The vicar got so quickly to his feet that it seemed to Avery he was relieved. There was only so much sentiment a man could take.
“And you are a duke,” he said, shaking his head with incredulity, “and Anna a duchess. Your marriage must be of recent date?”
“Three days ago, sir,” Avery said. “We married quietly by special license rather than wait for the banns. Anna wanted to come here as soon as my secretary discovered where you were, and I wanted to make it possible for her to do so without unnecessary delay.”
“You are an angel,” Mrs. Snow said. “You even look a bit like one. Does he not, Isaiah?”
“It is the hair, ma’am,” Avery said, deliberately grimacing. “The bane of my existence.”
“Never say so,” she said. “It is your halo. Come into the kitchen, Anna, and I will brew us some tea. You must tell me everything about your life and more than everything. Oh, please do not let anyone pinch me. I am still afraid I am going to wake up any moment. You are so pretty. Is she not, Isaiah? Just as your mother was before her illness. Come.”
And she got to her feet and drew Anna to hers as the vicar led Avery outside.
And the thing was, Avery thought over the following hour or so, that he was not merely being polite, showing a feigned interest in what was clearly the vicar’s pride and joy. He enjoyed examining the structure of the lych-gate and poking around in the dark, dank little church and climbing the tightly winding stone steps to the platform in the tower from where the bells he could see above his head were rung on Sundays and for weddings and funerals—though only one of them was tolled on those last occasions, the vicar explained. Avery enjoyed listening to the history of the church, which the Reverend Snow clearly enjoyed telling in great detail. And he allowed himself to be led slowly about the churchyard while the vicar pointed out a number of the headstones, which bore the names of families who had lived in the area for centuries. He was shown the grave of Anna’s mother: Here Lies Alice Westcott, Beloved Only Daughter of the Reverend and Mrs. Snow, Devoted Mother of Anastasia, Sorely Missed. And the dates, showing that she had been twenty-three years old at the time of her death. Younger than Anna was now.
Avery turned his head toward the vicarage and could see that Anna and her grandmother were at an upstairs window looking out. He raised a hand, and Anna raised hers in return. He would bring her out here afterward. Though perhaps her grandparents would want to do that.
A short while later Avery sent his carriage back to the inn where he had taken rooms for the night and the rest of his entourage was already ensconced. He sent word that they were to remain there until further notice, including his valet and Anna’s maid, though each was to pack a bag of essentials and send the two bags—no more—back to the vicarage.
When two elderly people had looked at him with anxious, pleading eyes, and one young lady had gazed at him with eager trust in his answer, he had agreed they would stay for a few days. Those who knew the Duke of Netherby would have been filled with amazement bordering upon incredulity. But the duke himself was fast discovering that wherever his wife was or wished to be was where he chose to be too, even if it happened to be a vicarage surely no larger than the entrance hall at Morland.
The realization was somewhat alarming. It was also novelty enough to be explored. Perhaps being in love was what his soul had long yearned for.
Or perhaps he was merely mad.
*