Vows Beneath the Morning Rose
The travel from The Grand Tribunal Hall, Westminster to The Chapel of St. Michael, Ashford Keep consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The question hung in the dusty, sunlit air of the tribunal hall, a counterpoint to the fading echoes of applause. Evangeline’s vision blurred. She saw him not as the Duke of Ashford, not as the man who had commanded armies of solicitors and barristers, but as Xavier—the boy who had carved her name into the bark of the old oak, the man who had crossed a continent for her, and who now knelt in the detritus of a legal war, offering her his whole, unguarded heart.
Leo, still perched on Xavier’s other knee, looked between them, his small brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Mama,” he whispered, his voice carrying in the sudden hush, “why is Papa on the floor? Is he looking for his other button?”
A choked sob-laugh escaped Evangeline’s lips. She moved, her steps unsteady, and knelt in front of them, the fine wool of her gown brushing the grime on the floor. She took Xavier’s face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the faintest tremor in his skin.
“You imbecile,” she breathed, her voice thick with love. “You magnificent, stubborn imbecile. I have loved you since I was seventeen and you told me my poetry was terrible but my heart was true. I waited for you for six years. Did you think a lifetime would be a hardship?”
She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his. “Yes. Yes, Xavier. Say the word, and I will never let you go.”
The cheer that erupted was deafening. Dorian, resplendent in his dress uniform, let out a low whistle, his stern facade cracking into a genuine grin. Helena was openly weeping, her handkerchief a sodden wreck in her gloved hand. Leo, utterly bewildered but delighted by the noise, clapped his hands together. Xavier pulled them both into his arms, his face buried in Evangeline’s hair, and for a moment, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight were the only witnesses to the quiet, fierce promise he made against her skin.
—
One week later, the Chapel of St. Michael at Ashford Keep was a cocoon of hushed twilight, though the morning sun strained against the stained-glass windows, casting jewel-toned pools of sapphire and ruby upon the ancient flagstones. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax from a hundred candles and the heavy, heady perfume of white roses that cascaded from the ends of every pew.
Evangeline stood at the altar, her hand resting lightly on the carved stone, and watched the man she was about to marry stride through the door. Xavier was not in the ducal finery of the tribunal. He wore a simple, impeccably tailored coat of deep midnight blue over a crisp white waistcoat, his boots polished to a mirror shine. The sunlight caught the silver threads in his dark hair, and he seemed to her not a duke, but a man walking towards his own future.
Dorian, standing tall and proud as Xavier’s witness, caught his eye and gave a single, sharp nod. It was a soldier’s acknowledgment, a signal that the perimeter was secure, the field of battle won. Xavier returned the nod, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
But his gaze was all for Evangeline. She wore no glittering tiara, no heavy jewels. Her gown was of cream silk, simple and elegant, with a delicate fichu of lace at her throat—a dress from her old life, mended and pressed, a testament to the journey they had taken. In her hands, she held a simple prayer book, and beside her, Helena, in a gown of soft rose, clutched the thickest, most beautiful bouquet of white roses Evangeline had ever seen.
The music, a single cello and a harp, began to play. A soft, swelling melody that felt less like a formal processional and more like a lullaby. From the vestry door, Leo appeared.
He was a vision of concentrated importance. He wore a miniature copy of his father’s coat, the buttons polished to gleaming, and his dark hair had been slicked down with water, though a stubborn cowlick at the crown was already springing free. In his small, white-gloved hands, he clutched a velvet cushion upon which rested two simple gold bands. He walked with the slow, deliberate pace of a child who had been told he was the most important part of the ceremony and intended to live up to the billing. He kept his eyes fixed on Evangeline, a look of fierce, unwavering duty on his face.
He reached her, and with immense ceremony, held up the cushion. “I didn’t drop them, Mama,” he announced, his voice loud in the chapel’s quiet.
Xavier, who had moved to stand beside her, let out a soft laugh. “A better man than I. I dropped my own courage a dozen times this week.”
The priest, a kindly old man with eyes that crinkled with warmth, began the service. His voice was a low, soothing murmur, weaving through the traditional words, but for Evangeline, it was little more than a pleasant hum. She was acutely aware of the solid warmth of Xavier’s hand as he held hers, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her knuckles. She could feel the eyes of the small congregation on them—the loyal staff of Ashford Keep, a handful of trusted friends who had stood by them through the trial.
But she only saw Xavier.
He looked at her as if she were the answer to a question he hadn’t known how to ask. His gaze was not the triumphant stare of a victor claiming a prize, but the reverent, disbelieving look of a man who has found a treasure he had long thought lost at sea.
“Do you, Xavier Alexander Rutherford, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Xavier’s voice was low and clear, filled with a conviction that silenced even the crackling of the candles. “I do.”
“Do you, Evangeline Mary Ashford, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She squeezed his hand. “I do. With all my heart.”
“The rings, please.”
Leo, who had been standing with the bearing of a tin soldier, took his duty with renewed gravity. He fumbled for a moment, his small fingers clumsy with the velvet, before Dorian gently steadied the cushion. Leo plucked the larger ring from its nest and solemnly placed it in Xavier’s open palm. Then, with painstaking care, he did the same for Evangeline.
As Xavier slid the cool band of gold onto her finger, his own hand trembling just enough for her to feel, he spoke, his words for her alone. “I bound myself to you once in fear and silence. I bind myself to you now in truth and in light. You are my home, Evangeline. Wherever you are, the rest of the world is just scenery.”
Tears slipped, unbidden, down her cheeks. She mirrored his actions, sliding the second ring onto his finger, her voice catching. “And you are my shield and my storm. I will love you in the quiet times and in the tempests. For all our days, and for all the days our son brings us.”
The priest smiled. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. You may kiss your bride.”
Xavier didn’t hesitate. He cupped her face, his touch gentle, and kissed her. It was a kiss of deep, profound possession, a kiss that tasted of salt and relief and a love so fierce it threatened to overwhelm her. When he drew back, Leo was tugging on his coat.
“Is it done, Papa? Are you married now?”
Xavier scooped him up, holding him between himself and Evangeline. “Yes, we are. Your mother is now a duchess, and you are a duke’s son. We are a family, Leo. And we will never be anything else.”
Leo considered this for a moment. “Good,” he said, with the finality of a king concluding a treaty. “Can we have cake now?”
The laughter that filled the chapel was the sweetest music Evangeline had ever heard.
—
The feast was a riot of color and joy in the great hall of Ashford Keep. The long tables, once draped in dust sheets, were now laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and dishes that filled the air with a savory, comforting warmth. Dorian held court at one end, his stories of the ordeal—edited, of course, for the sensitive ears at the table—drawing roars of laughter. Helena, seated beside Evangeline, kept her company, her hand occasionally fluttering to her friend’s arm as if to make sure she was real.
But the center of the universe was Leo. He was having the time of his life. He had eaten more cake than was strictly advisable and was now conducting an imaginary orchestra with a bread roll, his face smeared with a victorious smirk. He was the undisputed king of this new world, a world where his parents were together and his father had a name and a home.
As the afternoon wore on, the sun shifted, casting long, soft shadows across the hall. Xavier leaned over to Evangeline, his lips brushing her ear. “Come with me,” he murmured. “There’s something I want to show you.”
He rose, offering her his hand. She took it, and they slipped away from the noise and the revelry, their absence unnoticed except by Dorian, who gave a quiet nod of approval, and Helena, who smiled a knowing, watery smile.
He led her out of the great hall, through a winding corridor, and out a side door into the garden. The chill of the morning had burned off, replaced by the soft warmth of early sun. They walked down a gravel path, the stones crunching under their feet, until they reached the rose arbor. It was a wonder, a structure of old, rusted iron practically smothered by the most profuse, fragrant climbing roses Evangeline had ever seen. They were in glorious bloom, a cascade of deep crimson and soft pink, their petals dusted with morning dew.
In the center of the arbor, on a stone bench, sat a small, dirty teddy bear. Xavier picked it up, dusting it off with his thumb. He held it out to her. “I was going to give this to you before I left,” he said, his voice husky. “I bought it in the village the day before I was taken. I carried it all the way to the ship, but I never got to say goodbye. I’ve kept it in my trunk for seven years, Evangeline. I think it was the only thing that kept me sane.”
Evangeline took the bear, her fingers tracing the worn, stitched ear. A tear splashed onto its threadbare tummy. It was the most precious gift she had ever received. It was a promise made, a promise broken by fear, and now a promise kept.
A small hurricane of energy burst into the arbor. “Papa! Mama! You missed the jelly!” Leo shrieked, his face a mess of purple.
Xavier laughed, a deep, rolling sound that filled the garden. He looked at Evangeline, and she saw it in his eyes—the same promise, the same commitment, this time unbreakable. He knelt down, scooping Leo up with one arm and gathering Evangeline to his side with the other.
He held them both, their small, perfect family, enclosed by the living, blooming heart of the rose arbor. The Ravenwood threat was a distant, vanquished memory. The title was secured, not as a prize, but as a fortress for the people he loved. He looked down at Leo’s sticky face, then at the woman in his arms, her cheeks flushed with joy and her eyes shining with a future he would spend the rest of his life building.
And as the morning light spilled over Ashford Keep, Xavier lifted Leo onto his shoulders, and Evangeline laced her fingers through her husband’s hand — a duke, his duchess, and their son, unbroken beneath the dawn.