Chapter 18: The Vows of Convenience
The cathedral swallowed him whole.
Leonid stood at the altar, his boots planted on cold marble, and tried to remember how to breathe. Above him, the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow, lost in the whisper of incense and the rustle of silk robes. Candles flickered in their gold filigree holders, casting dancing light across the faces of the assembled guests—all of them watching, all of them waiting, all of them hungry for the spectacle of two noble houses binding themselves together in sacred matrimony.
Isabella stood beside him, a vision in ivory and lace, her golden curls arranged in an elaborate cascade that caught the candlelight like spun sunlight. Her gown was modest by her usual standards, high-necked and long-sleeved, but it clung to her figure in ways that made the older ladies reach for their fans. She was serene, composed, her pale blue eyes fixed on the priest as he intoned the opening prayers.
Leonid's hands were sweating inside his gloves.
He forced his gaze to the altar, to the white roses spilling from every surface, their petals dusted with powdered sugar like snow on blood. The scent was cloying, too sweet, mingling with the incense until he thought he might choke. He had smoked a cigarette on the steps of the cathedral before entering, watching the guests arrive, watching the carriages disgorge their finery. The tobacco had steadied his nerves, but only barely.
Just get through this, he told himself. Just get through this, and then you can figure out the rest.
The priest's voice droned on, a monotone river of Latin and scripture. Leonid's mind wandered, slipping through the gaps in the words, drifting toward the congregation.
He found her almost immediately.
She was seated beside Kai, her dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon, a single strand of pearls at her throat. Her gown was a soft lavender, the colour of wisteria, and she looked like a painting come to life—beautiful and distant and utterly unattainable. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was not looking at him. She was looking at the floor, at her hands, at anything but the altar.
He watched her chest rise and fall with each breath, watched the way her lips pressed together when the priest spoke of love and devotion. She was suffering. He could see it in the tension of her shoulders, in the way she gripped her own fingers until her knuckles went white. And he could do nothing about it. Nothing at all.
"Leonid."
The voice was soft, barely above a whisper. He turned to find Isabella looking at him, her expression unreadable.
"You are drifting," she murmured, her lips barely moving. "Come back to me."
He blinked, shook his head slightly. "I am here."
"You are not." Her eyes flickered toward the congregation, then back to him. "But we will speak of that later. For now, smile. The priest is about to ask us the vows."
It was true. The priest had turned to him, a heavy leather-bound book in his hands, his eyes expectant beneath his bushy grey brows.
"Do you, Leonid Aleksander Manoban, take this woman, Isabella Marie Ashworth, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for as long as you both shall live?"
The words hit him like stones.
He opened his mouth. The silence stretched, a taut wire between heartbeats. He could feel the congregation's eyes on him, could feel Kai's approving gaze, could feel Jennie's stillness like a wound.
"I do," he said.
I do not. The words echoed in the hollow space behind his ribs. I do not, I do not, I do not.
The priest turned to Isabella, repeating the same question, and she answered with a serene, musical "I do" that seemed to settle over the cathedral like a benediction.
The rings were procured. Leonid's hand trembled as he took the band of gold, sliding it onto Isabella's finger. It caught the candlelight, glinting like a promise. His fingers lingered a moment too long, and Isabella, catching his glance, squeezed his hand in silent reassurance.
We have made a pact, her eyes seemed to say. I will hold you to it.
"You may now kiss the bride."
Leonid leaned in, his lips brushing Isabella's cheek—a chaste, proper kiss that made the older ladies sigh and the younger ones giggle. Isabella laughed, a light, musical sound, and squeezed his hand again.
I am here, that squeeze said. I am with you. We will get through this together.
The congregation erupted in applause. Rose petals rained down on them as they walked back up the aisle, white and pink and red scattering across their shoulders like blessings. Guests reached out to touch them, to offer congratulations, to wish them joy. Leonid smiled and nodded and smiled some more, his face a mask of polite gratitude.
But his eyes kept finding Jennie.
She was standing beside Kai, applauding with everyone else, her smile fixed and bright and utterly false. She met his gaze for a single heartbeat—just one—and in that moment, he saw everything. The pain, the betrayal, the desperate, aching love she could not speak aloud. And then she looked away, turning to Kai, reaching up to straighten his cravat, playing the part of the devoted wife.
Leonid's heart cracked open inside his chest.
---
The reception hall was a riot of colour and sound.
Musicians played in the corner, their violins and flutes weaving through the chatter of a hundred voices. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and glistening pastries, mulled wine and sparkling champagne. White roses adorned every surface, their petals scattered across the tablecloths like fallen snow.
Leonid stood beside Isabella, receiving a seemingly endless stream of well-wishers. His face ached from smiling. His hand ached from shaking. His heart ached from the distance between him and the woman he loved.
"So you've finally done it, brother."
He turned to find Kai approaching, Jennie on his arm. Kai looked radiant, his blond hair swept back from his forehead, his smile broad and genuine. He clapped Leonid on the shoulder, pulling him into a brief embrace.
"Congratulations. I knew you would make a beautiful bridegroom."
"Thank you, Kai." Leonid's voice sounded strange to his own ears, distant and hollow. "I am fortunate."
"You are indeed." Kai turned to Isabella, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "And you, sister. Welcome to the family. I hope my brother knows how lucky he is."
Isabella smiled, her eyes glinting with amusement. "I have a feeling he is beginning to realise."
Leonid forced a laugh, his gaze drifting to Jennie. She was standing slightly behind Kai, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression carefully neutral. She was looking at him—no, through him, as if she were trying to memorise his face for a future she could not imagine.
"Jennie," he said, his voice dipping lower than he intended. "You look lovely this evening."
She inclined her head, a formal, proper gesture. "Thank you, Lord Leonid. You are too kind."
Lord Leonid. Five years ago, she had called him Leonid, her voice soft and breathless in the garden. Now she was using his title, building a wall between them with every syllable.
"The ceremony was beautiful," she continued, her voice steady. "You and Isabella make a striking pair."
"Thank you." The words felt inadequate, thin. He wanted to reach out, to take her hand, to tell her that this was not what he wanted. But the crowd pressed in around them, and Kai was watching, and the moment slipped away like water through fingers.
"We should dance," Kai said, turning to Jennie. "The musicians are playing a waltz."
Jennie nodded, her smile fixed and bright. "Of course, my love."
Leonid watched them go, watched Kai lead her onto the floor, watched her place her hand on his shoulder and fall into step with him. She was graceful, elegant, a perfect partner for the golden heir of the Manoban family.
And I am the moon, he thought bitterly. Always watching, never touching, forever on the periphery of her light.
"Drink this."
A glass of champagne appeared in his hand. He looked up to find Isabella beside him, her own glass raised in a toast.
"To our wedding," she said, her voice dry. "May it be the first and last betrayal of our hearts."
He laughed despite himself, the sound escaping before he could stop it. "You are a strange woman, Isabella."
"I am a practical one." She clinked her glass against his, taking a sip. "I saw the way you looked at her. I saw the way she looked at you. If the good Lord is kind, you will find a way to be happy. If not, then I suppose we will both be miserable together."
"This is not what I wanted," he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
"This is not what any of us wanted." Isabella's gaze was distant, fixed on something he could not see. "But we are here now, and we must make the best of it."
The waltz ended. The musicians struck up another tune, something livelier, a reel that had the younger guests laughing and clapping. Isabella set down her glass.
"Dance with me," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"Dance with me. The guests expect it. The bride and groom should share at least one dance, or they will think something is amiss." She smiled, a sharp, knowing expression. "And we would not want to give them anything to talk about, would we?"
He took her hand, leading her onto the floor. The crowd parted for them, a wave of whispers and approving smiles. Isabella fell into step with him easily, her movements fluid and confident.
"You are a good dancer," she observed.
"So are you."
"One of us must be." She glanced past his shoulder. "Your brother and Jennie are watching. Do try to look like you are enjoying yourself."
He forced a smile, pulling her closer. "Is this better?"
"Marginally. You still look like a man being led to the gallows."
"That is apt."
She laughed, a genuine sound that drew the attention of the nearby guests. "You are a terrible liar, Leonid. You never could hide your feelings, could you?"
"I try."
"Try harder." Her voice dropped, low and serious. "There are people here who would use your affection for her against you. Your mother, for one. The Dowager Duchess, for another. They are watching, always watching. You must be careful."
He followed her gaze, finding his mother across the room, her eyes sharp and assessing. She was speaking with the Dowager Duchess, their heads bent together, their whispers inaudible but their intent clear.
The dance ended. Isabella curtsied, he bowed, and they returned to their places at the head of the room. A servant appeared with more champagne, and Leonid drank deeply, hoping the alcohol would dull the edge of his pain.
It did not.
---
The hours crawled by.
Toasts were made, speeches delivered, tears shed by aunts and grandmothers who seemed to think that marriage was the pinnacle of human achievement. The cake was cut, a towering confection of white frosting and sugar roses, and Leonid fed Isabella a bite with trembling hands. She laughed, kissing him on the cheek, and the crowd applauded.
Each moment was a small death.
He smiled at the guests, danced with the elderly countesses, exchanged pleasantries with the young ladies who sighed and batted their lashes at the new groom. He played his part, spoke his lines, performed his duty. But his eyes kept finding Jennie, always Jennie, moving through the crowd like a ghost.
She was dancing with Lord Ashworth, Isabella's brother, her expression polite but her eyes distant. She accepted a glass of champagne from her mother, nodding at something Beatrice said. She laughed at a joke made by one of Kai's friends, a bright, brittle sound that seemed to hang in the air.
And then, finally, mercifully, she was alone.
She had slipped out onto the terrace, the same terrace where Leonid had spoken with Isabella just two nights ago. She was leaning against the balustrade, her lavender gown dark in the moonlight, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Leonid glanced around. No one was watching. The guests were still inside, laughing and drinking and dancing. He slipped through the door, the cool night air hitting him like a wave.
"Jennie."
She jumped, spinning to face him. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. "You should not be here. Someone will see."
"Let them." He crossed the terrace, stopping just before her. He reached out, hesitated, then let his hand fall. "I could not bear to see you cry alone."
"You married her." The words were a knife, sharp and accusatory. "You stood before God and all those people and you married her. You promised to love her for the rest of your life."
"I had no choice."
"You always have a choice!" Her voice rose, cracking with emotion. "You chose her. You chose duty over love, obedience over happiness. You chose to leave me."
The words fell like stones, each one landing in his chest with a dull, aching thud. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, to tell her about the pact with Isabella, about the plan, about everything. But the words would not come.
"I am sorry," he said finally. "I am so sorry, Jennie. I never meant to hurt you."
"Sorry." She laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "You are sorry. I am married to your brother. And you are sorry."
She turned away, her hands gripping the balustrade. The moonlight caught her tears, making them glisten like diamonds.
"Do you love me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"With every breath I take."
"Then why? Why did you do this?"
He moved closer, close enough to feel the warmth of her body, close enough to see the way her breath caught when he spoke. "Because this was the only way. I could not refuse without destroying my family, without destroying you. And I could not live knowing that my choices had ruined your future."
"My future is ruined regardless." She turned to face him, her eyes blazing. "I am married to a man who does not see me. I am trapped in a life that was chosen for me. And the one person who made me feel alive, who made me feel seen, has just promised himself to another."
"Jennie—"
"Do not." She stepped back, putting distance between them. "Do not touch me. Do not comfort me. You made your choice, Leonid. Now I must make mine."
She swept past him, her gown rustling against the stone, and disappeared through the door. He stood alone on the terrace, the night air cold against his skin, the echo of her words ringing in his ears.
---
The celebration finally wound down, the guests departing in carriages and sedan chairs, their laughter fading into the night. Leonid and Isabella were escorted to the Manoban mansion, where a suite had been prepared for their wedding night.
The room was beautiful—candlelit and fragrant with roses, the bed draped in silk and lace. A bottle of champagne waited in a silver bucket, two crystal glasses glinting beside it.
Isabella dismissed the maids, closing the door behind them, and turned to Leonid with a weary sigh.
"Well," she said, her voice dry. "That was exhausting."
He laughed, a hollow sound. "That is one word for it."
She moved to the champagne, popping the cork with practiced ease and pouring two glasses. She handed him one, raising her own in a toast.
"To us," she said. "And to the secrets we will keep."
He clinked his glass against hers, drinking deeply. The champagne was cold and crisp, a welcome relief from the cloying sweetness of the evening.
"What happens now?" he asked.
She set down her glass. "Now, we should get some sleep.“
She crossed to the bed, climbing onto one side, and gestured to the other. "Do not look so horrified. I do not bite. We are allies, my lord, not lovers. Unless you prefer otherwise."
He laughed, a genuine sound that surprised him, and climbed onto the other side of the bed. They lay in the darkness, side by side, the space between them vast and yet somehow no longer empty.
"Goodnight, Isabella," he said quietly.
"Goodnight, Leonid."
He closed his eyes, and in the darkness, he saw Jennie's face, her tears, her desperate, aching love. He had made a pact with Isabella tonight, a pact of secrets and survival. And he would keep it.
But his heart, his traitorous, stubborn heart, belonged to Jennie.
Forever.