Abandoned by Her Fiancé, She Married a Feared Duke… Then Learned Why He Chose Her

Chapter 4

The chapel was smaller than Eleanor had expected. Tucked behind the Duke of Ashworth’s Mayfair residence, it was an old family chapel built of pale stone and dim candlelight. The ceiling arched low above them, and the air carried the faint scent of incense and polished wood. No flowers decorated the altar. No music played. There were no guests — only the reverend, the Duke, and the woman he had chosen as his duchess.

Eleanor stood at the end of the narrow aisle, her gloved hands clasped together so tightly the fabric creased. Mrs. Harding stood quietly behind her as a witness. On the other side, the Duke’s butler, Mr. Graves, waited with the same still dignity that seemed to exist in every corner of the Ashworth household.

That was all. No family. No friends. No celebration.

Eleanor had never imagined her wedding would feel like the signing of a treaty.

The Duke stood near the altar, already waiting. He wore a dark formal coat and immaculate gloves, the sharp lines of his figure illuminated by candlelight. He looked exactly as he always did — composed, controlled, untouched by emotion. As though marriage were merely another responsibility on a long list of duties.

When Eleanor stepped forward, the faint rustle of her ivory gown echoed through the chapel. The dress had been chosen by Mrs. Whitmore that morning. It fit perfectly. It did not feel like hers.

The Duke watched her approach without moving. Only when she reached him did he extend his arm.

“Miss Cross,” he said quietly.

“Your Grace.”

The reverend cleared his throat gently and began the ceremony. The familiar words floated through the quiet chapel like something ancient and distant.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…

Eleanor tried to listen, tried to focus, but her thoughts drifted to the absurdity of it all. Only yesterday she had been a ruined merchant’s daughter facing eviction. Today she was marrying one of the most powerful men in England — a man who had made it very clear that affection had no place in their union.

“Your Grace,” the reverend prompted softly.

The Duke turned toward her. “I, Alexander James Blackwood,” he said evenly, “take thee, Eleanor Margaret Cross, to be my lawful wedded wife.”

His voice did not waver. Eleanor forced herself to meet his eyes. They were dark and unreadable.

“Miss Cross,” the reverend said. Her turn.

She inhaled slowly. “I, Eleanor Margaret Cross, take thee, Alexander James Blackwood, to be my lawful wedded husband.”

The words felt strange on her tongue. Unreal.

To have and to hold. From this day forward.

Promises neither of them expected to fulfill in the traditional sense.

The reverend continued the ritual with quiet efficiency. When the moment came for the ring, the Duke removed a simple gold band from his pocket. No jewels. No extravagance. He took her hand. His fingers were warm despite the winter air. Eleanor felt the faintest tension in his grip as he slid the ring onto her finger.

“Eleanor,” he said quietly.

The reverend smiled faintly. “You may kiss the bride.”

The chapel seemed to hold its breath.

The Duke hesitated. Only for a moment. Then he leaned forward.

The kiss was brief, polite, almost ceremonial. His lips brushed hers with the restraint of a man who had no intention of making the gesture mean anything. But something unexpected happened. For the briefest instant, the Duke of Ashworth paused — as though he had noticed something he had not anticipated. Something human. Something alive.

Then it was gone. He stepped back immediately.

“It is done,” the reverend said warmly. “I present His Grace and Her Grace, the Duke and Duchess of Ashworth.”

Eleanor lowered her gaze to the ring on her hand. A duchess. The title felt heavy, unreal, like a costume that did not quite fit.

The Duke signed the marriage register first. His handwriting was precise, controlled. Eleanor took the pen next. Her fingers trembled slightly as she wrote her new name for the first time.

Eleanor Blackwood.

When she finished, the Duke glanced at the page. “Efficient,” he murmured.

She looked up sharply. “Was efficiency part of the contract as well?”

A flicker of something — amusement, perhaps — passed through his eyes. “Among other things.”

Outside, the carriage was already waiting. Snow still drifted through the London streets as the newly married couple stepped out of the chapel. The Duke offered his arm. Eleanor accepted it, not because she trusted him, but because she had chosen this path.

As they reached the carriage, she glanced up at him. “Your Grace.”

“Yes?”

She hesitated. “Now that we are married, what happens next?”

He helped her into the carriage before answering. Then he stepped in beside her and closed the door. The carriage began to move.

“You become the Duchess of Ashworth,” he said calmly. “And I…”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“I learn whether marrying you was a mistake.”

The carriage rolled through the snowy streets of London, and for the first time since the ceremony, Eleanor wondered the same thing.