“The ceremony shall proceed.”

The smile fixed on Fiona’s face did not reach her watery eyes, and Avery’s heart tightened as he looked down at the slender wizardess who had spoken with firm certainty. Her face framed by auburn hair above and by the semi-circular neckline of her sea-green dress, the long, draping silk sleeves swaying as her hands fidgeted nervously.

Are you sure? Avery thrust the words into Fiona’s mind as he clasped her left hand in his, focusing his attention on her and ignoring the voice of the imperial notary as he silently communicated with her. Is there worse to come? What have you and Master Warin divined that has you so worried?

We divined that you would have seven true brides, should you live to marry. Fiona sent. But none have stepped aside today. None have fallen. Eight women still stand ready to marry you, and the remaining possibilities disturb me. Perhaps that means I should step aside, but I do not want to, not any more than I could bear to see Merilda struck by the assassin’s springbow. I cannot see any way for me to do better for the world than to support you as your wife and wizard, and I have not met any man I would rather have than you as my husband, my lord, or my king.

Avery rocked back but kept holding Fiona’s slender hand in his as he stared into her eyes. There are no kings in the empire but Ivar himself—His Imperial Majesty has no use for lords greater than princes and dukes.

Fiona’s slender hand tightened around his as she spoke aloud, responding to whatever the imperial notary had said. “I, Fiona, who hight also the Red, take thee, Avery, 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 be bonair and buxom in bed and at board, until death us departs; thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Avery could feel Isolde and Marcus attempting to contact him as Fiona spoke her wedding vow, and he could guess at least some of what they wanted to tell him. I wasn’t supposed to marry you first, he silently told the wizardess as she finished speaking. I was supposed to follow the queue. But none can say you did not earn it when you flung yourself in front of a springbow bolt.

“I take thee, Fiona, for my wedded wife, for fouler, for richer, for poorer, so that thou be buxom and bonair to do what I bid thee do,” Avery said aloud. “Thereto I plight thee my troth.” He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, then tucked the finger of his right hand under Fiona’s chin, bending to kiss her firmly on the lips. Her slender, elfin fingers grasped at his breastplate as a flood of emotion washed through their mental connection, and Avery’s mental shields wobbled.

Finally, Isolde’s voice said in his head, the intrusion on the moment as welcome as a bucket of cold water to the face. I’ve been trying to get through to your thick head forever. Mom says at this point, you may as well just go from right to left; anything else will be worse—being visibly systematic will make it look as if you’re starting with the woman of lowest breeding is only an accidental snub of the rest instead of a deliberate insult.

As Isolde spoke, Avery broke the kiss, staring down into Fiona’s eyes and trying hard to ignore his foster sister’s mental voice. Fiona stared back, her lips parting unconsciously, and her voice rang in his head, three simple words: I love you. Avery broadcast a wordless affirmative before breaking both telepathic connections, turning to Merilda and grasping her thick left hand in his as he looked into her gray eyes.

“The vows between Duke Avery of York and his bride, Fiona the Red, have been recorded,” the notary said, to the sound of scattered cheers. “I now record the identity and presence of Merilda, the daughter of Sir Malkin Guy.”

Avery spoke his vow to Merilda—he was supposed to speak first; he remembered that much—and then Merilda gave her vow, and he leaned forward to kiss the large blonde woman, tilting his head only slightly for the scant few inches that separated their heights. Her gray eyes closed beneath her bushy brows, and her right arm wrapped him around in a hug, crushing their left arms uncomfortably tightly between them for a moment before she stepped back, looking down at her feet.

Avery squeezed Merilda’s hand one more time before turning to Johanna, who was standing on a platform that raised the baron’s daughter up to match Merilda’s height. Johanna’s emerald-green dress was stiff with gold, a more fanciful and elaborate version of the gown she had worn when she had become the first fiancée to swear her family’s loyalty to the Duke of York. Even Sabine’s dress was a less impressive display of wealth and status, though it was unequivocally more daring; Madame Percy had done excellent work.

In contrast to the day of their betrothal, when Johanna had shyly stared at her feet, today the young woman’s emerald eyes firmly met Avery’s own golden eyes as he spoke his oath. It was he who felt shy, his cheeks heating under outwardly impassive silver skin as he recalled the sight of that face looking up at him the previous night—that face, only with brilliant blue eyes instead of emerald eyes, and thus perhaps not truly Johanna. Still—he had to be sure.

As Johanna spoke her oath, he carefully opened a channel into her mind. When she had finished, he grasped the back of her head with his right hand and covered her lips with his in a passionate kiss. As her cheeks flushed pink, he spoke in her mind. Did you come to visit downstairs last night?

How is it that you speak to me without speaking? Johanna’s eyes popped wide open as she squirmed, panic and confusion coloring her thoughts as she reflexively tried to jerk back in surprise. Avery’s hand was like iron on the back of her head, though, stilling the motion. Your foster sister safeguarded my honor last night—what dare you say to impugn it?

I had to ask—I am sorry. Avery released Johanna’s head, allowing her to pull away. I am yours tonight, he added.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Thus we have sworn, Johanna silently replied, her green eyes narrowing with suppressed rage. I have never ridden but sidesaddle in all my years to ensure my virtue would be beyond reproach on my wedding night. Do you think so ill of me?

No, sent Avery, in desperate apology. You will be the first— He hesitated, searching for an end to the sentence that would be true. The first bride to share a bed with me. And no other bride stands before you in my heart.

He severed the connection before she could reply further and turned to Elizabeth, taking her left hand and speaking his vow a fourth time, trying to ignore Johanna’s smoldering eyes as she continued to stare at him. His smallest bride was dressed in a blue dress that matched her eyes, the bodice gleaming with silver lamé that shone in the sunlight, and she stood on a taller platform that raised her height past Johanna by another two inches.

Elizabeth clasped his hand with both of hers before she replied with her vow, leaning forward on the edge of the platform. “I, Elizabeth, speaking on behalf of Northumbria, take thee, Avery, to be our lord and master and husband through these dark times,” she said. Her high voice, usually quiet, was pitched to pierce the crowd. “Northumbria pledges its loyalty to York and its daughter as York’s buxom and bonair bride. We plight thee our troth.”

The imperial notary said nothing for a long moment as a hubbub of noise erupted from the gathered crowd. Then the notary swallowed uncertainly, his quill pen scratching quickly against the paper in front of him. “The vow spoken by Elizabeth of Northumbria has been recorded.”

Avery felt that he was taking up most of Elizabeth’s weight with his left hand as she leaned forward for their kiss. He pushed into her mind. Careful, he sent. Don’t lean so far forward that you fall.

Her lips broke away from his, startled blue eyes meeting golden eyes as Avery pushed her back onto the platform. “I’m sure you wouldn’t let me fall,” she whispered with a smile, brushing a loose strand of blonde hair away from her face as she replied aloud to the silent message, her brows furrowing as she wondered how he had spoken with his lips clasped to hers.

Another pair of blue eyes stared at the two of them—Sabine, on the next platform. Avery’s eyes tugged downward from Sabine’s brilliant blue eyes, gravitating down to the ruby pendant nestled between her breasts as he spoke his oath. Then, with an effort of will, he looked up, catching for one moment the left side of Sabine’s lip curled upward on its own before plump lips parted to speak.

“I, Sabine de Lancaster, take thee, Avery de York, to be my lawfully wedded husband.” Sabine’s eyelashes fluttered in a show of modesty before she went off-script. “I am yours completely, to have as you will, until my death and beyond. I plight thee my troth.”

She swayed gently as she closed her eyes, leaning forward; when he kissed her, her mouth opened, pulling at his tongue to draw it inside her mouth. Amidst the eager osculation, Avery touched her mind. It was you last night, he mentally growled.

Her knees buckled suddenly, and he swept his arm around her shoulders, holding her up so that she would not fall. After a moment, her inner voice reached his mind. Your Grace, it is pleasing that you would address me in this way at this time and this place, she began, her tongue swirling about his as she hung limply in his arms. And I appreciate that you also did not let me fall. Such an incident would be most embarrassing for the both of us.

Answer the question, Avery sent back.

You did not ask a question, Your Grace. Although I daresay that your kiss may have become unseemly long, at least in the eyes of the others. A throaty chuckle sounded both in his mind and against his mouth, but in spite of her words, Sabine did not move to break off their kiss, continuing to tug on his tongue.

Avery pulled away, steadying Sabine’s shoulders with both of his hands. Minx. We shall speak later, he sent, curtly breaking the mental connection as he turned to Althea.

He did not see Sabine’s satisfied smile as he recited his vow for the sixth time, his golden eyes fixed on the eyelids of Althea’s humbly downcast eyes. Althea mumbled back hers shyly; then Avery tilted his head down to kiss Althea. Their lips met; an instant later, Avery was surprised by the shy brunette’s tongue boldly plunging into his mouth, twisting about his with confident skill.

For a moment, Avery was tempted to linger to hold the kiss for as long as he had with Sabine, to prove a point of some kind—he was not sure of precisely what point—but instead he broke away after a dozen heartbeats, smiling at the lanky brunette girl. Her hazel eyes now met his rather than staying downcast, though she bore a blush that matched her cheeks to the peach shade of her dress.

On the same low platform but shorter and therefore more distant from Avery’s face was Helen, her strawberry-blonde hair tucked back in a long ponytail. The usually confident woman opened her mouth to start blurting out her vows before Avery could start to speak his. She spoke quickly, rushing through the vow, words either jammed close together or skipped in her haste.

“—in sickness and health to bonny buxom in bed and board ‘til death us part I plight thee my troth!”

Avery spared a glance at the imperial notary, wondering if the older man could clearly hear what Helen had made of the vow or would simply write down what he expected to hear from the jumble of rapid words. Then he recited his vow for the seventh time, staring down at a pair of rapidly blinking blue eyes before bending down to kiss his seventh bride of the ceremony. Helen rose up on her toes, meeting him halfway for a brief, nervous collision of pursed lips before falling back down on her heels. Althea gave Helen a sharp look; Helen looked away, staring down at the ground.

Avery turned to the last bride in line, Anna. She stood directly on the ground—as she did not outrank Merilda, Aunt Maude had not felt the need to elevate her—and her skin looked pale in contrast to the surrounding black velvet and dark curly hair that framed her face and bosom. Avery found that looking down at her face from close by gave him a very appealing view of a teardrop-shaped turquoise pendant framed by the square-cut décolletage of Anna’s generously filled bodice.

Anna’s fierce green eyes grabbed at his gaze, forcing it upwards to meet hers. She watched him intently as he took her hand in his and gave his vow. Then she tugged their hands together on top of the left side of her chest to speak her vow, loudly and clearly, not taking her eyes off his as she pressed the back of his hand against the soft flesh over her heart.

“I, Anna, take thee, Avery, 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 be bonair and buxom in bed and at board, until death us departs; by my heart, I plight thee my troth.”

Avery bent down to kiss his bride. The imperial notary spoke, announcing that he had recorded the final vow, but Avery paid little attention to the notary, focusing his whole attention on the moment with Anna. When she wobbled on her feet, he swept her legs off the ground to carry her in his arms before breaking off the kiss.

There was a cheer from the assembled crowd, and he turned to face them. Feeling seven pairs of eyes on his back and several minds clamoring for his attention, he decided instead to speak directly to his citizens. “People of York! Your duke is married—and again, eight times over. Come and celebrate!”

The sun shone brightly, and the Silver Duke gleamed as he walked through the crowd, a beautiful, beaming bride held in his arms and seven more following behind him.