He was a stranger, yes, but in his eyes she saw the same fierce will to survive that burned within her own chest. With a trembling breath, she reached out and placed her small dust smudged hand firmly into his. "Take me to the chapel," she whispered.
Mason did not waste a single second. His fingers closed tightly around Olivia's, his grip warm and anchoring as he pulled her toward a section of the bookshelves that concealed another secret passageway. He pressed a hidden lever and a panel swung open, revealing a dark, narrow corridor meant only for the senior household staff. "Keep your head down and stay quiet," Mason murmured, grabbing a candelabrum from a nearby table to light their way. "If Horatio or Carmichael see us before the ink is dry, they will find a way to intervene."
Olivia nodded, hoisting her heavy, ruined emerald skirts with her free hand. They moved rapidly through the cramped dusty corridors, the sound of the grand ball vibrating through the walls beside them. She could hear the muffled strains of a waltz and the clatter of silverware. A surreal juxtaposition to her own frantic race through the dark.
Her mind was spinning. 10 minutes ago, she was a desperate thief bracing for ruin. Now she was sprinting through a secret tunnel with a duke. Minutes away from becoming a duchess. It was madness. But as she glanced at Mason's broad back and determined profile, an unexpected surge of adrenaline and undeniable thrill coursed through her veins.
"We are almost there," Mason whispered, pausing at a heavy iron-studded door at the end of the passage. He extinguished the candelabrum and pushed the door open.
They stepped into the Westford Family Chapel. It was an ancient solemn space built of heavy Norman stone and bathed in the flickering golden light of one hundred beeswax candles. The air was thick with the scent of frankincense and old parchment. Standing at the altar was Bishop Aldridge, looking deeply uncomfortable in his gilded robes. And beside him, Higgins, the solicitor, practically vibrating with anxiety.
Higgins spun around as the door clicked shut. His eyes darted to Mason, then landed on Olivia. The solicitor's jaw dropped. Olivia was a sight. Her hair a wild auburn tangle, her dress smeared with soot, and a smudge of dirt across her cheek. She looked less like a noble bride and more like a woman who had just survived a carriage accident.
"Your grace," Higgins gasped, rushing forward. "The time. It is 10 minutes to midnight. And who by all that is holy is this?"
"This is Lady Olivia Lynfield, my future wife," Mason declared. "Lead us straight to the altar."
He did not let go of her hand. "Bishop Aldridge, we have no time for formalities. Skip the sermon. Skip the homily. Proceed directly to the vows. Higgins, prepare the ink."
The bishop blinked rapidly, utterly bewildered by the unkempt state of the bride. "Your grace, this is highly irregular. I must be certain the young lady is entering into this sacrament of her own free will."
"I am entirely willing, your grace," Olivia interrupted, her voice surprisingly steady, though her heart was threatening to beat out of her chest. She looked the bishop directly in the eye, standing tall despite her ruined dress. "I assure you, there is nowhere else I would rather be. Please proceed."
Mason shot her a look of profound respect. She was magnificent. "Very well," the bishop stammered, opening his gold-leafed prayer book. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God..."
The words washed over Olivia in a blur. The chapel was silent, save for the rapid drone of the bishop's voice and the deafening tick of the massive clock in the chapel tower. Tick. Tick.
Mason's thumb brushed gently over her knuckles. a small grounding gesture that sent a jolt of heat up her arm. She glanced up at him, his jaw was set in granite, his gaze locked intensely on the bishop, willing the man to speak faster. "To have and to hold from this day forward," the bishop recited.
"I do," Mason said instantly, his voice echoing loudly off the stone walls. "And do you, Olivia?" the bishop turned to her. "Take this man..."
Suddenly, a violent pounding echoed from the main doors of the chapel. The heavy oak shuddered under the force of the blows.
"Mason, open these doors!" roared the muffled, venomous voice of Lord Horatio Brooks. "You cannot hide in there. The hour is upon us. The estate is mine."
Olivia flinched, but Mason's grip on her hand tightened. "Ignore him," Mason commanded the bishop, his voice slicing through the noise like a blade. "Finish it now."
"I... I..." the bishop stuttered, clearly terrified by the pounding.
"Do you take this man?" Mason prompted Olivia himself, his eyes locking onto hers, ignoring the chaos at the door. The desperation in his gaze mirrored her own. They were two warriors in a trench, fighting for their lives.
"I do," Olivia said firmly, her voice ringing clear over the sound of splintering wood as someone took a heavy object to the chapel doors. Tick. Tick. "The rings." Higgins squeaked, practically shoving a gold band into Mason's hand.
Mason took it and slid it onto Olivia's trembling finger. It was cold and slightly too large, but as it settled past her knuckle, an undeniable weight of finality settled over them both. "By the power vested in me by God and the Archbishop of Canterbury," Bishop Aldridge rushed, practically shouting over the tremendous crack of the chapel doors giving way, "I pronounce you man and wife."
The massive oak doors burst open. Standing in the threshold, red-faced and furious, was Lord Horatio Brooks, flanked by three magistrates. Just behind him, looking equally livid, was Gideon Carmichael.
"Stop this farce," Horatio bellowed, marching down the aisle, his eyes wild with greed. "The clock is striking. It is midnight. You have failed, Mason. The Westford estate belongs to me."
From the tower above, the first heavy, resonant chime of midnight rang out. Bong!
Mason did not look at his uncle. Instead, he smoothly pulled Olivia flush against his chest. He lowered his head, ignoring her gasp of surprise, and kissed her. It was not a chaste, performative peck.