I shifted nervously from foot to foot on the church steps, watching the approaching carriage with the distinctive Thorne family crest emblazoned on its side. The hoofbeats echoed my racing heartbeat. Would the Duke be inside? I silently prayed for deliverance from that particular trial today.
When the carriage door opened, I nearly collapsed with relief. It was the Duchess, Isabella Thorne, who emerged – not her formidable husband. Still, my relief was short-lived as two imposing guards followed closely behind her, scanning the church grounds with hawk-like vigilance.
"Your Grace," I stammered, bowing deeply. "Welcome to St. Michael's. I'm Father Michael. It's an honor to receive you."
Isabella Thorne's smile was gentle as she approached. She was undeniably beautiful, with none of the facial scarring that rumors had once suggested required a mask. I'd only glimpsed her from afar at previous services.
"Thank you, Father. I hope I'm not intruding by arriving without prior notice."
