Chapter Fifteen
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon, we are honored you accepted our invitation.” Jackson bit out each word as he and the widow stood in the aisle between the chapel pews.
The other guests shuffled out into the churchyard, but a few stragglers lingered near the entrance now that the ceremony had concluded.
“I do hope the short notice has not put you at an inconvenience?”
“I am never inconvenienced unless I wish it, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, her normally plain, black veil adorned in red beads shimmering like blood with the sunlight pouring down through the stained glass.
Dressing for the occasion, or anticipating artery spray. A gentleman didn’t like to guess.
“You needn’t have made the journey, Mrs. Dove-Lyon. My lovely bride and I would have made a point to call on you once we’d returned to the city.”
A chuckle. “I like to witness auspicious occasions with my own eyes, Your Grace.”
Witness.
Proof, more like.
“I do hope this means I will not be shown the door should I darken your doorstep again?” Jackson asked, knowing he’d have to retrace his steps if there were any hope of picking up the counterfeiter’s trail.
“A newly married man, needing to escape to my humble establishment?” There was censure in her voice. More proof . . . that his hunch she’d used their circumstances to delay his investigation was correct. “I doubt there will be much of a need.”
He could play just as dirty. “As a reprieve, not for me, but my darling wife.” He smiled, leaving the charm out of his voice. “I can be quite demanding in the bedroom.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
Jackson came alert, his gaze searching for a hint of her expression through the veil. When the woman said nothing further, he relaxed. She must have been referring to his numerous—but polite—refusals to the ladies at the gaming hell to use the upstairs rooms.
As if he’d put himself in a vulnerable position under the roof of a potential enemy.
“I find my entertainments elsewhere,” he lied. “But will have no need of such services any longer. Clearly.”
Her head tilted, as if she spied something over his shoulder. “Clearly.”
He followed her gaze to see Anna in the chapel’s open doorway, the sun streaming down and turning her red hair to gold.
Want coursed through his blood. Made his hands shake at his sides.
Beautiful.
He’d thought the word again and again over the last hour.
Beautiful, stubborn, insulting, maddening, wonderful Anna. And she now shared his name.
He’d promised he’d wait for her to come to him, but in this holy place, where he’d sworn fidelity and honesty in front of God, he found his feet moving forward toward a truth he’d never utter out loud.
She may now and forevermore be Annabeth Cole, but the ownership was in name only. Because Annabeth Cole, Duchess of Grandfellow, owned him.
“Let’s start again.”
And their future started now.
“Your Grace,” Viscountess Tisway said.
Anna blinked at the older woman in her navy-blue dress and matching hat, the address taking her by surprise. Yes, that was right. She was Your Grace now. Strange how a short sermon and an exchange of vows was all it took to completely rewrite her life.
The sunlight heated her neck and shoulders with delicious warmth from the open chapel door. “I shall have to get used to the Grandfellow title. And my new last name, as well.”
“Hmm,” Lady Tisway said, a gleam in her eye. “I’ve always been partial to your family: Greene . . . and Crews.”
Anna’s lips parted hearing her aunt’s title added to the mix. “How did you know?”
“All of us widows know one another,” Lady Tisway said flippantly. “Before her death, Lucinda was a regular at our Tuesday card games. The woman would go on and on about her nieces and nephews.”
Anna blinked. “Aunt Lucy said it was a knitting circle.”
Lady Tisway barked a laugh. “Not the way that woman dropped stitches.”
“I am shocked.”
“You’re lucky.” Lady Tisway sniffed. “I’m too old and crotchety to be shocked by much of anything anymore.” There was a new glint in the old woman’s eye. “You would be a welcome addition to our harmless fun.”
To think her wonderful Aunt Lucinda had known the widows—well enough to spend every Tuesday with them for as long as Anna could recall. “I would enjoy that.” She really would. “But I doubt I’ll return to the country much.”
Lady Tisway waved her words away. “The ladies and I make frequent trips to the city.”
“You do?” It was a wonder London still stood with the way the trio liked to set normally composed gentlemen into hiding behind potted plants.
“We make a point to call on certain friends every week,” Lady Tisway said.
Something about the stress on friends had Anna’s mind stirring, but she smiled at the news. At least she’d never be long in London without good company. “Then I would be most honored to take you up on your offer.”
Lady Tisway’s cane tapped the ground with a whack. “Good. Now off with you. By the looks of it, your groom is eager to steal you away.”
Anna followed the older woman’s gaze to see Jackson making his way up the aisle of the chapel, determination in his stride.
Her heart gave a silly flutter at his hatless head, at the broad line of his shoulders. At some point since the end of the ceremony, he’d loosened his cravat, revealing more of the skin at his throat.
He stopped before her. “Your Grace.” His dark eyes were smiling. “See something that caught your eye?”
He’s teasing me. Anna beat back the next flutter in her chest and tipped her chin up. “I did, in fact.” She pointedly looked over his shoulder. “The classicist architecture is most pleasing. One of Inigo Jones’s designs, is it not?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
A shameful admittance. “Why am I not surprised, Duke?”
He stepped closer, his gaze falling to her mouth. “How fortunate I am to have a wife who has so much to teach me.”
His teasing tone drew her in, or was it the smell of earth and spicy soap that clung to his skin? “Why do I get the feeling you will be a most obstinate student?”
His smile revealed a flash of teeth. “Obstinate or passionate? They are so hard to tell apart sometimes.”
Heat sparked across her skin. “I won’t go easy on you.”
His head lowered toward hers. “I’m counting on it—”
“Well, I’m uncomfortable,” someone cut in.
Anna choked back a laugh as she took in Lady Tisway, the older woman’s cheeks uncharacteristically rosy.
“Lady Tisway.” Anna bit her lip. She’d completely forgotten the older woman was there. “Forgive us.”
“Oh, carry on.” Lady Tisway lifted her cane and nudged Jackson out of the way before shuffling down the aisle toward the altar, not a single insult thrown over her shoulder.
“I do believe we’ve managed to shock her,” Anna said.
Jackson huffed. “And embarrassed ourselves in the process.”
Anna tilted her head.
“Fine. I’ve embarrassed myself,” he revised.
Anna laughed, and it felt good. So much of the animosity between them had vanished during their discussion in the woods. Things may never return to how they’d once been, but a sense of lightness, of joy, had replaced the bitterness.
Anna grabbed his arm and tugged. “Come along, Duke. Now that this circus is done, we can finally escape.”
He allowed himself to be dragged out the door and down the steps. “Escape the country with its fresh air and easy pace, you mean?”
She made an appropriately sullen face. “Exactly.”
He laughed and moved to shake hands with the archbishop—who’d been patiently waiting for them to exit the building.
Anna shook her head as Jackson expertly smoothed the frown from the old man’s face with his charm. She glanced back toward the interior of the chapel.
Baroness Febass and Viscountess Holloway had joined Lady Tisway at the altar, their trio joined by a fourth, easily recognizable by the dark veil.
Anna watched the widows converse with Mrs. Dove-Lyon, their bodies all turned inward to form a four-pointed circle.
Lady Febass and Lady Holloway had their backs to the door, but Lady Tisway’s pleased smile was clearly visible.
Anna took in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s body language—open and affable—and frowned.
The widow’s veil was too dark to make out much of an expression, but Anna swore the other woman was smiling as well.
Anna snorted and turned away. Of course, Mrs. Dove-Lyon was smiling.
Her veil had revealed a slash of teeth, lips, and humor at seeing her prey thoroughly caught.
“I can’t express how grateful I am that you let yourself be thoroughly caught by your duchess.
” Figaro sat up from his lounging position on Jackson’s bed, a sudden idea lighting up his face.
“I should like to send Mrs. Dove-Lyon my gratitude. Quick!” He raised his voice to a gross holler.
“Stevens, fetch me parchment and paper!”
Jackson’s valet waited for confirmation.
“May as well, Stevens,” Jackson said. “Figaro will be insufferable otherwise.”
Stevens bowed and exited the room without a word.
“So well trained.” Figaro’s thoughtful expression didn’t bode well. “Think the man’s constitution is strong enough to invite my dearest sister for tea next?” A sly look. “I’d be interested to hear her side of prenuptial events.”
Jackson shook his head as he removed the cravat at his neck. He never should have confided in his ridiculous, theatrical brother the circumstances of his and Anna’s reunion. “I’m so glad you approve.”
“Heartily.” Figaro settled back against the pillows. “It’s like you’ve come alive again. Jokes, sarcasm—dear God, man, you laughed at yesterday’s breakfast. I thought I’d swallowed a bit of bad egg at first, sure I was hallucinating.”
“To be fair, the health of the eggs was questionable,” Jackson said. “Not to worry. The menu will be given back over to the dowager within the day.”
At the mention of their impending departure, Figaro eyed the trunks at the foot of the bed. “You’re leaving immediately, then?”
A fleeting pang of guilt shot through him.
“As soon as my bride is ready.” He’d sent word down to the stables to have the buggy prepared—the smaller vehicle a more pleasant ride during the three-hour drive back to London—while ordering the main carriage to come along after with his and Anna’s trunks and their personal attendants.
Figaro frowned. “I’d hoped you’d stay through Michaelmas.”
“You could always attend us back to the city.”
“No, thank you. London does not agree with me.”
“Not to worry,” Jackson said. “We’ll return for Mother’s ineffable Christmas party. I’d hardly be allowed to miss it with all the unfortunate roasted geese over the fire—not to mention the fowl she’ll order the poor servants to serve at the event.”
Figaro shuttered. “Then again, what is life without a bit of disagreement?” He threw a quick grin Jackson’s way. “It seems to be just the thing for bringing sullen dukes back to their humors.”
Mention of Anna’s challenging demeanor had Jackson reliving his wife’s most recent transgression.
As the bishop had proclaimed them husband and wife, she’d reached up on tiptoe to place a kiss directly on his lips.
His mother had sputtered a proper conniption.
Life with Anna would never be easy. Or boring.
“‘Disagreement’ is putting it mildly.” And far too distastefully.
“My dear sister-in-law is the most charming creature to ever step foot inside this grand mausoleum,” Figaro said, his expression growing serious. “If you screw things up with her as you are wont to do, I may keep her as my relation and cut the rest of you.”
Jackson chuckled at his brother’s teasing. “Such affection she’s elicited in so short a time.” Why was he not surprised?
Figaro held his gaze.
Jackson’s smile faltered. “You’re serious.”
Figaro stood and buttoned his coat. “I’m not one to wear my heart on my sleeve—the mess, as you can imagine, would be unsavory—but I will say this, brother; when you ran off to London six years ago, Anna wasn’t the only one you left behind.”
Jackson could only stare at the man who looked so much like his preposterous younger brother. But who sounded infinitely mature. There was no teasing now.
“I won’t presume to know all you’ve gone through, but do not take me for a fool,” Figaro said.
“You have never truly come back, not without this harsh mask you wear now. For what purpose”—he held up a hand when Jackson would have spoken—“I will not ask.” Figaro’s gaze turned direct.
“But her . . . Not for one moment has your duchess been anything or anyone besides unapologetically herself. And though I may be an actual fool to admit, the young boy in me has latched on to the hope I’ve at last found a sibling who will never turn her heart to stone where I am concerned. ”
His walk to the door was slow, grave, but when he glanced over his shoulder, the same shallow smile played about his mouth—an expression Jackson finally saw as false as his own. “Don’t worry yourself writing. I know you are a busy man.”
Jackson’s heart lurched, the muscle like two-ton granite dropping to his stomach. “Fig—”
The door clicked shut, cutting off his words.
Jackson stood staring at the oak, the swirling grain filled with condemning faces.
Figaro had been a boy when Jackson had left, a lad not yet able to tipple without a sideways glance from a tavern keeper. Six years ago—Lord above—his newly Eton graduated brother must have been crushed to be left behind.
And he’d never noticed.
Hadn’t thought to notice.
Now, at age ten and nine to his eight and twenty, Jackson questioned which of them was the elder brother.
Married, properly scolded, and about to return to a life of dangerous intrigue. And it was only noon.
Good thing London was but a mind-numbing three-hour carriage ride where Jackson could subject himself to replaying his brother’s disappointment over and over . . . and any other important relationships he’d managed to bungle.
In minute detail.
Most grooms would have their wedding night to preoccupy their thoughts, but he wasn’t foolish enough to believe a thawing of icy civility was the same as warm regards when it came to his bride.