Read Chapter 31: Aftershock of Vows

Rain had followed them all the way from the coast, a grey, weeping presence that turned the roads to mud and soaked through Cordelia’s travelling cloak despite the oiled wool. By the time the Ashworth carriage groaned to a halt before the familiar iron gates of Roderick’s estate—her estate now, she supposed, though the word felt strange in her mouth—the sky had darkened to the colour of old pewter, and her bones ached with a weariness that had little to do with the journey.

The door opened before the footman could knock. Mrs. Havelock stood on the threshold, her face a careful mask of composure that cracked the instant she saw them.

“My lord. My lady.” Her voice trembled. “We had word—the most dreadful word—that you were lost. That the sea had taken you.”

“Reports of our death were premature, Mrs. Havelock,” Roderick said gently, stepping inside and shrugging off his wet coat. “We are quite alive, though in sore need of dry clothes and hot tea.”

The housekeeper’s eyes moved to Cordelia, and something in her expression shifted—a flicker of assessment that made Cordelia suddenly, acutely aware of her bedraggled appearance, the salt-crusted hem of her gown, the wild tangle of hair that had long since escaped its pins. She must look like a shipwreck survivor. She supposed, in some sense, she was.

“There is paperwork awaiting you in the study, my lord,” Mrs. Havelock said as she hurried to arrange for tea and baths. “Your man of affairs arrived yesterday from London. He insisted it could not wait.”

Roderick exchanged a glance with Cordelia. Benedict had already disappeared up the stairs, muttering something about a hot bath and a bed that did not smell of French prison straw.

“Tell Mr. Whitmore I shall attend to him shortly,” Roderick said.

The study was warm when they finally entered it, a fire crackling in the hearth, and Mr. Whitmore was a thin, precise man with spectacles balanced on a narrow nose and the air of someone who had been pacing for some time. He rose the moment they crossed the threshold, his face creased with relief and, beneath that, a taut wariness that Cordelia did not like.

“My lord. My lady.” He bowed. “Thank God you are returned. There are matters of grave urgency that require your immediate attention.”

Roderick gestured for him to sit. “Then sit, and speak plainly.”

Mr. Whitmore glanced at Cordelia, then back at Roderick. “My lord, I hardly know how to begin.”

“At the beginning,” Cordelia said, taking the chair beside the fire. Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but she was too tired for courtesies. “We have had a long journey, Mr. Whitmore. Please spare us the preamble.”

The man of affairs swallowed. “Yes, my lady. Of course.” He unfolded a sheaf of documents from his satchel, spreading them across the desk with the careful precision of a man who wished he were holding better news. “It concerns the legality of your marriage.”

Cordelia’s hands went still in her lap. Beside her, she felt rather than saw Roderick stiffen.

“Explain,” he said.

“Your first marriage, my lord—to the late Lady Amelia.” Mr. Whitmore’s tongue darted across his lips. “It was never properly annulled.”

“She was dead,” Roderick said flatly. “A wife’s death dissolves the marriage as surely as any decree.”

“For most men, yes.” Mr. Whitmore lifted one of the documents, squinting at it as though the words themselves offended him. “But Lady Amelia’s death was never legally confirmed. There was no body. No inquest. No certificate.” He set the paper down. “You cannot dissolve a marriage to a woman whose death is mere rumour.”

Cordelia’s pulse quickened. “But she is dead. We have proof. Her twin—the woman who posed as her—died in our arms and confessed everything. Amelia was murdered by Sir Hugh.”

“By Sir Hugh, perhaps, but the legal record is not so accommodating.” Mr. Whitmore’s expression was pained. “The woman you encountered was Lady Amelia’s identical twin. You and I know this, but the Ecclesiastical Court does not. For the law to accept proof, there must be a body, or a sworn deposition from credible witnesses witnessed before a magistrate. A dying confession, however truthful, spoken to a small party in a secluded lighthouse, is not sufficient to overturn a marriage settlement that has stood for years.”

Roderick was silent for a long moment. Cordelia watched the muscles of his jaw work, saw the careful restraint he exercised over his temper.

“What precisely are you telling us, Mr. Whitmore?”

The man of affairs drew a breath. “I am telling you that in the eyes of the law, my lord, you are still married to the late Lady Amelia Ashworth. And that your marriage to Lady Cordelia—performed without the proper special licence, in circumstances of considerable irregularity—” He hesitated. “I am telling you that it is void.”

The word hung in the air like a blow.

Cordelia was grateful for the chair beneath her. Void. Their marriage was void. Every vow he had spoken to her on that cold morning, in the little chapel where she had been so certain she was selling her freedom for safety—it all meant nothing. She was not Roderick’s wife. The protection she had sought, the protection he had offered, it was all—

“How is this possible?” Roderick’s voice was low, controlled. “I was told the licence had been arranged. The ceremony was performed.”

“The licence was issued for your marriage to Lady Amelia,” Mr. Whitmore said miserably. “It was never rescinded. When Sir Hugh arranged for your second wedding, he used the original documentation as a template. The new marriage was conducted under a licence that was technically invalid, as it was never reissued in Lady Cordelia’s name. And since your prior marriage was never dissolved…” He spread his hands. “Bigamy, my lord. In the eyes of the church, you would be guilty of bigamy.”

The fire crackled. Somewhere above, Cordelia heard the muffled creak of floorboards as Benedict moved about his room, unaware of the ground shifting beneath them all.

“Then we remarry,” Roderick said. His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. “Quietly, properly, with all the necessary documents. We set it right.”

Mr. Whitmore looked relieved at the pragmatism. “Of course, my lord. I have already begun drafting the petitions. With the proper affidavits, we can have the matter resolved within a fortnight. Perhaps sooner, if you are willing to pay for expedition.”

“Do it.”

Cordelia might not have existed for how the two men hurried forward with the plan. She watched them discuss venues and licences and the delicate matter of suppressing public knowledge of the irregularity, and she felt as though she were watching two chess players rearrange pieces on a board that did not include her.

She had not been asked.

She had been presumed.

And that, more than the legal void of her marriage, more than the exhaustion still pulling at her bones, woke something fierce and cold in her chest.

“No,” she said.

Both men turned to look at her. Roderick’s brow furrowed. “Cordelia?”

She rose from her chair, and even though she was tired, even though her empty magic left her feeling hollow and exposed in a way she had not yet grown accustomed to, she was still Lady Cordelia Ashworth. She still knew how to command a room.

“I will not remarry you in the church,” she said. “I will not be married by a bishop, or in a cathedral, or with the full weight of ceremony pressing down upon me while every woman in the congregation wonders whether I have cast a glamour upon you.” She met his eyes. “I will not have vows spoken over me in a language of magic and mystery when we both know what I no longer am.”

Roderick’s face had gone very still. “Cordelia—“

“I will marry you in the village registry office, if they will have us.” She lifted her chin. “With a local magistrate. Plain words. No incense. No robes. No sacred spaces where the Ashworth gift has been feared and loathed for generations.” Her voice caught, and she forced it steady. “I want to hear your vows in a room where there is no possibility of enchantment. Where the only thing binding us is the words we speak and the truth beneath them.”

Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat delicately. “My lady, a registry office marriage is perfectly legal, though somewhat… unconventional for a peer and his wife.”

“I am not his wife,” Cordelia said. “Not legally. Which is precisely the point.” She turned to Roderick. “I did not trust you when I married you the first time. The bargain was cold, and I braced myself for a lifetime of polite distance. But you have shown me, in recent days, that your regard for me does not depend on any magic.” She swallowed. “Now I need you to show me that it does not depend on ceremony, either.”

Roderick regarded her for a long moment. The firelight caught the planes of his face, the grey at his temples, the deep lines that hardship had carved there. He looked tired. He looked relieved. He looked, she thought with a start, like a man who had believed he would never see her again and was still learning to accept that he had.

“You would marry me in a registry office,” he said slowly. “A peer of the realm. A marquess.”

“I would marry you in a fishing boat if the vows were honest,” she said. “I care nothing for the venue. I care only that you mean what you say and that nothing—no magic, no ceremony, no weight of expectation—stands between us when you say it.”

Roderick’s lips twitched. It was not quite a smile, but it was close. He turned to Mr. Whitmore.

“You heard my wife,” he said. “Though the law does not yet acknowledge her as such.” He took Cordelia’s hand, and his grip was warm and certain. “The registry office it is. Make the arrangements.”

Mr. Whitmore looked as though he wished to argue, but something in Roderick’s expression dissuaded him. He gathered his papers and rose from the desk.

“I shall attend to it at once, my lord. With the necessary permissions, I believe we can have a magistrate ready by the end of the week.”

“See that you do.”

The door closed behind him, and Cordelia found herself alone with her husband. Her almost husband. Her husband who was not yet her husband again.

“You are certain?” he asked quietly. “You will not regret the lack of a church?”

She thought of the grimoire page folded in her trunk, the ancient words of Ashworth magic that had governed her family’s choices for generations. She thought of her grandmother’s warnings, her mother’s fear, her own desperate belief that she was cursed to be unloved without enchantment.

“I regret nothing,” she said. “I spent years of my life afraid of what magic could do to love. I will spend the rest of it learning what love can do without magic.” She looked up at him. “If you will teach me.”

Roderick lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, a gesture so tender it made her chest ache.

“Gladly,” he said. “Though if you expect me to wait until a magistrate is present to tell you I love you, you will be disappointed. I have already waited too long to say it where you can hear me.”

And he did say it, plain and unadorned, in the warm light of the study while rain pattered against the windows. No magic. No compulsion. Just a man and his word.

Cordelia let herself believe it.