Falling in love had been easy. In fact, it had not even been that. It had just happened. Avery had neither planned nor expected nor particularly wanted it. He had fallen in love anyway. Deciding to marry and make an offer had also been easy. It had been done without forethought, entirely on the spur of the moment, largely because—he winced slightly at the thought—it had seemed altogether possible she might be persuaded and persuade herself into marrying Riverdale. Getting married had been easy. There had been no trouble or delay in acquiring the license or in finding a clergyman willing and able to marry them that very morning—or in persuading Anna to go with him.
The following two weeks had been blissful. Yes, that was a suitable word and not at all exaggerated. He had relaxed into the wonder of his marriage—and yes, even that word wonder was appropriate. He had allowed himself to enjoy companionship, friendship, and sex with his wife. He had fallen half in love with her grandparents and their way of life. He had felt a bit like a child in a playhouse during that week at the vicarage, with not a care in the world and without self-consciousness. He had even enjoyed Bath. Camille and Abigail were very obviously still suffering, but they were in safe hands and they would work things out. He was confident of that. They had not taken their half sister to their bosoms, but they had made an effort to be civil. He had marveled at the orphanage, which had not been the grim institution he had half expected, but which had nevertheless been his wife’s very spartan home for twenty-one years. She was loved there, and she was deeply fond of everyone, staff and children alike. He had even rather enjoyed the evening they had spent with Cunningham, whom he had been prepared to dislike and despise. But the man was intelligent, interesting, and honorable. It was clear he had feelings for Anna, but he had chosen, apparently a few years ago, to be her friend if he could be nothing more.
Yes, everything had been easy and idyllic until their return to London. Almost happily-ever-after idyllic. But in London, Avery discovered that he did not know how to be married. Not an idea. Not a clue. And so, true to himself, he withdrew into his shell, like a tortoise, until he felt reasonably comfortable.
Even reasonable comfort was not easy, though. There had always been a distance—a self-imposed one—between him and the majority of his acquaintances. Most people, he knew, stood somewhat in awe of him. Now, suddenly, the distance was enormous. He had married one of the greatest heiresses ever to set foot upon the marriage mart almost before everyone else had had a chance to catch a glimpse of her—there had not even been a notice of their betrothal in the morning papers, only of their marriage. And then he had disappeared with her for two weeks in the very midst of the Season. Now he was back.
Among the men, of course, there was something of far greater import than his marriage—except perhaps among those who had hoped to marry the fortune themselves. There was that damned duel, which Avery had vainly hoped would be forgotten about by the time he returned. Instead, the incident had reached mythic proportions in the collective mind, and men stared at him—and looked hastily away when he and his quizzing glass caught them at it—with fascination and fear. Uxbury was said to be still in his bed, though doubtless the lump on the back of his head had shrunk from the size of a cricket ball to that of an ant’s egg—if ants had eggs—and the bruises on his chin had probably faded to pale mustard from black and purple.
Avery made his appearance in the House of Lords a number of times, having neglected his duties there lately. He visited his clubs, accompanied his wife to a number of social events, and very correctly kept his distance from her until it was time to escort her home. He took her driving in Hyde Park a couple of times at the fashionable hour and walked with her once down by the Serpentine, weaving their way among other people. Most evenings he dined at home with her and his stepmother and Jessica, who was now deemed adult enough to join them. He slept in Anna’s bed and made love to her at least once each night. They ate breakfast together and looked through their invitations together after Edwin Goddard had sorted them.
There was absolutely nothing wrong with his marriage. It was no different from any other ton marriage as far as he could tell. And that—devil take it!—was the trouble. He had no idea how to make it better, how to recapture the glow and euphoria of those two weeks. It had been what people referred to as a honeymoon, he supposed. Honeymoons, by their very nature, could not be expected to last.
Perhaps things would be different—better—when the parliamentary session was at an end and with it the Season and they could go home to Morland Abbey for the summer. Her grandparents would be coming for a few weeks. But he was well aware that the future could never be relied upon to be an improvement upon the present. The future did not exist. Only the present did.