Page 6 of My Demanding Duke (Forbidden Love #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

HUGH FELT A light pang of regret as he watched Anna walk toward him. Though her expression remained stoic he could tell, from her rigid posture and set jaw, that her father’s absence smarted.

Despite enlisting the help of Daniel Shatter—who had connections to every blackguard and knave in London—Hugh had failed to locate Lord Mosley in time for the wedding. Unperturbed, Hugh had thought the baron’s absence would further remind Anna that she was safer in his care than her father’s. Now, as she walked toward him—her chin held high, her steps measured and deliberate—Hugh realised that his assumption had been incorrect.

As Anna came to meet him at the top of the room, her eyes finally met his. They were shadowed with emotions that pricked his conscience. Resignation, a touch of defiance and something else; sorrow. Carefully contained but unmistakably present.

The triumphant satisfaction Hugh had anticipated feeling at this moment was suddenly complicated by an unwelcome twinge of guilt. This was not how he had imagined claiming his prize.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure, his conscience chided. Though, as Hugh took in Anna’s radiant beauty, he hoped that his new bride would allow him a few moments of worship alongside his penitence.

“A-hem.”

The Reverend Potsley—clutching his prayer book in one gnarled hand and a brass ear trumpet in the other—cleared his throat loudly, interrupting Hugh’s train of thought. A mercy, for his acute guilt was in danger of turning into aching desire.

“SHALL WE BEGIN?” the reverend boomed at a volume fit to wake the dead. The small gathering winced collectively, and even Anna's composed expression faltered momentarily.

Hugh stifled a sigh of irritation; Potsley was the only curate he’d been able to find at such short notice. He suspected that the ear-shattering acoustics were the reason why the reverend’s diary had been so empty.

"Yes, let’s begin," Hugh answered, enunciating every word with equal volume.

"Excellent. Dearly BELOVED!" the rector bellowed, sweeping his arms wide and nearly striking Hugh with his prayer book. "We are GATHERED HERE in the sight of GOD to join this man and woman IN HOLY MATRIMONY!"

The ceremony continued in much the same alarmingly loud manner. As Potsley bellowed the liturgy Hugh sighted, from the corner of his eye, the feathers of his mother’s turban shaking—Edwina had already descended into gales of mirth. Hardly an auspicious start to a marriage.

He imagined that Lady Limehouse beside her was less than amused. The viscountess had made clear that while she regarded his title and fortune impressive, she was less than impressed by Hugh himself. Hugh did not blame her for her misgivings; his pursuit of Miss Mosley had been slightly less than proper, but he would endeavour to prove to the viscountess—and to his new bride—that he intended to attend to his husbandly duties with care.

He would honour and protect his new wife until the day he died.

"NOW TO THE BEST BIT!" Reverend Potsley bellowed, interrupting Hugh’s reverie.

He tilted his ear trumpet in Hugh's direction, his bushy eyebrows waggling. "You may REPEAT AFTER ME, Your GRACE!"

Hugh winced at the volume and exchanged a brief glance with Anna, whose lips twitched almost imperceptibly. His eyes met hers, and for a brief moment, something passed between them—a silent acknowledgement that they both recognised the absurdity of the moment. It wasn’t much, but Hugh would take it.

"I, Hugh Alexander De Wolfe," Hugh began, raising his voice to a volume typically reserved for after midnight in Boodle’s, "Take thee, Anna Catherine Mosley, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part."

A small crash punctuated his final words as the reverend, attempting to shift his position for better hearing, backed into a small occasional table. The vase upon it—filled with a hastily gathered bouquet from the garden—fell to the floor with a crash.

"Apologies," the reverend boomed without a trace of actual contrition. "You can take it from my fee."

Anna's turn came next, and Hugh watched as she straightened her shoulders and spoke her vows with remarkable composure, considering the circumstances.

"WHAT WAS THAT LAST BIT?" Reverend Potsley bellowed, jamming his ear trumpet closer to Anna's face as she reached the final portion of her vows.

"Obey," Anna repeated, slightly louder, a flash of something—possibly rebellion—crossing her features.

"EXCELLENT!" the reverend beamed.

The reverend was not only deaf but possibly blind, for his beatific smile did not waver in the face of Anna’s glare. She shot the reverend a look that could curdle milk, and Hugh suppressed a grin at her antics, glad to see the return of her spark.

The exchange of rings followed, during which Hugh slipped a simple gold band onto Anna’s finger. As his hand held hers, her eyes widened, and Hugh could only conclude that she was as affected by the brief connection of their skin as he.

"By the power vested in me," Reverend Potsley concluded, his voice sufficiently loud enough to wake the dead, "I now pronounce you MAN and WIFE.”

Hugh leaned forward to place a chaste kiss upon his wife’s cheek, causing their small audience to burst into applause.

"How wonderful!" his mother cried, jumping from her seat to rush to her new daughter-in-law with the determined air of a general claiming territory. "Welcome to the family, my dear. Unfortunately, my son’s impatience means we have not been formally introduced. I am Edwina, Dowager Duchess of Falconbridge. Though I beg you, never refer to me as that, just call me Edwina. 'Dowager Duchess' makes me feel positively decrepit, and I’ve worked far too hard on this youthful complexion to have it undone by a title.”

"Thank you, Your Grace, I mean, Edwina," Anna replied, her smile small but genuine. It was the first time Hugh had seen her smile that day, and he found himself oddly jealous of his mother.

"Come now," Hugh interrupted, offering his arm to his bride so that she might return her attention to him. "I believe there's a wedding breakfast awaiting us. We must toast our joyous union.”

His wife arched a brow at his hyperbole but nonetheless allowed him to lead her from the drawing room to the dining room, where a hastily laid buffet breakfast awaited them.

“Where did all this come from?” Anna whispered, as she glanced at the sideboard. It was heavily laden with bottles of champagne, trays of delicate pastries, fresh fruits, and a selection of savory dishes that Hugh's French chef had conjured despite having thrown what could only be described as a Napoleonic tantrum upon hearing of the rushed nuptials.

“My staff were eager to impress their new mistress and insisted on sending this over,” Hugh answered, as he picked up a plate. “Allow me to serve you.”

He moved deftly along the buffet table, piling the plate high with delicious nibbles.

“I won’t eat all that,” Anna said, her brow raised, as Hugh finished the mountain of food off with an iced French fancy.

“You will try,” Hugh answered, as he led her to a seat. She was far too thin for his liking; no doubt the stress of caring for her father had taken a toll on her appetite.

“I am not a child your Grace,” she answered, as she sat.

Her expression was once again mutinous, and Hugh realised that he would have to rein in his more high-handed impulses…for now.

“Indeed you are not,” he agreed solicitously, “But you see, you are now both my wife and the new Duchess of Falconbridge. I’m afraid that the title comes with some responsibilities, the most urgent of which is attending to my— our —chef’s artistic temperament. If he hears you left your plate untouched, then we will be eating slop for the next year.”

“Maybe I like slop,” Anna countered, though when she caught sight of Hugh’s quelling glare, she hastily speared a strawberry with her fork.

“Delicious,” she said dryly, as she lifted the berry to her plump lips.

Despite her defiance—or perhaps because of it—Hugh felt a dark stir of desire in the pit of his belly. Anna would not be an easy wife; she would not placate or appease him for the sake of it. They were well suited on that score; easy was not a word anyone had ever used to describe Hugh’s disposition.

"You look beautiful," he spontaneously offered and was pleased to see a hint of colour rise in her cheeks.

"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied formally.

"Hugh," he corrected firmly.

She did not acknowledge his rectification. Instead, she turned her attention to her plate, slicing a pastry with such vicious satisfaction that Hugh momentarily wondered if he was imagining it was him.

He would have to work harder at winning her over. While Hugh’s tastes in the bedroom were a touch broader than most, they did not stretch to masochism or mutilation.

Any further conversation with his wife was halted by the arrival of the other guests at the table. He spent the next half hour in silence as his mother and Lady Limehouse monopolised Anna’s attention, chattering about what parties she must attend, shops she should visit, and a whole host of other activities that would keep a new wife busy.

“You look as though you’ve eaten a lemon dear,” his mother commented, as she noted the look of annoyance on his face.

Hugh, who had spent the last half-hour listening to Reverend Potsley chew—at the same volume as he spoke—with one ear and his mother drawing up a busy itinerary for his bride with the other ear, frowned in response.

“I was contemplating on whether my plan to remain in London is fair to my new wife,” he answered darkly, “Perhaps we should retire to Kent so that Anna has time to adjust to her new title in privacy. By the sound of it, you and Lady Limehouse have so many engagements planned that she will not have a moment’s rest.”

Nor would she have a moment to warm his bed, Hugh thought sullenly. Not if she was galivanting across town every evening with his mother.

To his consternation, his mother did not take his concerns onboard. Instead, she looked rather amused by his words, as though she understood his true motivations.

“We shan’t steal her away from you entirely, dear,” Edwina replied in a tone meant to placate. “But you were right that it is prudent for you both to remain in London for now. You should be seen in society, attending the right events, presenting yourselves as a happily married couple to counter the scandal of your hasty engagement.”

Her last words were delivered with a scowl of disapproval, which both Anna and Lady Limehouse replicated. Recognising that he was outnumbered, Hugh threw up his hands in defeat.

“Alright,” he groused, “I concede defeat. But, you will allow Anna a day or two to rest.”

“The Lavery’s ball isn’t until Wednesday,” his mother answered primly, “That should be time enough.”

Hugh bristled with annoyance, but before he could offer a sharp retort, Lady Limehouse interrupted.

“Now that’s settled,” the viscountess said, gently laying their discussion to bed, “We should toast to the happy couple.”

The young footman, who had barred Hugh’s entry the night before, sprang forward to fill their glasses with champagne. He filled Hugh’s glass to the brim, offering him a conspiratorial smile. Solidarity amongst men, Hugh thought, glad that the footman was at least on his side.

"To the new Duke and Duchess of Falconbridge," Edwina proclaimed, as she lifted her glass in toast. "May your union be blessed with happiness, longevity, and a brace of grandchildren to keep me amused."

Hugh did not miss the slight widening of Anna's eyes at his mother's reference to their future offspring. While she raised her glass with the others, she then took what appeared to be a fortifying gulp rather than a genteel sip of champagne.

"HEAR, HEAR!" the reverend contributed, causing several pieces of fine china to rattle dangerously. "TO MARITAL HARMONY AND FRUITFUL LOINS!"

Lady Limehouse choked discreetly on her champagne.

On that auspicious note, the breakfast ended.

Hugh bid his mother and Lady Limehouse goodbye, then waited patiently for Anna to say her farewells to the household staff. She lingered for an interminable length of time with the maid and the footman, her eyes misty with tears.

“They will follow us to Falconbridge House when your father returns,” Hugh assured her, “Josie will follow later with your luggage.”

A second carriage had been employed to ferry his wife’s belongings to her new home, but as they passed the lone, battered portmanteau in the hallway, Hugh realised that such measures had been unnecessary. His mother was right about one thing; the Duchess of Falconbridge needed to go shopping.

With a final goodbye to their guests, Hugh and Anna departed the house on Berkley Square for Hugh’s St James’ residence.

Hugh allowed his hands linger a tad longer than necessary on Anna’s waist, as he assisted her into the carriage, then followed her inside.

At last, a moment alone with his prize.