Chapter 6
As preparations for the wedding began, Rosemere settled into a rhythm for the first time since her father had passed.
The servants smiled again, and though her mother still wore black as was customary, she did smile along with them.
“I ought to show my face to society soon,” she sighed over breakfast. “I cannot be in mourning forever.”
“But that would be so disrespectful to Papa!”
“Anne, I cannot have this same conversation with you,” she snapped. “We must all move on, eventually. I have found a man who is willing to care for me, and now you have too. There is nothing further to discuss.”
There was, as far as Anne cared, but that hardly mattered to her mother. She wondered if that would change somehow once she had real influence, or if she would simply remain her daughter and nothing more.
After breakfast, Anne left the house. The stables at Ashford House became her refuge almost immediately, the one place where nobody wanted anything impossible from her.
Tempest, now at least familiar with his new surroundings, had reluctantly begun to stand in the farthest corner of his pen, rather than growing restless. It was a start, at least.
“He is not difficult,” Anne said quietly one morning, standing beside his stall as he refused to take the feed bucket from a groom. “He is unsettled.”
The groom hesitated. “My Lady, he nearly bit off my hand yesterday.”
“He did not mean to,” she replied, without looking away from the horse.
That particular certainty, delivered so calmly, became something the stablehands learned not to argue with. Anne was uncertain as to whether or not they believed her, but what mattered was that they did not disagree with her. They would see that she was correct in time; she was certain of it.
It was on the third morning that the Duke joined her.
He did not announce himself—he rarely did in places where he felt less required to perform.
She heard him before she saw him, the thud of boots on packed earth slowing as he entered the stable yard and stopped a short distance away, assessing whether he was interrupting something that belonged entirely to her.
To her surprise, she found that she did not consider him to be intruding.
“I was told,” he said, “that I might find you here.”
“Then you were told correctly.”
A pause. “I am beginning to suspect that the stables are where you retreat when you wish to avoid the rest of the world.”
“I am not avoiding anything,” she lied.
“Of course not,” he said lightly. “You are simply spending every waking hour with a horse that tolerates you better than any of my servants.”
Only then did she glance at him.
He was dressed simply for once, his coat unbuttoned and sleeves slightly rolled up. It suited him better than she had expected, which seemed to amuse him faintly.
“I do not believe Tempest tolerates me,” Anne said.
“What would you call it?”
“Understanding.”
“I am not sure I understand anything in this building.”
“That may be your problem,” she quipped.
A groom nearby made the mistake of suppressing a laugh. It was subtle, but Anne noticed. The Duke did too, though he chose not to acknowledge it.
He stepped further into the stables and stopped beside Tempest’s stall, though he kept a careful distance between them. The horse lifted his head at once, tensing in a way that made the nearby stablehand shift uncomfortably.
“I believe that I should attempt to build trust,” the Duke said.
Anne shot him a skeptical look. “Are you willing and able?” she asked.
A faint smile crossed his face. “I will report back when I have evidence, though I believe I will manage. I have handled worse things than a horse.”
“Like what, pray tell?”
“Mothers during the social season.”
Anne laughed at that.
She noticed that Tempest had calmed down once again, even though the Duke had not retreated.
“He is worse when there are too many people watching,” she explained.
“I have noticed,” the Duke said. “I can also see that he does not trust this place yet.”
“No,” Anne agreed. “Neither do I.”
That was the first time he did not respond immediately. When he spoke again, his tone had changed slightly.
“That is not what I expected you to say.”
“What did you expect?”
“Confidence, or disdain—possibly both. I cannot say I understand it, for I rather think that my household is marvelous, but you may feel as you please.”
“I am not in the habit of performing for your benefit,” she said.
“That is becoming increasingly clear.”
Tempest lowered his head when Anne stepped closer, and she rested a hand against his neck, speaking softly to him under her breath.
The Duke watched without comment, as though he had expected the horse to be the most important thing in the room and was slowly realizing that was no longer the full truth.
“You handle him differently from the others,” he remarked after a while.
Anne did not look away from Tempest. “Because he is not like the others.”
“I mean,” he said, “he listens to you as though it is the only reasonable choice available to him.”
Anne’s hand stilled for a fraction of a second before continuing its movement along Tempest’s neck. “Of course he does. He trusts me every bit as much as I trust him, so why would he not listen to me?”
“And trust,” the Duke said quietly, “is inconveniently difficult to force.”
Anne gave him a brief look. At least he was aware that Tempest was not like a man and could not be bought with money and power.
“Is that your professional opinion as a racehorse owner?”
“My professional opinion,” he replied, “is that I should have remained in bed this morning. I will never have success with him, unlike you.”
That was precisely what she had needed to hear. It was not as though she demanded to be considered important, but if there was one thing she knew with full certainty, it was that she was the only person Tempest trusted.
The Duke leaned slightly against the stall beside her, careful to keep some distance between them. For a moment, he simply watched Tempest settle under her touch.
“You are more at ease here.”
“It is quieter.”
He looked at her then, properly. “I mean,” he clarified, “you do not look like someone preparing to become a duchess.”
“And what does a duchess look like?”
“I am still deciding.”
The answer might have been a jest under different circumstances, but it did not land like one.
Anne turned back to Tempest, her hand resting more firmly against him now, as though grounding herself in something familiar.
“I am not becoming anything,” she said quietly. “I cannot. I will not.”
“Good. I have not asked that of you, and I do not expect it either.”
“That will change once I have no say in the matter. I am quite certain of it.”
She had meant to say it half-jokingly, but it came out stronger than she had intended. For a moment, she could have sworn that she saw affront on his face, but it disappeared quickly.
“It would do you well if you did not treat every person you meet as though they were your mother,” he advised.
“That is hardly fair.”
“Is it not?”
She looked at him, her cheeks burning, and then she stepped into the stall to prepare Tempest for a ride.
Light slanted through the open doors in pale strips, catching on dust and straw as she tightened the final buckle on Tempest’s saddle.
“Careful,” the Duke cautioned from behind her. “If you secure that any more firmly, I may have to assume you are preparing him for battle rather than exercise.”
“He behaves better when he is properly secured.”
“So do most people,” he pointed out. “And yet I have not begun strapping them down before a conversation.”
“Perhaps you might find it helpful.”
“I do not need to. You will find that I can be quite convincing when I need to be.”
She rolled her eyes and returned to the saddle. “That explains a great deal.”
He leaned against the wooden post nearby, watching her work.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “marriage to me cannot possibly be so terrible if you already spend most of your time glaring at me like a disapproving wife.”
Anne paused just long enough to tighten a strap before responding, “I am not a disapproving wife, and I do not intend to become one.”
“You are certainly performing the role convincingly.”
“I am merely reminding you when you behave foolishly,” she said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world.
“Frequently, then?”
“Regrettably often.”
That earned her a laugh. It was not the practiced, controlled laugh he used in drawing rooms or in front of investors. It came more suddenly than he seemed to expect, brief and genuine, as though something had slipped past whatever careful restraint he usually kept in place.
Anne’s hands stilled for half a second before she realized she had done it.
She was looking at him, properly looking without meaning to, and before she knew it, she was climbing over the gate to swat at him, albeit playfully.
Alas, she did not place her boot correctly on her descent.
She stumbled back before she realized what was happening.
Fortunately, as with her current predicament, he seemed prepared to catch her.
He was still smiling as he caught her in his arms, seeming slightly surprised by his own reaction. When his gaze met hers, the moment held for just long enough to feel different from everything before it.
Anne looked away first. Her attention turned back to Tempest’s tack, and she quickly joined him again to finish fixing everything in place.
For his part, the Duke did not tease her. Instead, his expression softened into something quieter, more thoughtful, as he watched her finish adjusting the saddle. For reasons neither of them acknowledged, the stables felt a little smaller than they had a moment ago.
Neither of them noticed Mr. Pembroke watching from the stable doors. He had arrived quietly, as he always did, his presence so habitual in the estate that even the servants rarely registered him until he chose to speak.
That day, however, he did not enter. He simply stood at the threshold with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding inside the stables.
The Duke stood near a post, still smiling faintly, and Anne was beside Tempest, her attention deliberately focused on him. Between them, the air felt different than it had days ago—less guarded, less formal, more dangerously unguarded in ways neither seemed willing to admit.
He spoke again, lightly, something about Anne’s disciplinary habits, and she responded without looking at him, rolling her eyes in a way that no one would have dared to do before a duke.
The exchange was brief, almost ordinary, and yet it lingered in a way that felt anything but.
The Duke laughed again. It was the kind of sound a man did not make when he had stopped noticing he was performing, and once again, Anne could not help but be caught entirely off guard by it.
When the moment passed, both returned to what they were doing as if nothing had changed, but Pembroke remained where he was, his attention lingering a moment longer than necessary before he finally stepped into the stables. His entrance was unremarkable. It always was.
“Your Grace,” he said evenly.
“Pembroke.”
Anne did not look up, though her movements slowed just enough to suggest she had registered the third presence in the space.
Pembroke’s gaze moved briefly between them before settling on the Duke.
“I need a word,” he said simply.
“Of course.”
And then they were gone.
* * *
Dorian did not know what his steward wanted, and he never would have refused a servant who needed him, but frankly speaking, he did not want to leave Lady Anne.
She was captivating in a way he had never known a lady to be, and stubborn as hell.
Though he did not want to admit it, he was enjoying their time together.
It would make for an easier marriage if they did not hate one another, but even then, it did not feel as though they hated one another.
What they shared was friendly, albeit fragile, and that was something he wished to maintain.
He stepped away from her and the horse, following Pembroke out of the stables and into the yard, where the sound of horses and straw softened. Only when they were a sufficient distance away did Pembroke stop.
“If this is about the training schedule—”
“It is not,” Pembroke interrupted quietly.
That alone was enough to make Dorian’s attention sharpen.
Pembroke studied him for a moment longer, his expression measured in the way of a man choosing his words carefully rather than reacting to emotion.
“I hear you are marrying for convenience,” he said.
“That is not news.”
“It was to me, and I cannot say that it is the wisest decision. You may convince yourself that this arrangement is under control and that you have accounted for every outcome and nothing can touch you beyond what you permit, but that does not make you invincible.”
Dorian’s expression remained steady, but he was already feeling defensive. He knew that the situation was precarious, and though he trusted his steward, he did not need anyone telling him what to do.
“You are already permitting more than you realize,” Pembroke added.
Silence stretched between them. A faint sound carried out of the stables. It was Lady Anne’s voice, low and steady as she spoke to Diamond, grounding him with the same ease she had always managed.
Dorian did not look back. In truth, he was wondering if he would ever be able to call the horse by the name he had chosen, or if his future wife would refuse.
He shook his head slightly. He was supposed to be the one who told his wife what was happening, not the other way around. If he wished to change the name of a horse he had bought, then he had every right to.
Pembroke’s voice dropped slightly. “Marrying for convenience is dangerous enough. Marrying while vulnerable will ruin you entirely.”
“You need not assume that I am vulnerable.”
“I am not assuming you are anything. I know for a fact that you are a duke, but you are also human. There is only so much that can be done to fight against that.”
With that, he turned to leave, his warning delivered.
Dorian remained standing in the yard, the sound of Anne’s voice still faintly carrying through the open doors.
For the first time since they had agreed to the arrangement, he wondered just how much of a fight could possibly lie ahead of him.