.

Marcus looked at the hearth. The fire burned low, barely sufficient against the damp. 

“I am marrying a woman I have known ten days,” he said softly. “It would be strange if I were not uncertain.”

Alexander nodded. 

“That is true,” he said. “However, strange does not necessarily mean unwise.”

Marcus folded his arms. 

“What if it is unwise?” he asked, struggling against the overwhelming wave of doubt rising in his belly.

Alexander smiled softly.

“You would not be the first,” he said.

He spoke lightly, but his eyes did not waver. Marcus had known him long enough to recognise the underlying, quiet concern. There was no mockery in his expression now. Only quiet steadiness.

Marcus turned and lifted one of the carved ivory book weights from the corner of the desk, rolling it between his palms. 

“Two weeks ago, I stood in this room, barely able to see the floor through the chaos,” he said, vocalising his earlier thoughts. “Manuscripts everywhere. Artefacts in heaps. Mrs Thornberry stood amid it all with the severity of a final reckoning. And then that letter arrived. The Society of Antiquaries, reminding me that they expected a gathering here. That they looked forward to the hospitality of the newly appointed Countess of Penwood.”

Alexander gave a low whistle. 

“That was a well-aimed dagger,” he said.

Marcus nodded, running his hand through his hair, undoing what little combing had been done to neaten his hair for the day.

“I had no idea what to do,” he said, setting the paperweight down with care. “How could I explain that there was no countess? That I lived surrounded by relics and footnotes and did not require help managing a household because I barely managed it at all?”

Alexander nodded, his eyes reflecting his steady understanding.

“You needed a solution,” he said. “As any man in your position would.”

Marcus nodded, though it felt more like concession than agreement.

“Yes,” he said. “And Thomas Beaumont offered one.”

Alexander leaned back and stretched his legs out. 

“Indeed,” he said. “His sister required a respectable position. You required a respectable countess. Neither of you sought a love match. Neither of you had any expectations beyond those of convenience.”

Marcus glanced away. 

“It should be a practical success,” he said quietly. “She understands academic work. She understands order. She managed Thomas’s household for two years without complaint.”

Alexander nodded once more, his eyes patiently encouraging.

“And now she will manage yours,” he said.

Marcus hesitated. 

“But what if she regrets it?” he asked. “What if the practical advantages are not enough?”

Alexander frowned, then sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“She had the choice to remain with her brother,” he said. “You saw how efficiently she ran his house. And it is quite evident how dearly they love one another. He would not have cast her off.”

Marcus nodded again, though he could not find convincing reassurance in his friend’s words.

“No,” he said. “He said as much.”

Alexander opened his hands in a gentle gesture that told Marcus he felt his point had been rather obviously proven.

“Then why did she leave?” he asked. “Why agree to marry a near-stranger, to enter an unfamiliar household, and take on all the duties of a countess? There must be something more in it for her than linens and precedence at table.”

Marcus stared at the hearth again, then said quietly, “Mayhap she values discovery—or prefers to build something of her own, rather than remain in the comfort of what is already ordered. During her visit here last week, she paused before the Roman pottery case and began asking questions that caught me entirely off guard. She sees connections I had overlooked. That day, she observed that the wear upon one jug’s base suggested repetitive grinding—not storage, as I had assumed. I consulted the excavation notes afterwards. She was right. And the conclusion alters one’s understanding of the villa’s entire domestic labour structure.”

Alexander’s mouth curved in a faint smile. 

“Then she is a woman who can challenge you—and that is no small thing. Such a wife is hardly a liability, Marcus.

Marcus shook his head.

“Of that, I have no doubt at all,” he said. “My concern is her contentment—or rather, her lack of it, should she find none here.”

Alexander gave Marcus another kind smile.

“She is not a fool,” he said. “She knew precisely what she accepted. There must be something of contentment in the deal for her. Perhaps, she simply enjoys keeping things ordered.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The fire gave a muted crackle, barely audible beneath the ticking of the mantel clock. Marcus could hear the distant murmur of servants in the hallway, the echo of activity preparing for the ceremony.

“She asked me about the Society’s visit,” Marcus said after a moment. “About how many guests to expect. She had already considered the arrangement of bedchambers. She requested the list of dietary restrictions from Mrs Thornberry.”

Alexander chuckled.

“She had barely arrived when she asked for the guest list,” he said with a short nod. “I saw her with it myself.”

Marcus blinked, recalling how confident and poised Catherine Beaumont had been.

“She said she would need a full week to prepare menus,” he said.

Alexander made the open-handed gesture again.

“Then she means to make it a success,” he said.

Marcus sighed. He understood his friend’s logic, and it was sound. But could Alexander not see cause for his concern for Miss Beaumont’s—Catherine’s—emotions, as well?

“I am still afraid she will regret it,” he said insistently.

Alexander stood. 

“Then your task is to give her no cause,” he said.

Marcus gave a short, mirthless laugh. 

“I do not think I am very capable in matters of sentiment,” he said.

Alexander laughed with a bit more amusement,

“Good thing she is not marrying you for sentiment,” he said.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. But before he could reply, a knock sounded at the door. Garrett entered with a low bow.

“The wedding party has begun to assemble, my lord,” he said.

Marcus nodded. His hands felt curiously detached from the rest of him as he pulled on his gloves. Garrett stepped back to allow them passage. Marcus looked at Alexander, who gave no speech or jest. There was only a slight dip of his head before he turned toward the door. Marcus followed. 

They descended the staircase in silence; the air filled with the subdued sounds of preparation.  Marcus’s thoughts turned inward as they crossed the marble foyer and approached the chapel. What had begun as a necessity had become something else. Not quite hope. But a stirring of something unfamiliar. Something that bore no resemblance to the careful logic that had guided his life thus far. 

Whatever brought them to this moment, he must now make it more than convenience. He must make it a life.

Chapter Two

“Really, Catherine, how can you sit so composed, when in but two hours’ time you are to be made a countess?”

Rosalind Hartwell’s voice was bright with affectionate incredulity as she guided a curl into place above her cousin’s temple. Her hands moved with quiet efficiency, the brush gliding steadily through dark strands before pausing to twist and pin.

Catherine sat at the dressing table in the chamber she had occupied since girlhood, her gaze drifting to the pale blue silk gown suspended from the wardrobe door. Morning light traced its altered neckline and sleeves, the seamstress’s artful adjustments having transformed it from an afternoon visiting dress into something suitable for a wedding.

She tapped her fingers lightly in her lap, out of Rosalind’s sight. In two hours, I will become the Countess of Penwood. The title felt as though it belonged to someone else, like a garment borrowed but not yet worn in. It promised a husband, a home of her own, and a place in society no longer tethered to her brother’s household—yet convenience, not affection, had brought her to this moment.

Rosalind spoke in a cheerful tone, her voice light and bright as she described the chapel’s floral arrangements and the mildness of the weather.

“You must have brought the sunshine with you,” Rosalind went on, her voice bright again as she adjusted a pearl comb above Catherine’s temple. “It has not been so fine all week. Mrs Ashcombe was in raptures over the roses. She says the white ones near the chapel door have never bloomed so early.”

Catherine nodded, smiling idly. “They did look lovely when we walked yesterday.”

Rosalind met her eyes in the mirror. “You remember that?”

Catherine laughed. “Of course. I remarked on the scent, and you said it reminded you of Grandmother’s walled garden.”

Rosalind’s expression softened. 

“So, I did,” she said. “I thought you seemed too distracted to commit such a thing to memory, is all.”

Catherine shrugged, surprised at her nonchalance.

“I was thinking,” she said calmly.

Rosalind resumed brushing. 

“You have seemed calm all morning,” she said quietly.

Catherine shrugged again.

“Should I not be?”

“I do not know,” Rosalind admitted slowly. “You are about to marry a man you have known less than a fortnight.”

Catherine nodded.

“Yes,” she said.

Rosalind looked at her as though she were mad.

“And yet you sit there with the composure of one preparing to receive a houseguest, not a husband,” she said, incredulity quite eclipsing her earlier cheerfulness.

Catherine’s smile softened and faded. She studied her reflection in silence. The country air had lent a richer colour to her cheeks, and there was a brightness in her eyes she had not anticipated. It was not resignation. Nor was it unease.

“I am not afraid,” she said at last.

Rosalind laid the brush aside and set her hands lightly upon Catherine’s shoulders.

“That is well,” she replied, though the want of relief in her expression betrayed her words.

Catherine had had her cousin as her lady’s companion long enough to recognise the concern on her face.

“But you are,” she said quietly—without accusation, and without mockery.

Rosalind hesitated. 

“I would not say afraid,” she said at length. “Merely… cautious.”

Catherine’s smile warmed again.

“I understand,” she said. “It must all appear rather strange to you.”

Rosalind nodded, though her expression suggested she would have felt easier had Catherine indulged in a fit of nerves.

“I do not doubt that you consider this marriage a prudent step,” she said, choosing her words with care. “Nor do I deny it. But Marcus Pemberton is unlike other men. He lives within his head—among books and in the past.”

Catherine’s lips curved faintly, recalling the scholarly light in his eyes when he spoke of his antiquities.
“I know it,” she said softly.

Rosalind withdrew her hands and crossed the room, pausing before the gown. Her brows drew together—not at what she saw in front of her, but something she was envisioning that Catherine could not view.

“I suppose I am merely unaccustomed to finding a bride so very calm,” she said.

Catherine stood and approached the window. The trees in the distance stood still, leaves quiet in the morning sun. A gardener crossed the path below, wheeling a barrow filled with clipped branches. Behind her, the soft swish of silk marked Rosalind’s movement across the room.

“I expected to feel more uncertain,” Catherine said, surprised not at her words, but at the sincerity behind them. “When Thomas first proposed the match, I felt only relief. It was an honourable way forward. A household of my own. Security. That was all I permitted myself to consider.”

Rosalind frowned.

“And now?” she asked.

Catherine shook her head.

“Now I find myself looking forward to it,” she said. “However odd that may seem.”

Rosalind raised her brows.

“That is not what I expected you to say,” she said.

Catherine turned toward the dress. The seamstress had stitched narrow silver ribbons at the cuffs, just above the gathered sleeves. Her fingers brushed the fine embroidery along the hem.

“I spent a week at Penwood,” Catherine said. “I observed the running of the household, examined the library, and spoke with Marcus each morning—and again, on occasion, after supper. He possesses a disciplined mind, yet he listens. He does not speak over me. He asks for my opinion.”

Rosalind studied her cousin, a dawning comprehension softening her expression.

“You admire him.”

Catherine inclined her head. 

“I respect him,” she said simply. “And I feel respected in his presence.”

Rosalind’s lips curved into a smirk. “That is not quite the same thing.”

Catherine shook her head. “No. But it is better than fondness that falters at the first adversity.”

Rosalind’s smile faded into thought. “And is that all it is, then? Respect?”

Catherine hesitated, then spoke more softly.
“Perhaps it began so. But I felt something more as I examined the index system he devised for his Roman coin collection. I observed that his categorisation did not account for overlapping regional design. He paused, then invited me to sit and explain my meaning. We spoke for near an hour.”

A quiet laugh escaped Rosalind.

“So—admiration, after all,” she said, hinting at her first assessment of the pairing.

Catherine rolled her eyes.

“He has an ingenious way of organising that which is important to him,” she said. “And he speaks with an uncommon passion of his books and antiquities.”

Rosalind laughed.

“You fall in love like a scholar,” she said. “Through shared logic and catalogues.”

Catherine tilted her head. 

“I would not go so far as to call it love. Yet if affection must come, I would rather it be born in the mind than in passing fancy.”

Rosalind looked toward the clock on the mantel.

“We should dress,” she said. “The housekeeper will come looking for us if we delay.”

Catherine stepped behind the screen and allowed Rosalind to pass her the gown. The silk felt cool as she stepped into it, the fabric sliding over her shoulders and down her arms. She held still while Rosalind fastened the buttons and adjusted the bodice. The mirror revealed a woman neither stately nor timid. A woman dressed simply and neatly for a marriage not born of romance, but of reason.

When Rosalind finished, she stood back and tilted her head.

“You look a countess already,” she said, blinking back a sudden mist in her eyes.

Catherine rolled her eyes again, though her heart stuttered at the mention of her pending title.

“I feel like Catherine,” she said.

Rosaline reached out and smoothed an invisible wrinkle on the bodice of the dress.

“Then perhaps the two may coexist,” she said, lifting the pearl comb and placing it carefully to secure the final curl.

A knock sounded at the door. A housemaid slipped in to announce that the carriage waited to take them to the chapel.

Catherine turned once more to the mirror. Her eyes held steady, her face neither shadowed by dread nor softened by regret. Whatever the marriage might prove to be, she had chosen it—and she meant to make it matter.

As they moved to quit the room, the door opened again. Thomas stepped inside, a small velvet box in his hand. His expression carried both tempered joy and a touch of reflection. He gave Rosalind a brief nod before fixing his gaze on Catherine.

“I trust I am not intruding,” he said.

Rosalind shook her head and gestured him forward.

“You are just in time.” Gathering her gloves from the wardrobe, she withdrew discreetly to one side, leaving them space.

Thomas approached and extended the box.

“I brought this.”

Catherine accepted it without speaking. The velvet was worn smooth at the corners, and she knew, even before she opened it, what it must contain. Lifting the lid, she found the pearls nestled within, their soft lustre catching the light. Her mother had worn them on every Christmas, at every important dinner, in every portrait sitting. They had not been seen in years.

Her throat tightened.

“I thought they were lost,” she said, struggling to swallow a sob.

Thomas squeezed her shoulder gently as she studied the heirloom fondly.

“I kept them,” he said. “I could not bring myself to let them go. But they belong to you now.”

She touched the pearls. They felt cool and familiar beneath her fingers.

“They belonged to Mother,” she said, more to herself than to her brother. “Are you certain you wish to give them to me?”

Thomas cleared his throat, clearly sharing his sister’s emotional torrent.

“She would want you to wear them today,” he said. He reached forward and took the necklace from its case. Catherine turned to allow him to clasp it to her neck. His hands moved gently, the latch clicking into place with a quiet finality.

“She would be proud of you,” he said, breaking the solemn silence. “She always said you had her mind.”

Catherine placed a hand over the necklace.

“She also said you had her stubbornness,” she said, closing her eyes to hold back her tears.

Thomas laughed softly.

“She meant it kindly,” he said.

They shared a quiet smile before Thomas’s expression grew serious.

“I want you to know this is not how I pictured your future,” he said. “I had hoped for more time to secure a better arrangement. Yet this suits you in a way I had not foreseen. I feared the opportunity might be lost, had I delayed. I only hope you can forgive my haste.”

Catherine met his eyes steadily.

“I chose it,” she said. “I might have refused. Nothing prevented me from declining his offer. The decision was mine, Brother. You forced nothing upon me.”

Thomas inclined his head, though his gaze slipped aside.

“I know,” he admitted. “And I admire you for it. You could have remained here with Priscilla and me—no one would have questioned it. You managed our household better than I ever did. You might have continued on in comfort, in safety.”

Catherine touched his cheek with gentle affection.

“I wanted more than comfort,” she said. “And you knew it—that is why you offered me the choice. I am nothing but grateful to you, Thomas.”

He swallowed, visibly relieved, though a shadow of remorse lingered in his eyes.

“You chose a man who respects your intellect,” he said. “That is no small thing—especially among our peers.”

Catherine nodded. However else her life might unfold as Lady Penwood, at least she need never conceal her intelligence.

“No,” she said softly. “It certainly is not.”

Thomas drew a steadier breath, reassured.

“I saw how he listened to you last week,” he recalled. “That discussion in the library—about the Saxon burial site. He deferred to your judgment without hesitation.”

Catherine’s smile touched her eyes.

“He asked questions,” she said. “And he listened to the answers.”

Thomas chuckled and nodded once more.

“Such regard is rarer than it ought to be—and it speaks well of him,” he said.

Rosalind returned to stand beside them.

“It is nearly time,” she said.

Catherine nodded. Then, a movement at the doorway drew their attention.

Priscilla stood just beyond the threshold, one hand resting against the painted frame. Her expression wore the careful arrangement of civility, but her eyes held the same veiled satisfaction Catherine had learned to expect.

“You look very fine,” she said.

“Thank you, Priscilla,” Catherine said.

Her sister-in-law advanced with the poise of a dutiful wife, settling at Thomas’s side.

“I suppose this means we shall be seeing far less of you,” she said.

“Most likely.” Catherine maintained her polite smile. The bond between them had never been warm, and Catherine doubted Priscilla would mourn her absence.

“A pity,” Priscilla sighed, her tone more sorrowful than her eyes. “Still, I am glad you found someone willing to make such an unconventional match.”

Catherine turned from the mirror, ignoring the barb.

Rosalind crossed to her and patted her shoulder with quiet encouragement.

“We must go,” she said softly.

Thomas stepped forward and offered his arm. Catherine hesitated only a moment before accepting. Together, they walked through the door of her chambers for what would be the last time and descended the stairs in silence.

At the foot of the stairs, the butler opened the front door. Sunlight fell across the marble floor in pale stripes. Outside, the carriage stood waiting. 

Catherine paused before stepping forward. She looked to her left, where the rose bushes had begun to bloom along the path. The scent drifted on the morning air, familiar and faint. She turned to Thomas.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the necklace. For everything.”

He looked away for a moment, as though the sunlight made it difficult to see.

“You deserve happiness,” he said. “And I hope with all my heart that you shall find it.”

Catherine nodded, still smiling, even as the first tingle of uncertainty tugged at her heart. Without a word, Rosalind gave her hand a gentle squeeze. They stepped into the carriage together. The interior smelled of polished wood and fresh upholstery. 

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

As the wheels began to turn, Catherine sat straight and folded her hands in her lap. She was not afraid. She was not entirely certain what kind of marriage awaited her, but she knew what she brought into it with her intelligence and resolve. Whatever the life ahead might bring, she meant to meet it without reluctance or hesitation.

Chapter Three

The wedding party assembled in the entrance hall of Penwood, where tall windows and dark panelling lent the space an air of restrained solemnity. A hush had settled over the household, as though even the walls understood the significance of the day. 

Catherine stood beside Thomas, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her dress a precise arrangement of blue silk and ivory ribbon.

Beyond the threshold, the morning stretched bright and clear. A faint breeze passed through the open door, rustling the garlands that had been woven with laurel and early roses. The scent of the flowers mingled with the polish of the wooden floors and the faint trace of candle smoke from the chapel.

Thomas glanced down at her.

“You are certain?” he asked.

She smiled up at her brother, unsurprised that he should still be fretting, even after their earlier talk at the house that now belonged to him and his wife alone.

“I am,” she said, giving his arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. There was no tremor in her voice. That, in itself, astonished her—and judging by the look in Thomas’s eyes, it astonished him as well.

They moved forward together, step by step. 

Behind them, a small collection of household figures followed at a respectful distance. Catherine had requested the presence of several senior servants. As a formerly untitled lady and the future lady of their household, she felt that their attendance mattered. A household did not serve only a title; it gave its loyalty to people. If she were to claim her place here, they must see her not as a temporary fixture, but as their mistress in earnest.

The chapel stood beyond the west lawn, its stone façade half-hidden by a stand of lindens. Weather had softened its edges, and ivy grew thick across the roofline, but the bones of the building remained strong. The Penwood line had maintained the structure for generations, each earl preserving the small sanctuary that held the family’s most intimate ceremonies.

As Catherine approached, she caught sight of Marcus through the open doorway. He stood near the altar, straight-backed and motionless. His dark coat fit him with military precision, and a white rose fastened at his lapel drew the eye. If she did not know better, she would think him a veteran of the war instead of an accomplished—albeit distracted—scholar. Beside him stood Alexander Sinclair, relaxed yet dignified, his posture that of a man who took his responsibilities seriously.

At the first step into the chapel proper, Thomas paused. Catherine adjusted her hold upon his arm as they proceeded inside. The space was smaller than she had imagined—more intimate than imposing. Carved pews of dark wood lined the narrow aisle; sunlight filtered through the arched windows to fall gently across the pale stone floor; candles glimmered upon the altar, their flames unwavering in the still air. Along the walls, marble memorials bore the names of Penwood ancestors, their dates stretching back through the centuries—a quiet lineage inscribed in stone.

Mrs Thornberry sat in the front pew, her spine stiff with propriety but her eyes kind. Behind her were footmen, housekeepers, and an older man who appeared to be the steward. All wore expressions of quiet pride. Their presence was not ceremonial. It was personal. Catherine understood the weight of that approval.

Her gaze returned to Marcus. 

He met her eyes, and something within his countenance altered. His shoulders eased; the furrow between his brows smoothed away. His gaze remained steady, yet no longer with the air of a man steeling himself to duty. Instead, he regarded her as though he perceived more than he had anticipated.

Not merely the arrangement. Not solely the practicality. He looked at her as though he truly saw her—and as though he approved.

A warmth rose to her cheeks. She had dressed with care, knowing this day would be remembered long after its modest ceremony had passed. Yet she had not expected admiration. And admiration was precisely what she discovered in Marcus’s eyes.

He is looking at me as if I am beautiful, not merely an obligation, she thought as she raised her chin.

A moment later, she and her brother reached the altar. With the faintest pressure, Thomas released her hand and stepped aside. Catherine turned forward. Marcus extended his arm; she set her hand lightly upon his sleeve, and for an instant they stood motionless, suspended in silence. Then the clergyman cleared his throat and turned the worn pages of his book, and the ceremony began.

The vicar—a stooped figure with silver hair and a face lined by years—stepped to the altar. His clerical gown lent him the dignity of long custom, and when he spoke, his voice carried a quiet authority that filled the small chapel.

“Dearly beloved,” he said with a voice larger than his frame suggested. “We are gathered here to witness the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony—an estate long honoured, to be entered into with reverence, discretion, and resolve.”

His eyes passed from Marcus to Catherine, leaving an instant of silence before he continued.
“It is a union not to be undertaken lightly, but soberly and with due consideration. Into this estate these two persons now come to be joined. If any present can show just cause why they may not lawfully be united, let them speak, or else hereafter forever hold their peace.”

Silence followed. Not a whisper stirred the air. Catherine pondered then the vows she and Marcus were about to make—not born of love, yet still binding. With the ancient stone surrounding them and the vicar’s voice rising toward the rafters, the moment bore a weight she had not fully prepared herself to meet.

The vicar looked to Marcus.

“Marcus William Pemberton,” he said. “Will you have this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, so long as you both shall live?”

Marcus looked at Catherine with an intensity that surprised her.

“I will,” he said. His voice was firm, though she noted the faint tremor in his hands. The declaration did not sound like duty alone. When he turned fully toward her, his eyes held steady.

The vicar then turned to her.

“Catherine Margaret Beaumont,” he said. “Will you have this man to be your wedded husband, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you care for him, respect him, love and keep him, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, so long as you both shall live?”

She nodded firmly, though her hands trembled as his had.
“I will,” she said. Her words sounded smaller than intended, but her voice did not waver. She drew in a breath and lifted her chin. This choice had been hers. No one had forced her to accept Marcus’s proposal. She had seen the offer as a chance at independence, respect, and usefulness.

“Repeat after me,” the vicar said. “I, Marcus, take thee, Catherine, 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, for as long as we both shall live. And to this I give you my troth.”

Marcus repeated the vow word for word, his voice clearer now, steadier. Each phrase left his lips with care, as though he meant every one.

Then it was her turn.

“I, Catherine, take thee, Marcus, to be my wedded husband,” she said, speaking carefully. “To have and to hold from this day forward—for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—to love, honour, and to cherish, for as long as we both shall live. And to this I give you my troth.”

She faltered only once, steadying herself with a breath. She could do this. She would do this. Not only as obligation, but as intention. She meant to honour this vow, despite the absence of affection between them.

The vicar nodded and gestured to Alexander, who stepped forward with the small silver box. Marcus lifted the ring and held it carefully between his fingers.

“With this ring I thee wed,” he said, repeating the words supplied. “With my body I thee honour, and all my worldly goods with thee I share.”

He took her left hand. The gold band was slender and warm from his touch. As he slid it into place, Catherine’s breath caught. This was his grandmother’s ring, carried through two generations before her. The band fit perfectly, as though it had been waiting for her. Surely it had been meant for a woman who loved Marcus without question. So why did it feel so right upon her finger? Or was her mind at last losing its hold on the calm rationality that had carried her through the morning?

The vicar lifted his arms; his voice steady as he declared the final words: “By the vows exchanged and the promises made this day, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

It was done. In the span of a few minutes, Catherine had become bound to Marcus Pemberton for the rest of her days. She glanced at him, searching for any flicker of recognition that the same realisation had struck him—but again she found that distracted air in his expression.

Together, they turned to face the small gathering of witnesses. The register lay open on a table beside the altar. Catherine signed her new name and title carefully, the quill trembling only slightly in her grasp. Marcus followed. Then Thomas, his features alight with brotherly pride, and Alexander, who gave Marcus a brief, approving nod as he stepped back.

Rosalind hurried forward, throwing her arms around Catherine and holding her fast.

“I am so proud of you,” she whispered.

Catherine returned the embrace.

“Thank you, Cousin.”

Mrs Thornberry approached with her hands folded. Though she had spoken little during Catherine’s brief stay, her manner now was warm and assured.

“Welcome, Lady Penwood,” she said. “We are honoured to be at your service.”

Catherine smiled, touching the woman’s arm.

“Thank you, Mrs Thornberry.”

The housekeeper gave a small curtsey.

“The staff is prepared. Whatever you require, you have but to ask.”

Catherine glanced at Marcus, who stood beside her in composed stillness. He did not reach for her hand nor offer any familiar gesture, yet there was respect in his gaze—and something akin to relief. She bore now a name of her own, a home, and a place in the world that was neither borrowed nor transient. And she meant to prove herself worthy of it.