“Which, I feel constrained to inform you, you will not do here and now,” Avery said. “This is my wedding day, and I feel the urge to be alone with my bride. I see that Elizabeth has just alit from a hackney cab outside the door. I do not doubt she has come to collect her things so that she can return home with Riverdale and Cousin Althea. Edwin Goddard is already in possession of a written notice of our marriage and will see to it that it appears in tomorrow’s papers. I believe I speak for my duchess when I thank you all for your intended efforts on our behalf and release you from the urge to do more.”
“That includes a wedding reception, Avery?” Aunt Mildred asked. “If I go with Tom tomorrow, I really will not wish to face the journey back here in a few weeks’ time. Besides, Peter and Ivan will be coming home from school too in the not too distant future.”
“That includes a wedding reception,” Avery said, and he noticed Anna closing her eyes briefly in relief.
They were all on their feet then, and all talking at once, it seemed. Everyone wanted to hug the bride and shake the groom by the hand. And then everyone wanted to hug everyone else, and something uproariously funny must have happened when Avery was not looking, for there was a great deal of boisterous laughter mingled with congratulations and good wishes and scolds and warnings. Cousin Elizabeth, poking her head about the door in the midst of it all, remarked with twinkling eyes that she could see the cat had been let out of the bag, for which loose use of language she was frowned upon by Cousin Matilda, though it was doubtful she noticed, and disappeared upstairs with her mother to fetch some of her things and leave instructions for the rest to follow her later.
And then everyone was gone, even the butler and Footman John, from the hall in which Avery and Anna stood side by side.
“Well, my duchess,” he said.
“Well, my duke.” She smiled at him—and blushed.
“Does your bedchamber door have a lock on it?” he asked her. “With a key?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And your dressing room door?”
She thought a moment. “Yes.”
“Show me the way,” he said, offering his arm. “Let us go and lock ourselves in.”
“It is only the middle of the afternoon,” she protested.
“And so it is,” he agreed. “There is plenty of time before dinner, then.”
*
It was full daylight. Moreover, it was a bright, sunny day, and her bedchamber faced south. Even after he had drawn the curtains across the window the sunlight was not much muted. There were the daytime sounds of birdsong and a dog barking in the distance and the clopping hooves of a single horse coming through the open window. A voice from far down the street called a cheerful greeting, and another voice answered.
Her bridegroom, her husband, stood before her. He was just looking, making no move to touch her or to kiss her. She wondered if she should step into the dressing room to change into a nightgown. But he had locked the door.
“I believe, my duchess,” he said, “you are perfection. But let me unwrap my gift package and see if I am right.”
As well as startling her, his words puzzled her. Perfection? She was not particularly pretty. She had no figure to speak of. She had refused to dress fashionably. She was neither vivacious nor the possessor of any other obvious charms. Her fortune was of no interest to him. Was it just that she was different from every other woman he had known? Was it just novelty? Would today’s toy be discarded for tomorrow’s when the novelty was gone?
He stepped closer, though not right against her, and reached his arms about her to unpin her dress down the back. His fingers were accustomed to the task, she realized. He did not even have to see what he was doing. When it was unpinned to her hips, he drew it off her shoulders, the backs of his fingers skimming her flesh—coolness against warmth. Her instinct was to raise her hands to hold the bodice in place, but she kept her arms at her sides, and he worked the sleeves downward, pulling eventually at the hems to draw them free of her wrists. He was in no hurry. But once her arms no longer held the dress in place, the whole garment slithered down over her shift and stockings to pool about her feet.
It was difficult to continue breathing evenly through her nose. And it took effort not to lower her eyes, even close them, so that she would not see him standing there, looking at her—not into her face but at her body and her remaining garments, his eyelids half drooped as they usually were, his eyes almost dreamy.
He went down on one knee to remove her slippers and then began to roll down her stockings one at a time and work them off her feet. He stood again and removed her stays and her shift until she was left with nothing behind which to hide her modesty. Not even any jewelry except her wedding ring. The sunlight made a mockery of the curtains and cast a pinkish glow over everything.
He gazed at her, every inch of her. His fingers had scarcely touched her while he undressed her, yet she was convinced that every brush of the backs of his fingers, every graze from a thumb, every rub of a knuckle had been deliberate. She felt touched all over. He was still dressed in the immaculate more-formal-than-usual clothes he had worn for their wedding, even down to the Hessian boots.