Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~10 min read
Chapter 27: Christmas Eve (one Year Later)
Emmeline
Christmas Eve arrives with pale winter sunlight and the awareness that today marks both the anniversary of Emmy and the Duke’s wedding and the anniversary of Caroline and Thomas’s deaths—a bittersweet day that holds both grief and celebration, both loss and new beginning—and Emmy wakes to find the Duke already awake beside her, staring at the ceiling with an expression that’s contemplative rather than devastated.
“Today is the day,” Emmy says quietly. “Christmas Eve. One year since we married. Five years since you lost Caroline and Thomas.”
“Six years actually,” the Duke corrects. “It’s been six years since they died. Six Christmases I’ve survived without them. But yes—today is heavy with anniversaries. Both painful and joyful.”
Emmy takes his hand and squeezes gently, offering silent support while the Duke processes the complicated emotions of this anniversary day.
“I want to visit their graves,” the Duke says after several minutes of silence. “Together. Not to wallow in grief but to acknowledge what today represents. To honor them properly before we celebrate our own anniversary. Would you come with me?”
“Of course,” Emmy agrees immediately. “Whatever you need today. However you want to mark it.”
They dress warmly against December cold and make the short journey to the family chapel on Ashford Hall grounds where Caroline and Thomas are buried side by side in a small private cemetery reserved for the Duke’s family—a peaceful location surrounded by trees, simple headstones marking where they rest.
The Duke stands silently in front of Caroline and Thomas’s graves for a long time while Emmy waits beside him, and when he finally speaks his voice is steady despite obvious emotion.
“Thank you for him,” the Duke says, addressing Caroline’s grave directly. “For the time I had with you. For trying to give me an heir even knowing it might cost your life. For loving me enough to take that risk. I’ll never forget you, Caroline. Never stop being grateful for the three years we had together.”
Emmy watches the Duke lay fresh flowers on Caroline’s grave—white roses that represent remembrance and respect—and then he turns to Thomas’s smaller headstone with its simple inscription: “Thomas Hartley, December 25, 1818 – December 25, 1818. Beloved Son.”
“I’m sorry you never got to live,” the Duke says to Thomas’s grave. “Sorry I couldn’t save you. Sorry your entire existence was just one hour of struggle. But I want you to know—you mattered. Your life mattered even though it was brief. And you’re not forgotten. You never will be.”
The Duke places more flowers on Thomas’s grave, and then he stands silently for another long moment before turning to Emmy with tears on his scarred face.
“I love them,” the Duke says. “I’ll always love them. But I love you too. Completely. And I don’t think those loves are in competition anymore. I think maybe—maybe I’ve finally learned that hearts are big enough to hold both grief and new joy. Both remembering the past and building the future.”
“I’m glad,” Emmy responds honestly. “Glad you can love them and love me. Glad you’ve stopped feeling like choosing me betrays their memory.”
The Duke pulls Emmy into his arms and holds her while they both stand in the cemetery honoring the family he lost, and when they finally separate he’s looking at her with an expression that’s less weighted with grief than Emmy has ever seen on this anniversary.
“Thank you,” the Duke says. “For him. For Thomas. For giving him an hour of life before he died. For trying even knowing you might die in the attempt. I’m sorry I failed you. Sorry I couldn’t save either of you.”
He stops, clearly struggling with the next part of what he wants to say.
“I’m building a life now,” the Duke continues, still addressing Caroline’s grave. “With Emmy. A good life. A happy life. I hope—I hope that’s what you wanted when you told me to be happy. I hope you’d approve of her. I think you would. She’s stubborn and patient and brave. Everything you said I needed.”
Emmy’s chest aches at hearing the Duke finally giving himself permission to be happy, finally believing that Caroline would want him to move forward instead of staying frozen in grief, and she stands beside him while he says goodbye to his first family in a way that feels like genuine closure instead of just ongoing avoidance.
“We should go,” the Duke says finally. “I want to spend the rest of today celebrating us instead of mourning them. Want to mark our anniversary with joy instead of just grief.”
They return to Ashford Hall and spend the afternoon together quietly—reading in the library, walking through snow-covered gardens, enjoying being together without the weight of grief making everything heavy—and when evening arrives the Duke surprises Emmy by arranging an intimate dinner in the same room where they had their awkward wedding breakfast exactly one year ago.
“I wanted to create better memory for this space,” the Duke explains when Emmy expresses surprise at the location. “Last year our wedding breakfast was tense and awkward and I barely spoke to you. This year I want to celebrate properly. With joy instead of just going through required motions.”
The dinner is beautiful—carefully prepared foods, candles and flowers making the room warm and festive, the Duke actually present and engaged instead of emotionally absent like he was during their wedding—and Emmy feels the difference between this anniversary and their actual wedding day.
Then: obligation and desperation and the Duke barely able to tolerate being in the same room.
Now: choice and love and the Duke looking at her like she’s precious instead of just convenient.
“One year,” Emmy observes during dinner. “One year since you proposed loveless marriage and I accepted out of desperation. It’s remarkable how much has changed.”
“You changed it,” the Duke argues. “You refused to accept cold distance. Refused to let me hide behind walls. Forced me into growth even when I resisted desperately. This—” he gestures between them “—this only exists because you were stubborn enough to demand more than I initially offered.”
“You did the hard work,” Emmy points out. “I just kept pushing. You’re the one who actually overcame fear and grief and all the trauma keeping you frozen.”
“We did it together,” the Duke says. “That’s the truth. Neither of us could have built this alone. It took your stubborn pushing and my terrified trying. Both of us choosing each other despite every reason it should have been impossible.”
After dinner the Duke produces a small wrapped gift—beautiful paper and ribbon suggesting significant thought went into presentation—and when Emmy opens it she finds a leather-bound journal filled with the Duke’s handwriting.
“I’ve been writing in this since the annulment hearing,” the Duke explains while Emmy pages through entries chronicling their growing love. “Documenting our journey. All the moments when I fell more in love with you. All the times you challenged me or supported me or made me laugh when I thought joy was impossible. I wanted you to have it. Physical proof that our love is real and documented and something I treasure enough to record.”
Emmy’s eyes are burning with tears as she reads entries about their first real dinner together, the Duke noticing she bit her lip while reading, Emmy forcing him to enter the west wing, every small moment that built toward their current happiness carefully preserved in his elegant script.
“This is the most romantic gift anyone has ever given me,” Emmy manages to say through tears. “Thank you. For documenting us. For valuing our story enough to preserve it.”
“I wanted you to know,” the Duke says simply. “That every moment mattered. That I was paying attention even when I seemed distant. That I was falling in love with you gradually and inevitably and completely.”
Emmy has a gift for the Duke too—something she commissioned months ago but has been waiting for the right moment to present—and when she gives him the wrapped package she watches nervously while he opens it.
It’s a portrait of all of them—Emmy and the Duke in the center holding hands, Caroline and Thomas painted ethereally in the background like protective spirits watching over them, her father on Emmy’s other side looking healthy and happy—all of them together in one image that represents their blended family including those who are gone.
“You commissioned this,” the Duke says, staring at the portrait with obvious emotion. “You had an artist paint all of us together. Not separate. Not competing. Just… family. Even the ones we lost.”
“I wanted you to see that there’s room for everyone,” Emmy explains. “That loving me doesn’t erase Caroline. That our future doesn’t invalidate your past. That we can build new happiness while honoring old love. All of us together instead of separate or competing.”
The Duke is crying now—genuine tears streaming down his scarred face while he stares at the portrait that includes everyone he loves—and Emmy watches him process this gift that represents exactly what they’ve built over their difficult year together.
“Thank you,” the Duke says finally. “For understanding. For not being jealous. For including them in our family instead of expecting me to forget they existed. This is—this is perfect, Emmy. Absolutely perfect.”
They hang the portrait in their private sitting room where they can see it daily—a reminder that their love is big enough to include grief, their family complete enough to honor those who are gone—and when it’s positioned properly the Duke pulls Emmy into his arms with desperate intensity.
“I love you,” the Duke says. “More than I have words to express. More than journal entries or romantic gestures can capture. You’ve given me back my life, Emmy. You’ve made happiness possible again after I thought it was gone forever. That’s everything.”
“I love you too,” Emmy responds. “However difficult this year was. However many times you retreated or I pushed too hard. However imperfect our journey. I love all of it. I love us.”
They fall into bed together—not desperate or tentative like their first time but comfortable and deeply connected and filled with love that’s been tested and proven strong enough to survive whatever comes—and Emmy thinks about how far they’ve come from desperate Christmas Eve when she begged for mercy and he offered cold arrangement.
They’ve built something real.
Through patience and stubbornness and refusing to accept less than genuine partnership.
Through the Duke’s terrified trying and Emmy’s persistent pushing.
Through honoring the past while building the future.
They’ve created love that’s strong enough to survive anniversaries that hold both grief and joy.
And that’s everything Emmy hoped for when she promised her dying father she wouldn’t give up.
She didn’t give up.
The Duke didn’t stay frozen.
And now—one year after their desperate beginning—they’re building something that feels permanent instead of fragile.
Real instead of performed.
Chosen instead of obligated.
Perfect in its imperfection.
Exactly what both of them needed even when they didn’t know they needed it.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” Emmy whispers while they lie together in darkness. “Our anniversary. The day everything changed.”
“Merry Christmas Eve,” the Duke responds. “The best decision I ever made. Marrying you desperate on Christmas Day and somehow building real love from that desperate beginning.”
Emmy falls asleep in the Duke’s arms feeling completely secure and deeply loved and grateful beyond words that their cold arranged marriage transformed into something genuine.
One difficult year.
One patient wife.
One terrified husband learning to be brave.
And love that was worth every painful moment it took to create.
Finally.
Reader Reactions