Someone to Love (Westcott #1)(95)

“You are a fortunate man, Netherby,” Cunningham told him not long before he took his leave. “I made Anna a marriage proposal a couple of years or so ago, but she refused me. Has she told you? She informed me that I was just lonely after leaving the orphanage. She told me I would live to regret it if she said yes. She was undoubtedly right—she often is. I envy you, but she remains my friend.”

He was sending a distinct message, Avery realized. He was in Anna’s life to stay, but since she had married Avery, there would be no resentment, no jealousy. There would be no reason for continued hostility.

“I envy me too,” Avery said while Anna looked between them again, as she had earlier, aware of the undercurrents. “My wife has been very fortunate to grow up with someone who will remain a lifelong friend. Not many people can make the same claim. I hope we will meet again.”

He meant it too—almost. But he did not for a moment believe that Anna was no more to Cunningham than a friend. He rather suspected that Anna did not even realize the true nature of the man’s feelings for her.

Soon after that they all shook hands and Cunningham set off home.

“Oh, Avery,” Anna said, turning to him when they were alone, “it feels so strange to be back here with everything the same yet altogether different.”

“You are sad?” he asked.

“No.” She frowned in thought. “Not sad. How could I be? Just—” She laughed softly. “Just sad.”

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. “We will leave here tomorrow,” he said. “But we will return. We can never go back, my duchess, but we can always revisit the past.”

“Yes.” Her eyes were swimming with tears. “Oh, what a strange and emotional couple of weeks these have been. But I am ready to leave.”

A couple of weeks ago they had not even been married. He could not imagine himself now without Anna—a slightly alarming thought.

“Come to bed,” he said. “Let me make love to you.”

“Yes,” she said, leaning into him.

But she still looked sad.





Twenty-three




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.