Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The next two days were marked by a silence that felt heavy and jagged, like broken glass. If the first days since their marriage were hushed, the townhouse may as well have been a monastery.
William retreated into his work with a ferocity that bordered on obsessive. He skipped dinner twice, preferring to dine out, and sent a curt note to Mrs. Alderton, citing urgent estate business.
For her part, Anne threw herself into the girls’ education and the management of the household. She kept her chin high and her voice steady, but every time she passed the closed door of his study, her heart performed a painful, stuttering dance against her ribs.
On the third evening, the air was uncommonly mild, the London sky scrubbed clean of its usual haze.
“Anne,” Celia said, tugging on her sleeve as they finished their lessons. “The stars are out. Can we have a picnic? A real one, with blankets and the little cakes Cook made?”
Anne looked at Felicity, who was trying, and failing, to look indifferent. “I think a starlit picnic is exactly what we need, Celia.”
They spread a heavy woolen tartan across the grass in the center of the garden, far from the shadows of the stone walls. They sat in a lopsided circle, passing around lemon cakes and pointing at the pinpricks of light beginning to pierce the velvet blue of the sky.
It made her think of Scotland, how different their life might have been had fate not had its way.
“I can never remember which ones are which,” Celia sighed, leaning back on her elbows. “They all just look like spilled salt on a black marble floor.”
“That’s because you aren’t looking for the shapes,” a deep, familiar voice rumbled from the shadows.
Anne stiffened.
William was walking toward them, his coat discarded and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual, but the sharp defensiveness in his posture had softened. He smoothed his beard and pushed his hair back.
“Papa!” Felicity called out, her face brightening. “Come and help us. Anne says the big one is a bear, but I think it looks more like a very long spoon.”
“It is both, actually,” William said, hesitating at the edge of the blanket.
“Sit, Papa,” Felicity insisted, patting the space beside her. “You know all of them. You used to tell me when I was very small, remember? I loved it so much!”
William sank onto the blanket, his large frame making the space suddenly feel much smaller and more intimate. It was almost as if they were a real family.
Anne felt the heat radiating from him, and she inched closer ever so slightly. The scent of cedar and ink wrapped around her like a blanket as she breathed him in. She could not help herself.
“There,” William said, pointing a long finger at the northern horizon and leaning into the blanket. “That is Ursa Major, the Great Bear. And there, those three bright stars in a row, that is the belt of Orion the Hunter.”
Celia moved closer to him, her eyes wide with wonder. “Why is he hunting? Is there a Star Fox?”
“He is chasing the Pleiades,” William explained, his voice losing its clipped edge, becoming almost warm.
He spent the next twenty minutes answering Celia’s endless stream of questions.
“Why do some stars twinkle more than others?”
“Because some are bigger than others, some stars may even be planets. Some are farther away, too.”
“Will the stars ever fall down to earth?”
“Have you ever heard of a meteor?”
It was a moment of rare, unvarnished peace as the conversation continued.
For the first time, they truly looked like a family rather than a collection of survivors bound by a contract. Anne watched her husband, the way he inclined his head to listen to Celia, the way his hand rested protectively near Felicity’s shoulder.
The sullen Duke Mrs. Alderton had so aptly named had vanished and was replaced by a man who was clearly deeply devoted to the children in his care.
Eventually, the excitement began to take its toll. Celia’s questions grew slower and more nonsensical, and Felicity’s head began to droop.
“If people lived on the moon, what would they eat?”
“Cheese, naturally,” William answered dryly.
“I think the hunters and the bears need to go to sleep,” Anne said softly.
The girls didn’t protest. With sleepy hugs and whispered goodnights, they headed back toward the house, guided by a footman with a lantern.
Silence fell over the garden, but it wasn’t the jagged silence of the previous days. It was something softer, more expectant. And for what, Anne couldn’t tell.
“Thank you,” William said, his voice low. “For… for everything. For organizing this. For them. You seem to always know what to do around here. I am… grateful.”
“You do not have to thank me for caring for them.” She looked at him, the moonlight silvering the scar on his cheek. “There is nowhere else I would rather be.”
“Good,” he replied softly, his bright blue eyes focused on Anne as she seemed to sense something beneath the surface.
“I am only speaking the truth,” Anne said, her eyes meeting his.
“It is one of the things I admire about you,” he said, and she began to blush.
“It is obvious how much you care for Felicity. And for Celia, too. You should show it more often. You have a kindness in you that you keep under lock and key.”
William looked away, his jaw tightening slightly as she shared more. “It doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to you, Anne.”
“That is all right—”
“I am used to walls. They are… safer.”
“I can understand that.”
“Well, what do you… suggest I do?” he asked haltingly, as if it almost pained him.
“You do not have to transform into a completely new man in one night,” she said, reaching out to briefly touch the back of his hand. “Small steps are enough. Tonight was a very big step.”
A cool breeze swept through the garden, and Anne shivered, her silk shawl offering little protection. Without a word, William shifted closer. He reached back, unhooked his heavy wool coat from where he’d dropped it on the grass, and draped it over her shoulders.
The weight of it was warm, and it smelled so strongly of him that she felt lightheaded. All clean soap and pine and… man.
As he adjusted the collar, his hands brushed her neck. She felt the skin prickle there, her pulse quicken, her stomach flutter. His gaze dropped to her lips, and the air between them seemed to vanish.
He truly is… so stunning.
“Anne,” he whispered, his voice a jagged prayer.
He leaned in, and this time, he did not hesitate. He pressed his lips against hers as if they were always meant to be this way. He kissed her, gently sliding his tongue between her lips, moaning as he tasted her.
The kiss was not the tentative brush that had gone so wrong. It was more than Anne had imagined it could be, as if together the electricity was more than the sum of their parts. So passionate, a collision of all the words they hadn’t said and all the tension that had been building for weeks.
William’s hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her soft brown hair, pulling her closer until her chest was pressed against his.
Anne melted into him, her hands finding the solid strength of his shoulders. He was almost etched out of her very fantasies—a tall, dark prince. It was a whirlwind of sensation, a heat that started in her toes and spread to her heart.
Eventually, she found herself kissing him back, sliding her tongue in and exploring his mouth, his taste, his everything.
But as the kiss grew hotter and more needy, as his tongue trailed along her lower lip and his hand slid down the curve of her waist, cold panic surged through her.
The intimacy was spiraling, and she had lost herself in him. This sort of act only led to the bedchamber. To a child. To the terrifying possibility of leaving Celia alone in a world that didn’t love her.
I cannot risk Celia for this, no matter how much I want to feel him.
She tore herself away and stood up, her breathing ragged. She brought her fingertips to her lips, finding them swollen and tingling.
“I… I forgot,” she stammered, clutching his coat to her chest as if it were armor. “I forgot to check if Celia’s window was latched. The night air… ’It’s not good for her. I do not want her to fall ill.”
William stood, his eyes dark with a mix of shock and raw desire. “Anne, wait. Just a moment, if we could—”
“Goodnight, William!” she cried over her shoulder, already turning and running toward the terrace, her skirts gathered in her hands.
She didn’t stop until she was inside her room with the door bolted.
She leaned against the wood, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had wanted him—still wanted him—but the fear was a ghost that wouldn’t leave her. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed it would let her rest.
Outside, in the dark garden, William remained standing by the blanket, the cold night air doing nothing to quell the fire Anne had left behind. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, noting he had begun to sweat at the temples.
A man like him did not dally in affairs, like Rafe or most men of his station would. He was a solitary man, focused on affairs of his duchy and his daughter, and yet he was still a hot-blooded man.
Anne had reminded him of that in spades. He had put it out of his mind at first, as much as any man could, but as time went on, he only grew more drawn to her. The kind lilt in her voice, the fullness of her breasts, the sparkle in her green eyes, the curve of her backside.
“Damn it,” he muttered to himself.
It must be the scars that repel her. She cannot bring herself to… A man like me must be—
He shook his head, stopping that train of thought.
He stormed into the townhouse and went straight to his study. Once inside, he closed the door behind him with a thwack and walked to the sidebar. He poured a stiff drink to steady himself, which only heated him more.
He opened the window in the hope the cool night air would steady him, then sat at his desk and tried, in vain, to lose himself in his work.
The morning after, the air in the breakfast room was heavy with a cold, formal precision.
William sat at the head of the table, his spine a rigid line, hidden behind the morning edition of the Times. When Anne entered, he offered a curt, polite nod.
“We have the Mayhaven ball tomorrow,” she announced as she sat, and a maid poured her a cup of tea.
“Yes,” was all he could manage, his voice tired from lack of sleep.
When he had finally given in and retired to his rooms, he spent the night staring up at the ceiling.
He was haunted by the phantom heat of her lips against his, the feel of her body pressed against his.
When she had fled, she hadn’t just run. She had looked at him with a flash of what he could only interpret as revulsion.
Of course, he had thought bitterly as he sat at breakfast, his mind reeling once more, his hand instinctively going to the jagged scar on his cheek. In the dark, under the stars, she could pretend. But only for a moment. Up close, the reality is too much for a woman like her.
He decided to give her the distance she clearly craved. He would be the perfect, polite, and utterly distant Duke.
With that resolve, he rose from his seat and walked out without another word.