Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~17 min read
Chapter 4: Christmas Day Wedding
Emmeline
Emmy wakes on Christmas morning to pale winter light filtering through her bedroom window and the immediate crushing awareness that today is the day she marries the Duke of Ashford in a loveless arrangement that will save her father and cost her everything resembling the future she might have once imagined for herself, and she lies there for several long minutes trying to find the courage to actually get out of bed and go through with this instead of hiding under her blankets and pretending none of this is happening.
A knock at the door interrupts her cowardice—Mrs. Winters, the Duke’s housekeeper, arriving precisely at eight o’clock with several boxes and an expression of professional kindness that makes Emmy want to cry because at least someone involved in this disaster seems capable of basic human warmth.
“Good morning, Miss Shaw,” Mrs. Winters says with a gentle smile that suggests she understands exactly how awful this situation is and wishes she could make it better. “His Grace sent me to assist you in preparing for the ceremony. I’ve brought the dress and everything else required.”
Emmy sits up slowly, pulling her worn blanket around her shoulders against the morning cold, and watches Mrs. Winters set the boxes on the small chair by the window with the careful movements of someone handling something precious.
“The Duke’s mother’s dress,” Emmy says, remembering what he told her yesterday about borrowing clothing from the previous Duchess. “I’m to wear his late mother’s wedding dress.”
“Not her wedding dress,” Mrs. Winters clarifies, opening the first box to reveal layers of ivory tissue paper. “Just one of her nicer gowns that His Grace thought would be appropriate for a small ceremony. The actual wedding dress is… well, that’s packed away in the west wing with the other items from his first marriage.”
His first marriage—to Caroline, the woman who died and left him so broken he can’t even bear to discuss her—and Emmy’s going to spend her wedding day wearing clothes borrowed from his mother while being haunted by the ghost of the wife he actually loved.
“How wonderful,” Emmy says without enthusiasm. “Nothing says happy marriage like borrowed clothing and invisible competition with a dead woman.”
Mrs. Winters’ expression softens with sympathy. “I know this isn’t ideal circumstances, Miss Shaw. But for what it’s worth, His Grace is trying. He had these rooms aired and cleaned. He arranged for your father to have the best chambers in the house. He’s making effort, even if it doesn’t feel like much.”
“The effort to acquire a convenient wife who won’t bother him with expectations of actual affection,” Emmy observes. “How generous.”
“The effort to save your father from debtor’s prison while providing you with security and position,” Mrs. Winters corrects gently. “That counts for something, even if the circumstances are less romantic than you might have hoped.”
Emmy doesn’t argue because Mrs. Winters is right—the Duke is solving her family’s crisis even if he’s doing it in the coldest, most transactional way possible—and she lets the housekeeper help her dress in the ivory silk gown that belonged to the previous Duchess and fits reasonably well except for being slightly too long in the hem and too loose in the bodice.
“His Grace’s mother was shorter and more generously proportioned,” Mrs. Winters explains while making quick adjustments with pins and thread. “But we can make this work for a small ceremony. You won’t be walking down any grand aisles.”
The dress is beautiful despite not fitting properly—fine silk with delicate lace at the sleeves and neckline, elegant in its simplicity, clearly expensive but not aggressively so—and Emmy stares at her reflection in the small mirror while Mrs. Winters arranges her hair and tries not to think about how she’s wearing a dead woman’s dress to marry a man who’s still in love with a different dead woman.
“There,” Mrs. Winters says finally, stepping back to assess her work. “You look lovely, Miss Shaw. Truly.”
Emmy looks at herself—at the ivory silk that doesn’t quite fit, at the hair styled more elegantly than she’s ever managed on her own, at the face that’s pale with anxiety and eyes that are red from crying—and sees a woman dressed up to play a role she has no idea how to perform.
“I look like I’m going to a funeral instead of a wedding,” Emmy observes.
“Well,” Mrs. Winters says carefully, “in a sense, you’re mourning the future you thought you’d have while beginning a new one you didn’t choose. That’s worth some grief, I think.”
The carriage arrives at half past nine—the Duke apparently believes in punctuality even for loveless weddings—and Emmy makes the short journey to Ashford Hall with her father beside her looking grey and exhausted despite sleeping late, and neither of them speaks because there’s nothing to say that won’t make this worse.
Ashford Hall looks different in Christmas morning light—less imposing, more just a very large house where Emmy is about to legally bind herself to a man who’s warned her explicitly not to expect his frozen heart to ever thaw—and she makes herself walk up the front steps with her head high because collapsing in despair on her wedding day seems like poor form even when the wedding is a disaster.
Mrs. Winters meets them at the door and leads them through corridors Emmy doesn’t recognize to a small chapel that’s attached to the main house, and Emmy’s first thought is that it’s beautiful in an austere way—simple stone walls, plain wooden pews, Christmas greenery arranged with more taste than warmth, exactly like everything else about the Duke of Ashford.
The Duke is already there—standing at the altar with his solicitor beside him and a vicar Emmy doesn’t recognize from the village—and he’s wearing formal morning dress that makes him look even more imposing than usual, even more like something carved from marble and given minimal life by some reluctant deity.
He doesn’t smile when he sees Emmy.
Doesn’t react at all beyond a slight nod of acknowledgment that she’s arrived and they can proceed with this farce of a wedding ceremony.
“Miss Shaw,” the Duke says, his voice as emotionless as ever. “You look appropriate.”
“How romantic,” Emmy responds before she can stop herself. “Every bride dreams of being told she looks appropriate on her wedding day.”
Something flickers in the Duke’s ice-blue eyes—amusement or annoyance, impossible to tell—but he doesn’t respond, just turns back to the vicar and indicates they should begin while Emmy’s still trying to process that this is actually happening, that in a few minutes she’ll be married to this cold man in this cold chapel with only her dying father and the Duke’s solicitor as witnesses.
The vicar begins—standard Church of England ceremony delivered in a practiced monotone that suggests he’s performed hundreds of weddings and finds them all equally tedious—and Emmy hears the words washing over her without really comprehending them because her mind is stuck on the fact that this is her wedding day and there are no flowers except the simple greenery decorating the chapel, no guests except the absolute minimum required for witnesses, no celebration or joy or anything resembling what weddings are supposed to be.
“Emmeline Rose Shaw,” the vicar intones, and Emmy realizes with a start that they’ve reached the vows, that she’s supposed to speak now, supposed to promise to love and honor and obey a man who’s explicitly told her he can’t love her back.
“I, Emmeline, take thee, Sebastian…” Emmy begins, and her voice shakes despite her best efforts at composure, shakes with fear and grief and the terrible awareness that she’s signing away her entire future with these words. “…to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
The words feel hollow in her mouth—promises she’s making without meaning them, vows that are required by ceremony but not backed by any actual feeling except desperation and the resigned acceptance that this is her only option.
The Duke’s turn now, and Emmy watches him deliver the same vows in a voice that’s completely robotic, completely emotionless, like he’s reading a contract aloud rather than promising to spend his life with the woman standing in front of him.
“I, Sebastian Charles Hartley, take thee, Emmeline Rose Shaw, to be my wedded wife…” The Duke’s voice is steady and cold, revealing absolutely nothing about whether he feels anything at all about what he’s promising. “…to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Love and cherish—the Duke promises these things while Emmy knows with absolute certainty that he means none of it, that these are just required words in a required ceremony and she shouldn’t expect him to actually fulfill any promises beyond the legal and financial ones.
The vicar continues with the ring portion of the ceremony, and the Duke produces a simple gold band that he slides onto Emmy’s finger with impersonal efficiency, and Emmy realizes she has no ring to give him in return because this wedding was arranged so quickly there was no time for such niceties.
“You may kiss the bride,” the vicar says finally, and Emmy braces herself for whatever perfunctory gesture the Duke will perform to satisfy this requirement.
But the Duke doesn’t kiss her.
He just looks at her for a long moment with those ice-blue eyes that reveal nothing, and then he nods—a single sharp nod like he’s acknowledging a business agreement successfully concluded—and turns away toward the small table where the marriage certificate is waiting to be signed.
No kiss at the altar.
Not even the brief, miserable kiss Emmy was expecting.
Just a nod, like they’ve completed a transaction and can now move on to the paperwork.
Emmy stands there in her borrowed dress that doesn’t fit properly feeling like she’s been slapped, and she watches the Duke sign the marriage certificate with his elegant script while her father looks on with an expression of guilt and gratitude that makes Emmy want to scream because none of this is his fault except it absolutely is and she’s paying the price for his mistakes by marrying a man who can’t even bring himself to kiss her at their own wedding.
“Your Grace,” the vicar prompts gently, and Emmy realizes he’s speaking to her now, that she’s the Duchess of Ashford and needs to sign the certificate that will make this legal and binding and completely inescapable.
She signs—Emmeline Shaw one last time, soon to be Emmeline Hartley, Duchess of Ashford—and the ink feels like it’s sealing her fate in more ways than just the legal ones.
“Congratulations, Your Graces,” the vicar says with professional cheer that feels completely inappropriate for the grim ceremony they just performed. “May your marriage be blessed with happiness and many children.”
The Duke doesn’t respond, just accepts the signed certificate and hands it to his solicitor for filing, and Emmy stands there trying to process that she’s married now, legally and irrevocably married to a man who just refused to kiss her and is already turning away like she’s not important enough to warrant his continued attention.
Mrs. Winters appears with an invitation to wedding breakfast in one of the smaller dining rooms, and Emmy follows numbly because what else is she supposed to do—demand that her new husband acknowledge her existence, insist on romantic gestures he’s explicitly said he can’t provide, throw a tantrum about how awful this all is when everyone involved already knows how awful it is.
The wedding breakfast is as awkward as everything else about this disaster—a formally set table with fine china and expensive food that Emmy can’t taste because her throat is too tight with unshed tears, her father trying to make conversation while looking guilty and exhausted, the Duke eating in silence and answering questions with monosyllables when he bothers responding at all, Mrs. Winters hovering nearby with an expression of professional sympathy that makes Emmy feel even more pathetic.
“Thank you,” Emmy’s father says to the Duke at one point during the interminable meal. “For saving us. For taking care of Emmy. I know this isn’t what either of you would have chosen, but I’m grateful. More grateful than I can express.”
“Your daughter is now my responsibility,” the Duke says without looking at Emmy. “I’ll ensure she’s properly provided for.”
Provided for—like Emmy is a dependent relative he’s obligated to support rather than the woman he just married, the woman who’s supposed to be his partner and companion, the woman who just promised to love and cherish him even though he’s made it clear he’ll never return those feelings.
After breakfast, the Duke disappears—just stands from the table and walks away without explanation or farewell, leaving Emmy sitting there with her father and Mrs. Winters while trying not to cry about being abandoned by her husband within an hour of getting married.
“His Grace has estate business to attend to,” Mrs. Winters explains quietly. “He works most days. Even Christmas. Especially Christmas, actually.”
“Because his first wife died on Christmas Eve,” Emmy says, understanding clicking into place. “And now he’s married me on Christmas Day. That must be particularly painful for him.”
“I suspect it is,” Mrs. Winters agrees. “Though His Grace would never admit to pain or any other emotion. He’s very good at appearing unaffected.”
“Well, he’s certainly perfected appearing completely indifferent to his new wife,” Emmy observes bitterly. “Didn’t even kiss me at the altar. Just nodded like we’d completed a satisfactory business transaction.”
Mrs. Winters’ expression shifts to something that might be pity. “Give him time, Your Grace. He’s not… he’s not good with closeness. Or affection. Or anything that requires emotional vulnerability. But he’s not cruel. Just damaged.”
“Damaged,” Emmy repeats. “That’s one word for it.”
Mrs. Winters shows Emmy to the Duchess’s chambers—the rooms that will be hers now, the suite that apparently used to belong to Caroline—and Emmy walks through spaces that are beautiful and lonely and feel nothing like home, nothing like anywhere she wants to be.
The bedroom is enormous—bigger than her entire former house, probably bigger than three of her former houses—with a four-poster bed draped in rich fabrics and windows overlooking gardens that must be spectacular in spring but currently look as cold and barren as Emmy feels.
“His Grace had everything redecorated,” Mrs. Winters explains, gesturing to the furnishings that are clearly new and expensive and completely impersonal. “Removed all of the late Duchess Caroline’s belongings, changed the color scheme, replaced the furniture. He wanted you to have spaces that were yours rather than hers.”
“How thoughtful,” Emmy says without feeling particularly grateful. “He removed all evidence of the woman he actually loved so I can inhabit her rooms while knowing I’ll never live up to her memory.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Mrs. Winters says gently. “His Grace was trying to give you a fresh start. To not burden you with constant reminders of his past.”
“Except the rooms themselves are a reminder,” Emmy points out. “These chambers are connected to his through that door. The same layout Caroline had. The same location where she died. How is that a fresh start?”
Mrs. Winters doesn’t have a good answer to that, and Emmy dismisses her with thanks because she needs to be alone, needs space to process that she’s married now, that this is her life, that she’s the Duchess of Ashford living in a dead woman’s rooms married to a man who’s still in love with that dead woman.
She spends Christmas afternoon checking on her father—who’s already comfortable in his new chambers and looking better than he has in months thanks to the warm fire and good food and absence of crushing worry about debts—and then she’s alone in her enormous sitting room trying to figure out what duchesses are supposed to do with their time when their husbands ignore them and there are no duties to perform on Christmas Day.
She finds books in one of the libraries—Mrs. Winters pointed out the main library during the tour of the house—and Emmy spends the rest of the day reading to escape the reality of her wedding day that passed without celebration or joy or even basic acknowledgment from the man she married.
The Duke never comes to find her.
Never checks if she’s settled.
Never makes any effort to spend time with his new wife on the day they got married.
And Emmy sits in her expensive chair in her expensive room reading expensive books while trying not to think about how she’s alone on her wedding day, abandoned by a husband who apparently finds estate business more compelling than spending even a few minutes with the woman he just bound himself to for life.
When evening comes, a maid appears with dinner on a tray—apparently Emmy is eating in her chambers rather than dining with her husband—and Emmy accepts the food without comment because what is there to say when her husband would rather avoid her than share a single meal with her on their wedding day.
She’s preparing for bed—still not certain if the Duke will come to consummate their marriage or if he’ll avoid that obligation the same way he’s avoided everything else about actually being married—when Mrs. Winters appears with an apologetic expression.
“His Grace asked me to inform you that he’s working late in his study,” Mrs. Winters says carefully. “He wanted you to know so you wouldn’t… wait unnecessarily.”
“He’s not coming,” Emmy translates. “Not tonight. Possibly not ever based on how thoroughly he’s been avoiding me since the ceremony ended.”
“I cannot speak to His Grace’s intentions,” Mrs. Winters says diplomatically. “But he does tend to work late. Estate management requires considerable time and attention.”
After Mrs. Winters leaves, Emmy lies in her massive bed in her massive room wearing the expensive nightdress that was laid out for her by servants who prepared these chambers for a wedding night that apparently isn’t going to happen, and she stares at the canopy above her head while trying to accept that this is her life now—married but alone, a duchess but not really a wife, legally bound to a man who treats her with distant courtesy but can’t offer anything resembling actual partnership or affection.
She married the Duke of Ashford on Christmas morning.
By Christmas night, he’s made it abundantly clear that their marriage is exactly what he promised it would be—a business arrangement, a practical solution to mutual problems, a legal contract with no expectation of love or warmth or anything resembling actual marriage.
Emmy closes her eyes against tears that won’t stop falling and tries to sleep, and her last thought before exhaustion claims her is that she survived her wedding day.
She just has to figure out how to survive the rest of her marriage.
However many lonely, loveless years that might be.
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