The Duke Asked May I Continue On Their Night — How a Forced Marriage in 1848 Became True Romance

Chapter 2

The church was cold despite the candles.

St. Margaret’s stood on a hill overlooking the town, its stone walls weathered by centuries of English rain. Inside, the air smelled of old wood and dust and the faint sweetness of wilting flowers. Evelyn walked down the aisle on her uncle’s arm, each step measured, each breath shallow. The guests were a blur of pale faces and dark clothing. She did not look at them. She looked at the altar, at the figure waiting beside it, and tried to keep her legs from giving way.

Julian Blackwood, the Duke of Ashworth, did not look at her when she reached him. He looked at the priest. The ceremony began.

The words washed over her like water over stone. To love, to cherish, to obey. She spoke her vows in a voice that sounded distant, as though they belonged to someone else. She thought of her mother, who had married for love. She thought of her father, who had wept at her mother’s funeral. And she thought of the man beside her, who had not chosen her any more than she had chosen him.