"Then we will go to Larktarn," said the Duke of Rothley. "All three of us."
They were married eight days later by special license in the long drawing room at Grosvenor Street, on a gray morning with the curtains half-drawn against the street. There were very few people present: the Duke's man of business stood as a witness, looking as though he had swallowed a fishbone; Aunt Mildred sat in a gilt chair in her best black silk, with her hands folded tight in her lap; and at the back of the room, by the door, stood Stepan in a borrowed brown coat that was too broad for him. His gray beard was trimmed, and his boots were blacked. He held himself as straight as a man could who had been in bed for three weeks.
Anna wore her better gown—the dove-colored one—with a new lace collar the housekeeper had found for her without being asked. She had no flowers; she had not thought to want any.
When the clergyman asked who gave this woman, there was an awkward silence, because nobody had thought of that either. Then Stepan stepped forward from the door, came up the length of the room in his too-big coat, and stood beside her. He did not understand a word of the service; he only understood that a girl ought not to stand alone at her wedding, and so he did not let her.
The Duke's hand was cold when he took hers to put on the ring. She felt it tremble very slightly and then go still, and she understood that he was as frightened as she was, and that he would have cut off the hand sooner than show it. He said his vows in a low, clear voice, and he did not look away from her face while he said them.
When it was done, he raised her hand and touched his lips to her fingers, briefly and formally, with a stranger's courtesy. It was the first time a man had ever kissed her hand. She thought it was a strange way to begin a marriage, and then she thought that perhaps it was not so strange after all.
Her aunt found her alone afterward in the small back parlor where Anna had gone to catch her breath. Aunt Mildred shut the door behind her. For a moment, she was silent. She looked at the lace collar, the ring, the room with its good carpet and its silver candlesticks. Her mouth worked a little, as though she were tasting something bitter.
"Well," she said, "you have done very well for yourself. Better than your father ever did."
"I did not do it for myself, Aunt."
"No? Then you will not mind remembering who kept you." Her aunt's voice was very low and quick. "The house is failing. The Baltic men do not come as they did. They do not like to be served by the woman whose niece was in the print shop window. You did that. So you will see that what your father took from me is paid back. Every shilling. You are a duchess now; it will be nothing to you."