Page 37 of A Marriage for the Marquess

“How could I forget? That’s when I found you.” Glenraven’s eyes reflected the truth of his words. “Come, we don’t want to keep the others waiting.”

“There is one last formality.” The archbishop stood before them. “Come into the vestry. You must enter your marriage lines. You and your witnesses need to sign the marriage registry,”

Standing before the registry book with Glenraven looking on and the archbishop at her side, Juliet took the quill in hand, her signature flowing across the page—Juliet Anne Hayward.

There was a sad sense of farewell to her maiden name, a name that connected her to her family’s history. Yet, along with the bittersweet farewell was the thrill of beginning a new chapter, the excitement of adopting the Glenraven title and all it signified. And as she handed the quill to her husband, her heart skipped a beat. Her husband. She was a Glenraven, ready to step forward as the Marchioness and face the future with whatever it would bring.

Chapter Twenty-One

Glenraven took thequill from his wife. The excitement rolled over him like a wave in the great North Sea as he realized his new responsibility. He glanced at Juliet, and his pulse settled. With his work for Barrington and his brigade, he had laid down his life for others. But at this moment, Juliet and her well-being were paramount to him. He leaned over the registry and clearly, proudly wrote Ewan James Alasdair Danford, Marquess of Glenraven.

“Well done, Lord and Lady Glenraven. Now,” the archbishop rubbed his hands together, “we celebrate.”

The small wedding party gathered in the refined elegance of the Archbishop’s Private Chamber. The room was filled with the soft clinking of fine china and the low murmur of pleasant conversation. Glenraven and Juliet, now man and wife, sat side by side, their hands occasionally brushing beneath the table—a silent language of shared joy.

The archbishop’s steward ensured that their guest’s glasses remained full while the archbishop kept the conversation light. Yet, amidst the pleasantries, his gaze often lingered on Ewan, sensing the unspoken concerns that lay beneath his composed exterior.

“Lord Glenraven,” the Archbishop began, his voice carrying a gentle authority that quieted the room, “how fares your father these days? I’ve heard of his accident and have kept him in my prayers.”

Glenraven met the Archbishop’s kind eyes, gratitude warming him. “Thank you, Your Excellency. He is recovering, though it’s been a trying time for us all.”

“Would it be amiss if I were to visit him? Offer some solace, perhaps?” the Archbishop offered, his concern genuine.

Ewan considered the offer, the idea of such a visit bringing a sense of comfort. “That would be most welcome, Your Excellency. I believe he would find great comfort in your visit.”

The Archbishop nodded, pleased to be of service. “Then it shall be arranged. It is the least I can do for a family that has contributed so much to our community.”

The morning was getting late. Glenraven discreetly nodded to Duncan and Hughes. “Duncan, there are other legal matters that need my attention.” Hughes tapped the Scotsman on the shoulder.

“Of course, Mr. Hughes.” As Duncan rose to take his leave and raised his glass, “Friends, raise your glass and join me.” He turned to the newlyweds with a warm smile. “May the love that binds ye be strong as the oak and gentle as the heather. May yer joys be as deep as the lochs and yer sorrows as light as the thistle’s down. And in all yer days together, may ye find peace as enduring as the highland stones.” He downed the last of his drink.

Juliet met the archbishop’s gaze, her expression one of heartfelt gratitude. “Before you leave, Your Excellency, I am truly thankful for all you’ve done for us.”

“Lady Glenraven, you stand beside a man of rare quality,” the archbishop gave her a gentle nod. With a final, respectful bow, he left the chamber as unobtrusive as possible.

Moments later, they emerged into the forecourt, where their carriages waited. Aunt Geraldine reached for Juliet’s hands, holding them between her own. “Juliet, my dear,” she said,her voice warm with affection, “cherish this day no matter how fleeting they may seem.”

Juliet’s eyes met her aunt’s. “I will.” She embraced her aunt, a gentle strength in her hold. “Thank you for everything. Your wisdom has been my guiding star.”

Aunt Geraldine returned the embrace, a soft sigh escaping her. “It takes time to adjust to a husband. Be patient. You’ll have some challenges until you publicly announce your marriage. Remember, I’ll always be here. We’ll navigate tomorrow’s soiree and all that follows.”

“Lady Glenraven,” her husband called to her as he waited by the coach door with his hand extended to her. After a tender embrace with her aunt, he handed her into the carriage, and they both waved goodbye.

She turned and stared at her husband. In the privacy of the carriage, with the steady rhythm of hooves against cobblestone, she deeply understood and felt the importance of the promises they made to each other at the ceremony. These vows were a profound connection to the moment, to each other, and to the future they were creating.

“Lady Glenraven.” He hadn’t let go of her hand. “I am taking you to a very special place. One that no one knows about. It is my secret and a place I’ve never shared with anyone.”

The carriage rolled smoothly out of Lambeth Palace’s forecourt, subtly shifting as it crossed the cobbled streets to a softer path. The route took them through a lesser-known gate, discreetly positioned along the palace’s perimeter wall, which opened onto a secluded lane obscured by overhanging trees.

The lane meandered, its bends shielding the newlyweds from the city’s eyes, and continued across the Thames to a place enclosed by tall hedges and the remnants of an old stone wall. The garden was a green oasis, a breath of tranquility amidst the bustle of London. The carriage came to a simple wrought-irongate that stood at the threshold of the garden’s entrance. The coachman stopped, unlocked the gate, returned to the carriage, and carried on.

The carriage wheels came to rest on the gravel of the hidden garden’s path. Glenraven assisted Juliet from the carriage, their hands lingering in each other’s grasp.

They walked side by side, each step on the garden’s winding paths a step further into their own private area. As they strolled, they were accompanied by silent sentinels—statues and fountains that stood as quiet witnesses to their promenade.

“This is a remote part of our estate.” Glenraven’s voice was a quiet echo amidst the rustling leaves. “Only a few know of this summerhouse, hidden by ivy and ancient walls. It is here where one can escape the clamor of London.”

Juliet’s fingers gently pressed his in acknowledgment, her steps beside him unhurried. “To think such a treasure has been kept from view. Do you find this secret garden the same as our situation? We cannot tell anyone about our wedding. We must keep it from view as well.”

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