“I’ll Marry the First Man Who Enters,” She Joked — Then the Duke Walked In
Chapter 8
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"I will not use pistols or swords," Augustus interrupted smoothly. He reached out and adjusted the lapel of Cavenaugh's purple waistcoat; his massive hand completely engulfed the fine silk. "I will simply find you in the street. I will take hold of your right arm, and I will tear it out of its socket. And then I will bribe the magistrate who arrests me."Augustus patted the lapel. He let his hand drop."Enjoy your dinner," Augustus said.He didn't wait for a response: he placed his hand on the small of Bella's back and guided her past the frozen lord. Cavenaugh stood rooted to the spot, the color completely drained from his face. No one laughed; no one whispered. The sheer, unvarnished brutality of the threat hung in the air like smoke.Augustus guided her to Lady Danbury, who looked as though she had swallowed a lemon. He offered a polite, mechanical bow; Bella sank into a flawless curtsy."My lady," Bella said, her voice carrying clearly through the silent room. "Thank you for receiving us."Lady Danbury blinked, her gaze darting from the pale Cavenaugh to the immovable duke. She snapped her fan open. "Of course, Miss Holloway. We are delighted."Dinner was a masterclass in tension: the silver scraped loudly against the porcelain; Bella ate her roasted quail methodically. The women flanking her tried to engage her in thinly veiled interrogations about the wedding arrangements; she answered them with polite, utterly empty platitudes. She was learning: Augustus's blunt force shielded her, but her own cold composure was the blade.Halfway through the second course, Augustus reached under the heavy damask tablecloth. His knuckles brushed against her knee: it was not a caress; it was a grounding touch, a silent check.Are you holding? the touch seemed to ask.Bella shifted her leg, pressing the side of her knee firmly against his.I am holding, she answered silently.Augustus didn't pull away; he left his knee pressed against hers for the rest of the meal. It was the only warm thing in the room.The wedding took place three days later in a damp, echoing church in Marylebone. There were no flowers; there was no choir. Philip stood as a witness, looking relieved and slightly terrified. Mr. Hales, the solicitor, provided the ring: a heavy band of unadorned gold that felt like a shackle slipping over her knuckle."I, Augustus, take thee, Bella." His voice echoed off the cold stone pillars—flat, factual."I, Bella, take thee, Augustus." Her voice did not shake.They signed the registry. They walked out into the gray London drizzle. Augustus handed her into a heavy traveling coach loaded with trunks: there was no wedding breakfast; they were leaving for Yorkshire immediately.The journey took four grueling days. The roads turned from manicured gravel to deeply rutted mud; the landscape shifted from the gentle, rolling greens of the south to sharp, jagged hills that looked like the spine of some ancient, buried beast. Bella spent the hours reading or pretending to read, while Augustus reviewed stacks of correspondence from his mine managers. They spoke only when necessary.At the coaching inns, he secured the best private parlors and ensured she was fed before he even touched his own plate. He was attentive in the way a man cares for a valuable piece of equipment: he made sure she was not cold; he made sure she was not tired; he never asked how she felt.