Chapter Ten
The morning after his wedding night dawned grey and cold, the skies above heavy with clouds that seemed determined to follow Anthony all the way back to London.
He welcomed the miserable weather; it suited his mood.
The journey passed in a blur of rattling wheels and restless thoughts. He stared out the carriage window for much of the ride, watching the countryside roll by while replaying every moment from the previous evening with terrifying clarity.
Evangeline appearing in the doorway in her night clothes, her hair hanging down her back and shoulders. The look on her face, hesitant at first, and then determined.
God help him, he remembered it far too well.
The faint scent of lavender that had clung to her skin, the warmth of her body.
For one reckless moment, he had forgotten every sensible intention with which he had entered the marriage.
He had not been thinking about duty, heirs, or obligations.
He had simply wanted her, and the realisation sat heavily in his chest, even now.
Anthony shifted against the carriage squabs and dragged a hand across his jaw.
He had stopped himself, and that ought to have been reassuring. Instead, it only left him unsettled. Because the truth was that stopping had been the last thing he wanted to do.
Even now, he could remember the surge of disappointment that had struck him the instant he stepped away from her. The almost painful awareness of the distance he had forced between them.
Of course, he had told himself it was the prudent choice. Yet prudence had felt remarkably hollow when confronted with the memory of her standing before him, flushed and breathless, her gaze fixed entirely upon him.
Anthony closed his eyes briefly. What disturbed him most was not that he desired his wife. That was natural enough. Expected, even. It was the intensity of it, the loss of control. The fact that for several dangerous moments he had wanted far more than a dutiful consummation.
He had wanted to kiss her. He had wanted to remain there with her until neither of them remembered why they had been cautious in the first place.
The admission was deeply inconvenient, and so, he did the only thing that he could do: he pushed the thoughts of Evangeline away.
But of course, the more he tried not to think of her, the more he did.
***
By the time he arrived in London, he was exhausted, despite having done little more than sit with his thoughts for hours.
Unfortunately, duty did not permit exhaustion.
The moment his carriage reached Blackwood House in Grosvenor Square, Anthony changed his coat, reviewed the correspondence that had accumulated during his absence, and instructed his secretary regarding several matters requiring immediate attention.
Only then did he depart for Lincoln's Inn Fields.
His solicitor, Mr Fairchild, had served the Blackwood family for nearly thirty years. The elderly gentleman rose from behind his desk when Anthony entered, his spectacles slipping slightly down his nose.
"Your Grace. Allow me to offer my congratulations."
Anthony inclined his head. "Thank you."
The solicitor gestured toward a chair. "Please, sit."
Anthony complied.
The office smelled faintly of leather bindings, sealing wax, and old paper. Shelves lined every wall, crowded with decades of records and legal documents.
Ordinarily, Anthony found the atmosphere reassuring, but today, his mind was elsewhere. Still, he forced himself to focus.
There were practical matters to address. His marriage altered a number of legal arrangements. There were property settlements that required confirmation and certain provisions within family trusts that needed updating.
Most importantly, there was the will.
Mr Fairchild produced several documents. "I have already prepared the necessary amendments, Your Grace."
Anthony accepted the papers and began reading.
In the event of his death, the Duchess would receive specified provisions. Future children would inherit according to established succession laws. Trusts would be administered under clearly defined conditions.
Everything had its place and followed a system.
Anthony found himself lingering over one particular clause.
Any legitimate son born of the marriage would inherit the title and estates without complication.
Yet as he stared at the words, an unwelcome thought surfaced. For years he had viewed the matter of having an heir entirely in those terms. As an obligation and a necessity. A responsibility to generations of Blackwoods who had come before him.
Now, for reasons he preferred not to examine too closely, the concept felt different, less abstract.
The heir in question would not simply emerge from a legal document. The child would be his and Evangeline's.
The realisation struck him with surprising force, so he quickly turned the page. Business first, sentiment later, or preferably never.
The remainder of the meeting proceeded efficiently, and within an hour, everything had been settled.
When he finally stepped back onto the street, however, Anthony discovered that the sense of satisfaction he usually derived from such accomplishments was notably absent.
The legal matters had been resolved and his responsibilities had been fulfilled. Yet the unease that had accompanied him from the estate remained stubbornly intact.
There was only one solution: he needed a drink.
***
As Anthony stepped into the club, the familiar warmth of White's enveloped him.
The scent of tobacco smoke, brandy, and polished wood hung in the air.
Gentlemen occupied various corners of the room, some bent over newspapers, others engaged in quiet conversation.
The occasional clink of crystal and low murmur of voices created a constant hum beneath the crackling of the fire.
A liveried servant immediately stepped forward to take Anthony's hat and gloves.
As he handed them over, his gaze swept across the main drawing room, and he spotted Sebastian.
His friend occupied his customary place near one of the tall windows overlooking St. James's Street, lounging in a leather armchair as though he owned the establishment.
One booted foot was stretched comfortably before him, a glass of brandy resting in his hand.
A newspaper lay folded on the small table at his elbow.
"Look what the cat dragged in," Sebastian called, smiling. "I didn't expect to see you in London so soon, Anthony."
Several nearby gentlemen glanced up briefly before returning to their conversations.
"I had business to attend to," Anthony replied.
"Of course you did," Sebastian replied. "Although you know what they say about all work and no play."
Anthony ignored him as he crossed the room.
The thick Persian carpet muffled his footsteps as he passed clusters of members seated beneath portraits of long-dead aristocrats.
Near the fire, two elderly peers argued quietly over politics while a waiter circulated with a silver tray bearing fresh drinks.
As Anthony approached, Sebastian gestured toward the vacant chair opposite him.
"Sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet."
Anthony lowered himself into the chair and immediately a waiter appeared at his shoulder.
"Your Grace. May I bring you something?"
"Brandy."
The servant bowed and departed.
Sebastian watched the exchange with amusement. "You look tired."
"I am tired."
"An unfortunate condition for a newly married man."
Anthony shot him a warning glance, but Sebastian only grinned.
The waiter returned with the brandy and placed it on the table between them. Anthony accepted the glass with perhaps more gratitude than the occasion warranted.
Outside the windows, London's afternoon traffic moved steadily along St. James's Street. Carriages rolled past, their wheels rattling over the paving stones. Gentlemen came and went through the club's entrance while servants moved discreetly through the rooms attending to members' needs.
Ordinarily, Anthony found the familiar routines of the club comforting. Today they merely reminded him how different everything felt.
Sebastian studied him over the rim of his glass. "Well?" he asked. "How was it?"
Anthony closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “I was married less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“And yet here you are.” Sebastian folded his arms. “Which suggests something is amiss. Tell me, was the wedding night all you hoped it to be?”
Anthony said nothing,
Sebastian's eyes narrowed and then widened.
“No.” Anthony looked away. “Anthony.”
“Must we discuss this?”
Sebastian stared at him for several seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“You did not.”
Anthony rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I did not.”
Sebastian looked genuinely astonished. “I must admit I am surprised."
“You needn't be," Anthony replied. "As it is none of your business what takes place between my wife and me."
Sebastian stared at him before shaking his head.
"I am your friend, Anthony," he said.
"Indeed," Anthony replied. "And as my friend, I ask that we stop discussing the matter."
"But I cannot understand it," he said, his voice rising. "After everything you've done to ensure your inheritance, why would you delay in consummating the marriage?”
“Would you lower your voice?”
Several gentlemen had glanced their way.
“I fail to see why this concerns you,” Anthony muttered.
“Because for years I have listened to you explain exactly how your future ought to proceed.” Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “Produce an heir. Secure the title. Continue the family line. Was that not the plan?”
“It remains the plan.”
“An ambitious plan, considering your current progress.”
Anthony shot him a look.
"I just wish to know why," Sebastian said. "Why delay?"
Anthony's grip on his glass tightened. The truth was that he didn't know. He’d had every intention of going to her room the night before; he had even made it to the door of her room. And then, without thinking, he'd retreated.
"I don't wish to discuss it."
Sebastian shook his head. "Is it her?" he asked. "Do you not find her favourable?"