Page 15 of My Demanding Duke

"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,neverrefer 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.

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