She Fell Asleep in the War Duke’s Bed—While 59 Women Waited Below

Chapter 10

The wedding took place on a September morning, six weeks after the ball.

It was a small ceremony. Clara had insisted. She had not wanted a grand affair, had not wanted to stand before a crowd of strangers while they speculated about the circumstances of the engagement. She had wanted a quiet morning in the chapel at Ravenscroft Hall, with only family and a handful of close friends.

Julian had agreed without argument.

Clara wore a gown of pale cream silk, simple and elegant, with wildflowers woven into her hair. Her mother cried. Her father pressed her hand and said nothing, which was the most eloquent thing he had ever done.

Harriet stood beside her as her attendant. Rosalind held the flowers. And at the front of the chapel, Julian waited in his dark coat, his expression controlled, his hands steady.

But his eyes gave him away.

He looked at Clara as she walked down the aisle, and she saw everything he could not say. The fear. The hope. The certainty that he had made the right choice, even when the world had told him otherwise.

The vows were simple. The priest spoke the words that had been spoken for centuries. Clara answered in a voice that did not waver. Julian answered in a voice that did.

And then they were married.

The breakfast afterward was held in the small dining room, not the grand hall. Clara noticed that Julian had chosen the venue. He had chosen the smaller room, the quieter gathering, the setting where she would feel most at ease.

He had been paying attention.

Sebastian raised a toast. Marcus told a story about Julian’s childhood that made everyone laugh. The Duchess sat at the head of the table, her expression neutral, but Clara caught her watching Julian with something that looked almost like pride.

Nell wandered into the dining room at some point, followed by her three puppies — now significantly larger and significantly more destructive. The smallest puppy stole a biscuit from the table and retreated under Clara’s chair to eat it.

“Your dog is a thief,” Clara murmured to Julian.

“Our dog,” Julian corrected. “And she has excellent taste.”

Clara looked at him — at her husband, the Duke of Ravenscroft, the man who had proposed to her in front of a ballroom full of strangers and had spent the following month proving that he had meant every word.

“I love you,” she said.

It was the first time she had said it aloud.

Julian turned to her. His control slipped, just for a moment, and she saw the raw emotion beneath.

“I love you,” he said. “I think I have loved you since you told me about the albatross.”

“Since I fell asleep in your bed?”

“Since you told me about the albatross.” He took her hand. “Since you told me that you believed in love that chooses freely. I have been choosing you ever since.”

That evening, after the last guest had left and the house had grown quiet, Julian led Clara to the chamber where this had all begun.

The room had been changed. The fire had been lit. The bed had been turned down. And on the pillow, carefully arranged, was a single feather.

Clara picked it up. “What is this?”

“An albatross feather.” Julian’s voice was quiet. “I sent to London for it. I wanted you to have proof.”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears.

“Proof that they exist,” Julian continued. “Proof that they cross oceans and return. Proof that love can be chosen freely, and that it can last.”

Clara held the feather against her chest. “You are ridiculous,” she whispered.

“I am a duke. I am allowed to be ridiculous.”

“You are allowed to be whatever you want.”

Julian looked at her, and the control fell away entirely. “I want to be your husband. I want to be the man you return to. I want to spend the rest of my life proving that I chose you, and that I will keep choosing you, every day, for as long as I live.”

Clara kissed him.

And the story that had begun with a scandal, a dog, and a disastrous ball became something else entirely.

It became a love story.