Her appearance shocked him for the second time that day. This time, however, he was in complete control of his faculties and managed his surprise quite comfortably. He entered the dining room without announcement, and as he drew closer to the table where his new wife sat chatting with his mother, he could not help but feel amused by her. Her hair was a beautiful burnished gold, almost bronze, and while earlier in the day it had sat in neatly tamed braided ropes beneath the lacy veil, the abigail’s best work now hung in soft tatters around her pretty face. Something – was it dirt? – left faint streaks upon high cheekbones, beginning just below her eyes and trailing off down the column of her fine neck.

In such a state of disrepair, any resemblance she had to Patricia seemed as good as gone. At least for now. He felt himself relaxing, the tension slowly draining from his body as he took his seat next to her. Truly, she looked ridiculous, but to sit in that chair next to his mother looking as she did was something to consider. This girl was brave to be sure. And somehow, as Averson had suggested, intriguing. Curiosity pushed him to engage her.

He settled his napkin on his lap and motioned to the steward to bring him a plate.

“My Lord has decided to join his wedding feast?” Henrietta managed with soft sarcasm. She kept her gaze straight ahead, apparently determined not to look at him. Though she would not meet his eyes, at least she spoke. He liked the smoothness of her voice. It was distinctly hers.

“My Lady has decided to cease foraging in the wood for her supper?” he countered with humor in his voice. He was remarkably relieved that she had shed the blanket of lace that had covered her from head to toe. Though her escapade had left her dress a disaster, losing the veil was an improvement that allowed him to appreciate her heretofore hidden form.

“I find it most curious, my Lord, that the first words you ever speak to me as wife are in regard to nuts and berries. Curious indeed.”

“I can only imagine your appearance to be the result of a failed attempt at scrounging out of doors for food. I assure you, we can provide all you need right here within these magnificent walls,” he teased.

“Ewan, dear,” his mother leaned forward to speak around his bride, “you must be careful not to overwhelm your new wife with your charm.” She added a fake smile for effect.

“I will thank you not to comment further on my appearance, my Lord Marquess,” Henrietta quipped. “You made your feelings quite clear earlier this day.”

“Yes, about that,” he began contritely. “I must speak with you about that. I behaved very badly.”

She gave no reply, so he contented himself with studying her profile, for as she kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on something across the room, that was all she would allow him. The tip of her petite nose turned up pertly. He hadn’t noticed it before, but from this angle, and with its current crazy accoutrements, it was absolutely delightful. What was she saying?

“My Lady?”

“Does your hearing fail? I said, from the ashes of humiliation a great Lady rises.” Each word was punctuated dramatically.

He drew his brows together into a question. “Phoenix?”

She finally turned her head to look at him, and the hard expression in her eyes did not fit her absurd appearance. The dirt streaks were surely a combination of dried tears and sweat from her run to who-knows-where, and the stray ribbon that hung loose by her ear only served to add to the comedy. He smiled, stifling a chuckle.

“Sir?” she said curtly.

“I believe you mean a phoenix rises. From the ashes a phoenix rises.”

“And I believe you should not presume to know what I mean or do not mean. I see it a different way. We can agree to disagree, my Lord.” He found her utterly charming.

“Can we?”

“I think it best. For us. As a general rule.”

“Some say rules are meant to be broken.”

“And under normal circumstances, I might agree with you, my Lord, but no. Rules are certainly meant to be kept. This rule especially.”

“We agree to disagree then.”

“You see how easy that was? A useful rule for us.”

“I henceforth agree to agree with you,” he offered pleasantly, hiding his wry smile by sipping his wine. “Even when we disagree.”

“Suddenly, the Marquess is all congeniality and yet,” she paused and proudly met his eyes again, “I still await this apology which is allegedly forthcoming.”

“Ewan,” the Duchess chided, making no secret of her eavesdropping. “Do please make your apologies.”

The Marquess rolled his eyes at his mother’s interference, a well-timed reminder of how one complication in his life stacked upon another. He sighed.

“Miss Oliver,” he began, quickly realizing his mistake. She was no longer Miss Oliver. She was a lady. His lady. It was not natural to think of her that way. “May I call you Henrietta?”

“You should hardly call her Miss Oliver,” the Duchess interjected.

Now it was the Marquess who chided. “Mother.”

“Very well,” the older woman said, standing to leave the table. The Marquess stood respectfully with her and she added, “I will leave you to find the Duke. He has been long missing from this most joyous affair.” The sarcasm in her voice could hardly be missed.

Though others sat at each end of the long table, the two of them were indeed left to themselves, and due to the happy noise in the room, out of earshot of everyone.

He surprised himself at how relaxed he felt with her. Well, relaxed in one sense, surely the important sense. However, some other part of him was decidedly not relaxed as he sat so near her, dirty face and all. Something stirred. Awakened, perhaps? He couldn’t say, but it felt fresh and new. And if he dared be honest with himself, he liked it very much.

“Henrietta, please accept my apology for my behavior in the chapel. It was most unseemly.”

“It was most unkind,” she corrected him matter-of-factly, and he dared not disagree for she was right. It was one thing to act the cad. It was something else entirely to insult her.

“There was no excuse for it.”

“Your mother believes you to be unstable.”

“Does she?” he remarked dryly. “How helpful of her to offer her opinion on my emotional state.”

Henrietta bit her bottom lip as if considering her words carefully. Finally, she spoke.

“She told me why. I am sorry for your loss, my Lord.”

Ewan tried to keep his face blank despite his mood swinging dramatically. This was a conversational direction he did not want to go.

“So am I,” was all he could say, suddenly withdrawing within himself. It was, after all, a well-worn path. He gave his attention fully to his dinner for the first time since he sat down. As usual, the duck was perfect.

The silence grew awkward while he ate until finally she said, “I accept it.”

He glanced at her sideways in silent question.

“I have decided to accept your apology,” she explained.

He cleared his throat and gave her his own version of a fake smile. “Your condescension is both noted and appreciated.”

Awkwardness returned to the space between them with full force. At last, distraction arrived in the form of the wedding cake. A delicately-frosted fruitcake was deposited with much fanfare on a small table before the bride and groom. The room erupted in applause as the happy couple indicated their approval of the sumptuous confection.

Henrietta managed a convincing smile as a very generous piece was cut and set before them each.

“You outdo yourself, my Lord. A feast for the eyes.”

Ewan eyed the cake. He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed a piece of Cook’s cake. In what seemed like another lifetime, Cook’s confections had always served him well as a remedy for the occasional boorish mood. Perhaps emotional stability was in reach after all. He simply needed to eat cake.

“My dear Lady, I assure you, I had very little to do with any of this, including the cake.” His words sounded sour though he hadn’t really intended them to.

“It seems our parents have conspired against us at every turn.” She savored a bite. “At least the cake is good.”

Ewan took a bite and surveyed the dining room. It was a veritable sea of people, some of whom would be staying at the manor for days. He spotted the General and his new mother-in-law. They looked to be naturally inclined toward displeasure. His eyes roamed until they landed on his mother and father. They appeared equally unhappy. He glanced to his left and looked again upon the disheveled state of his bride. If she could run, why couldn’t he? Why couldn’t they? Impulsiveness wasn’t generally in his nature, but change was certainly in the wind. He was a fool to deny that much.

“What do you say we go to Scarborough?”

Henrietta’s eyes widened dramatically like saucers, suddenly showing as much white as blue. She swallowed a large bite of cake and then looked at him with suspicion.

“Do you tease me, sir?”

“No, I do not tease you. I’ve no great wish to remain here where our every move, our every word no doubt, is scrutinized for emotional stability.”

“When?” She could hardly get the word out.

“Tomorrow. We have just wed. We have all the excuse in the world to run away from home for a few days.”

“Scarborough. Tomorrow.” Her words came almost breathlessly.

He tilted his head slightly and as he took another bite of cake, he wondered at this sudden change in her demeanor.

“You puzzle me, my new Lady Peterborough.”

“I prefer paradox.”

“As you wish. I like a good puzzle,” he paused, “or paradox, as you say. If you agree to agree, tomorrow we will alight for a few days of refreshment by the sea. I think it a good plan and will benefit us both.”

“I am most agreeable, my Lord, for tomorrow.” She took a deep breath, as if to speak, but then did not.

Something had clearly put her ill at ease. Scarborough? She had seemed pleased with the suggestion at first. Perhaps the space of time between now and tomorrow? She had no cause for concern though he admitted she could hardly know that. He had discussed his plan to leave the marriage unconsummated with no one

She glanced toward the long windows, confirming the sun was nearly done with the day. With a look of obvious alarm, she returned her attention to the cake crumbs on the plate.

She is a puzzling paradox indeed.

“So,” she managed, swallowing hard, “tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”