Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The following afternoon was uncharacteristically warm, the London sun coaxing the first blooms of the upcoming summer into a riot of color in the gardens.
Anne looked around, taking in the growing pinks and purples amid the verdant green. She led the girls down to a shaded stone bench, intent on a quiet hour of reading. However, the garden was already occupied.
In a cleared area of the lawn, William was engaged in a vigorous fencing match with his lean, grey-haired instructor.
He had discarded his coat and waistcoat.
His white linen shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to the broad expanse of his shoulders and the powerful line of his back.
He ran a hand through his brown hair as the sun hit it.
Anne had not noticed the auburn waves that highlighted it before.
She froze for a heartbeat. She had seen him in formal wear and stiff cravats, but this was different.
The sheer, raw physicality of him was startling.
As he lunged, the muscles in his thighs and arms rippled beneath the thin fabric.
His tall, broad frame moved with a lethal, predatory grace that made her breath hitch in her throat.
She found herself tracking the way his hair, darkened by perspiration yet highlighted by the light of day, curled at the nape of his neck.
He parried a blow, his eyes sharp and focused, before he caught sight of them. He signaled for a pause, wiping his brow with his forearm.
“Anne,” he acknowledged, his voice slightly raspy from exertion.
“Do not mind us, Papa,” Felicity chirped, already opening her book. “We are just here for the shade. Anne says my embroidery was lacking artistic flair, so I am seeking inspiration in Keats.”
Celia remained rooted to the spot, her eyes wide as she watched the instructor reset his stance. “Does the sword hurt?” she whispered.
The new instructor, a man named Monsieur Girard, chuckled condescendingly. “It is not a toy for little ladies, child. It is a discipline of steel and grit. Perhaps you should go back to your dolls?”
Celia flushed, looking down at her shoes, but her curiosity didn’t dim. “I just wanted to see how you move your feet. It looks like a dance, but… faster.” She looked up at William. “I would very much like to try again.”
“Again? A girl this young, fencing? I am unsure this is wise,” the instructor said with a click of his tongue.
“Could I watch? Just from the edge? Like I did before?”
William looked from the hopeful girl to the instructor, who was already turning away. Something in his expression shifted, the coldness being replaced by something more protective.
“Girard,” he called out, his tone brooking no argument. “Fetch one of the wooden practice foils from the kit. She is quite skilled and strong of will.”
The instructor blinked, just as the previous one had. “Your Grace, surely you do not mean—”
“I mean,” William interrupted, his voice like velvet over steel, “that if Miss Celia wishes to learn the footwork, she shall learn it from the best. That is what I pay you for. Bring the foil.”
Anne thought she heard him mutter that he should have seen to it earlier under his breath.
She felt a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the sun as he took an interest in Celia once more, recalling her interest in fencing.
She watched as he knelt on one damp knee, ignoring the grass stains on his expensive breeches, to show Celia how to wrap her small fingers around the hilt of the practice foil.
Anne and Felicity still sat on the bench, but Anne’s book remained unread in her lap. She kept glancing up, watching William’s large, calloused hands gently guide Celia’s arm, his patience seemingly infinite as he corrected her stance.
Felicity shook her head from side to side, drawing Anne’s attention.
“You aren’t reading your book, Anne,” she remarked with a click of her tongue, not looking up from her own book. “Seems your interest lies elsewhere, does it not?”
“I am reading,” Anne sighed, her gaze drifting back to William as his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I am simply… keeping an eye on Celia. Fencing can be dangerous, and she has little experience in such things.”
“Ah,” Felicity hummed, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips that was becoming familiar, and Anne’s undoing. “Yes, I’m sure it’s Celia’s safety that has your undivided attention. Papa does have a very… effective parry, doesn’t he? Most strong.”
Anne felt a flush creep up her neck as she pretended to swat away a pesky fly. “He is an adequate teacher, Felicity. Nothing more.”
“Of course,” Felicity said, finally looking up with a mischievous glint in her blue eyes, so similar to her father’s. “And I am only reading Keats for the grammar.”
Lady Margine’s ballroom was a shimmering sea of silk, candlelight, and the low, rhythmic hum of a hundred whispered judgments.
As the Duke and Duchess of Dawnhurst were announced, a palpable hush rippled through the room. Everyone stopped to stare.
It was the first time William attended such a grand soirée in years, and the sight of him, scarred, imposing, and with a strikingly poised Anne on his arm, was enough to make the most seasoned gossips snap their fans shut in surprise.
“I feel like a specimen under a microscope,” he muttered, his jaw so tight Anne feared for his teeth. “Remind me again why I agreed to such paltry nonsense?”
“You are a duke, William. You are the crown jewel of the collection,” Anne whispered, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve. “Smile. Or at least look slightly less as though you are planning a siege. This is for Felicity, nothing more.”
Before he could respond, a familiar, roguish face cut through the throng. Rafe, looking effortlessly elegant in his evening finery, strolled toward them with a champagne flute in hand.
“Good heavens, the hermit has emerged from his cave,” he teased, bowing low to Anne before giving William a playful clap on the shoulder.
“And he’s brought a goddess to distract us from his sour disposition.
Your Grace, you look absolutely radiant in that sapphire gown.
How you managed to drag him here, I will never know. ”
“She is persuasive,” William said, though his eyes softened marginally as they flickered to Anne.
She did look resplendent in the sapphire gown she had selected just for that evening, showcasing her generous curves and round backside. He couldn’t stop staring, even if just for a moment.
“She is a miracle worker,” Rafe corrected.
The light moment was interrupted when the hostess’s brother-in-law, the Duke of Hereford, approached.
“Dawnhurst! Just the man. And you, too, Lord Woodworth. We were just heading to the library to discuss the new Corn Laws with Lord Margine. Surely you won’t deny us your expertise in such matters? That is, if your beautiful wife is able to spare you. Good evening, Duchess.”
“Good Evening, Duke.” Anne curtsied, drawing William’s eyes to her bosom.
He looked up, only to see the flash of hesitation in her eyes. He didn’t want to leave her side in this shark tank, yet maybe that was just what he needed to steady himself.
“Go,” she urged gently with a soft wink. “I shall find some tea and perhaps a quiet corner. I am a duchess now, I can manage a ballroom.”
With a reluctant nod, William departed with the men.
Left alone, Anne hadn’t even reached the refreshments table before she was intercepted. A flock of women, led by the formidable Marchioness of Dracut, descended upon her like colorful, predatory birds, for all the feathers in their hair.
“My dear Miss Barnet—I mean, Your Grace! What a surprise to see you out!” Lady Vane chirped, her eyes scanning Anne’s gown for any sign of a budget. “We were all so… intrigued by the haste of the nuptials.”
“A marriage of deep understanding is rarely a matter of time, My Lady,” Anne replied with a practiced, cool smile.
“Well, regardless of the… circumstances, we are most happy for you,” Lady Dracut purred, fanning herself, which made her bosom jiggle in her too-tight gown. “How is married life treating you?”
“Most well, thank you.” Anne grabbed a champagne flute from a passing tray and took a swig. “Please, you must tell me. Where did you get such a gown? It is remarkable!”
After talk of gowns, questions about Dawnhurst House, and her new status, the tone shifted.
A younger, sharp-featured woman named Lady Isabella leaned in close. Her voice was pitched in mock-sympathy that made Anne’s skin crawl.
“It must be quite a transition,” she sighed, touching Anne’s arm.
“Pardon?” Anne leaned away.
“Living in that gloomy house with a man who so clearly avoids the light. And those… marks on his face. It must be so difficult for you, being tethered to someone so… ravaged. And his temper! They say he’s quite a beast in private.
We all pity you, truly. To be so young and tied to such a broken thing. ”
The group fell silent, waiting for Anne’s embarrassed agreement. Instead, she felt a white-hot protective fury flare in her chest. She squared her shoulders, her posture turning regal.
“Pity?” Her voice was low, but it carried a razor-sharp edge that cut through the surrounding chatter. “You pity me for being married to a man of great honor? A man who carries the physical marks of a life lived with courage, rather than the internal rot of a life spent in idle gossip?”
Lady Isabella blanched, her mouth falling open. She quickly lifted her fan to cover it.
“His reclusive behavior, as you call it, is a dignity you clearly cannot comprehend,” Anne continued, stepping into the woman’s space.
“My husband does not seek the approval of a room that prizes a smooth face over a noble soul. If you find him broken, it is only because your own vision is too fractured to see his strength. I suggest you find another topic of conversation, before I forget my own manners as thoroughly as you have forgotten yours.”
The ladies stumbled over their words, a chorus of “Oh, I didn’t mean to—” and “So sorry, Your Grace,” as they scrambled to retreat.
Anne stood her ground until they had vanished into the crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The carriage ride home was silent, though the air between them felt charged with tension.
Once back at the townhouse, Anne retreated to her room, but she hadn’t even unpinned her hair when a sharp knock sounded at her door. She opened it to find William. He had discarded his cravat, his shirt open at the throat.
“You were tense the moment I returned to the ballroom,” he said, stepping into her room.
The candlelight caught the very scars the ladies had mocked, but to Anne, they looked like a map of a man she was beginning to adore.
“Did those women upset you? If they spoke out of turn, I would have a word with their husbands. No one treats my wife with disrespect.”
“It was nothing, William. Just the usual nonsense,” Anne dismissed, though her voice wavered, especially at the sight of him in her room. “Thank you, truly.”
“You should not be thanking me for tonight—”
“No, I mean for the lesson today. For teaching Celia. Seeing you with her… it meant a great deal to me. I want her to feel that she belongs here.”
William stepped closer, the scent of cedar and the night air clinging to him. “She does belong here. You both do. I want you to be comfortable, Anne. In every sense of the word.”
He reached out, his thumb grazing her jawline, hovering just beside the corner of her mouth.
She gasped. She had both craved and feared this intimacy since she had first seen his stunning visage. His blue eyes were dark, searching hers with a raw vulnerability that stole her breath. She leaned in, her eyes fluttering shut, her heart screaming for contact.
But just as his warm, soft lips brushed hers, a cold flash of reality struck like lightning. She closed her eyes and saw the image of her mother’s pale, lifeless face, the memory of her painful death. Then came the thought of leaving Celia alone.
If this kiss leads to more… if I fall pregnant…
She scrambled back with a gasp, her hands shaking. “I… I should sleep. It has been a long day.”
William froze, his hand still hovering in the air. The rejection hit him visibly, his features hardening back into that cold mask. Much as the sight hurt her, she could not risk it.
“Of course,” he said, his voice dropping into a frigid, formal tone. “Goodnight, Anne.”
He turned away and strode out, the door closing with a click that sounded like a lock sliding into place.
Anne felt impossibly trapped. She collapsed onto her bed, staring at the ceiling, her body aching with a frustration that was only matched by the crushing weight of her own fear.
She pulled her jacquard blanket over her and closed her eyes, praying sleep would come fast.