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He liked London and enjoyed the comforts of the townhouse and having everything he could possibly need at his fingertips, but there was nowhere like Knotgill. He was looking forward to some peace and quiet, before his duties took him back to the city. By which time, with any luck, gossip would have died down, and life could continue as normal.

“I will arrange a meeting between you and the gardener,” he said, the carriage rattling down the winding gravel drive to the house. “I do not profess to know much about what you do and how you do it, but I expect you will need space to grow things.”

At that, a flush of color returned to Marina’s ashen face. “A greenhouse, if I may?”

“Mr. Yarrow will be sorry to give one up, but yes, whatever you need in order to occupy yourself.”

She chuckled, surprising him. “The gardener’s name is Mr. Yarrow?”

“It is.”

“A fine name for such a profession,” she said with an expectant grin, but Anthony had no idea what she was talking about.

Eventually, with a roll of her eyes, she explained. “Yarrow is a tremendous plant for healing. Soldiers of old used to use it to stem bleeding; they called it ‘woundwort’. As a tea, it aids digestion and is useful for women during their monthlies.”

Anthony gaped at her, for she had not even hesitated before mentioning such a thing. Indeed, although he did not want to temper her nature, he would have to get his grandmother to speak to her about appropriate conversation if they were to ever host a ball here.

He could almost see the gentlemen coming to him with their complaints about his peculiar wife.

“Oh, do not look at me like that,” she said, as if reading his mind. “No one should be shocked by something that affects your grandmothers, mothers, sisters, daughters, and all of your female staff, least of all you gentlemen. None of you balk at fighting wars and shedding blood, yet you squirm at the mention of ‘women’s troubles’. It is ridiculous, really.”

“I did not squirm,” he protested, his lip curling in disapproval. “I just was not expecting it.”

“Anyway, yarrow is also good for fevers,” she said with a shrug. “That is why your gardener has an excellent name, and I hope that some may grow here.”

She had become that conundrum again, for how could this be the same woman who had trembled at the church? There was no such anxiety now, her entire being coming alive when she spoke of remedies.

She really must love it. For that was what it was, he realized, that shone in her beautiful eyes whenever she talked of plants, herbs, medicines: passion.

The carriage came to a standstill at the bottom of the porch steps, the portico draped in ivy. From within the manor, the staff suddenly filed out, lining up on the steps to greet the new duchess and the returning duke.

“You should have your gardener trim that ivy,” Marina said, staring out at the front of the house. “It will collapse your porch if you do not.”

“Will you put it in a tonic?” Anthony teased.

She turned to him, her face deadly serious. “Not a tonic. A syrup. English ivy is excellent for afflictions of the lungs, like asthma or bronchitis.”

“I shall bear that in mind.” He cleared his throat and opened the door, feeling like he wanted to go directly to the library to sharpen his own mind.

He offered a hand to help Marina down from the carriage, and she took it, her grip so tight that he wondered if she was not a little bit anxious after all.

“This is Mr. Moorfield, the butler,” he said, gesturing to the stern man who stood nearest.

Marina squinted at him. “You have a butler here and in London? What does the one in London do when you are not there?”

“He keeps the house in order, so it is ready whenever I go to the city,” Anthony replied curtly. “Mrs. Havers, however, will be returning with William next week. She is my only housekeeper.”

He continued up the steps, introducing the maids, the cook, the footmen, though there was no valet. Anthony did not like to have any servant that close to him, not when he was perfectly capable of dressing himself.

Marina was pleasant to the staff, greeting them warmly, and perhaps too informally. The maids seemed particularly thrilled by that, whispering among themselves about who might be stationed as her lady’s maid.

Anthony ushered his new wife into the entrance hall, not bothering to pause to let her take in a sight she had already seen. Instead, he led her up the stairs and turned left on the landing, taking her down to the rooms that should have been prepared for her.

“My chambers are at the opposite end of the house,” he explained, as he opened the door to her suite of rooms. “This is all yours.”

Marina wandered into the airy, bright space in something of a daze, and stopped in the center of the room to turn in a slow circle.

Walls of cream and gold warmed the bedchamber, while thick drapes of brocade would block out any morning sunlight if she wished to sleep late. A fire had been laid in the grate, ready for the cooler evenings, the fireplace flanked by two large, comfortable reading chairs.