Chapter 10
Anne thought for a moment that her husband might want to kiss her.
She was not as against it as she had expected. He might be a distant man, but he had an instinct to protect those around him that she could not deny.
There was also no denying the attraction she felt toward him, even if she wanted to. He was a good man, and her husband, and if somehow he did want to kiss her—
The thud of horses’ hooves broke the moment, right before she saw riders approaching along the far edge of the field. Dorian released her immediately, stepping back as though she had burned him.
Anne adjusted her footing at the same time, turning slightly toward Tempest as though the horse needed her more than she needed not to be seen near her husband.
The riders crested the rise moments later, unaware of anything that had just happened. Dorian had already moved back to his horse by then, reins in hand as his features smoothed into calm control. Only the brief glance he gave her before looking away suggested anything had shifted at all.
Anne did not look at him again until the riders were gone.
But she did not have time to think on it for long, for they were to host a dinner that night. She had agonized over it with the staff, and as she sat among the guests, she wondered if she had been successful in such endeavors.
She sat at Dorian’s side, having not discussed what had happened earlier that day with him. The guests were watching her not as a novelty, but as a duchess, and she could not help but wonder if she was worthy of such a title.
Across the table, Margaret leaned slightly toward her.
“You need not look so ill at ease,” she whispered. “You have done well.”
“I am trying to look pleased,” Anne replied. “It would not do well for me to look too happy with myself. I would not want to come off as self-conceited.”
“You are married to a handsome and wealthy duke, and you are both clearly very happy together. Anyone in your position should be more than pleased with themselves about it. Nobody will blame you for being in love.”
That term, love, did not feel right. After all, the man she had married had taken her horse from her, only to undermine her when she tried to assist him. She was only there for Tempest, not because she loved her husband.
“I have no idea what you are referring to.”
Margaret smiled faintly. “Of course not.”
Dorian seemed to be listening to a separate conversation, though Anne had long since learned that his attention rarely stayed where it was supposed to.
At the far end of the table, Lord Harrow lounged with an air of utter satisfaction, entirely at ease in a way Anne was not.
He had arrived earlier in the evening from London without warning, immediately declaring the atmosphere at Ashford Hall to be “distressingly domestic” before helping himself to the wine.
Anne had not decided whether she found him intolerable or entertaining, and she was not certain that she wished to find out by seeing more of him.
“So,” he said loudly, lifting his glass slightly, “how is married life treating you, my friend?”
Dorian did not look up from his plate. “Nothing has changed.”
“That is a lie,” Lord Harrow replied cheerfully. “I have been here for exactly forty-seven minutes, and I have already caught you staring at your wife when she is not looking at least three times.”
Anne paused, her fork hanging midair. “I am sitting right here,” she said calmly.
“Yes,” Lord Harrow agreed. “One would suspect that you are here, since he was looking at you.”
Chuckles rippled through the table.
“You are mistaken,” Dorian said flatly.
“I am never mistaken,” Lord Harrow declared, entirely unbothered. “The Duke of Ashford believes he is subtle, ladies and gentlemen, but we all know that he is not.”
Margaret tilted her head slightly toward Anne. “He has been doing it all evening.”
“I have not,” Dorian protested.
“You absolutely have,” Margaret insisted.
Anne looked between them, her eyes narrowing. She was not going to pretend that she had not noticed it too, but she had always explained it away. If others were noticing it, however, it was more difficult to ignore.
“Doing what exactly?” she asked.
Lord Harrow’s smile widened. “Looking at you like you are about to disappear if he blinks.”
The table fell quiet. Anne did not respond immediately, but when she did, her voice was carefully neutral.
“That seems unlikely.”
“It is not,” Margaret said.
“It is,” Dorian corrected.
Lord Harrow raised his glass again. “Denial is very fashionable in your household.”
Dorian exhaled slowly, setting down his fork. “If you are finished discussing my behavior as though I am not present, I would like to enjoy my dinner.”
“You are not enjoying your dinner,” Lord Harrow pointed out. “You are monitoring your wife’s reaction to everything I say.”
Anne turned slightly toward Dorian, studying him with mild suspicion and trying to ignore the fact that she rather liked the idea of him watching for her reaction. “Are you?”
Dorian met her gaze without hesitation. “No.”
A beat of silence followed, then Lord Harrow made a soft sound of disbelief. “That was almost convincing.”
“You are becoming insufferable.”
“I arrived insufferable,” Lord Harrow replied. “It is my default state.”
Despite herself, Anne felt the corner of her mouth twitch.
Dorian noticed. Of course, he did.
“You are smiling,” he said quietly.
“I am not,” she replied immediately.
“You are,” Lord Harrow piped up.
“I am reacting to the absurdity of this conversation.”
“That is how it starts. Besides, this is exactly what I mean. He is watching over you, Your Grace, and I cannot help but feel as though neither of you is seeing it.”
Anne turned her attention back to her plate, though her awareness of Dorian beside her had shifted in a way she could not fully ignore.
It was not new, but hearing it spoken aloud changed something about it. It was not as though she disliked it, but it felt strange all the same that they were being scrutinized in such a way.
Then again, she had known that becoming the Duchess of Ashford would come with scrutiny.
Dorian, for his part, looked increasingly aware that the conversation had turned against him.
“I would like to remind everyone present,” he said evenly, “that I am the Duke of Ashford.”
Lord Harrow raised his glass. “And tragically in love, apparently.”
Dorian choked slightly on his drink. Anne froze. Margaret’s eyes widened briefly before she masked it with a polite sip of wine.
“That is not—” Dorian started.
“Relax, dear friend. I am not reporting it to Parliament.”
Anne set her glass down carefully. “I believe,” she said quietly, “this conversation has gone quite far enough.”
“But we are just beginning to enjoy it.”
Dorian leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand briefly over his mouth as though trying to regain control of the situation through sheer will alone. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
“You are all imagining things.”
Lord Harrow nodded. “That is exactly what a man says when he has been caught imagining things.”
Anne turned her head slightly toward her husband. This time, she caught him. He was looking at her for a second too long for it to be a coincidence.
Lord Harrow leaned back in his seat, looking deeply satisfied. “I rest my case.”
Dorian sighed, then picked up his glass again as though the entire conversation had become irrelevant. “I hate you all,” he muttered.
Lord Harrow smiled. “No, you do not.”
Against her better judgment, Anne found herself smiling properly this time. She noticed something in Dorian’s expression shift, as though the amusement he refused to acknowledge was directed entirely at her.
It was clear that he did not mean what he had said. He liked the company, even if he claimed the contrary.
Anne wondered why he would do it when he so obviously liked having people over. It was not the time to ask him about it, but she knew that eventually the time would come.
Strangely, she rather looked forward to it.
After the dinner party, when the servants had retreated and the corridors of Ashford Hall felt wider than they should have, Anne went to bed with every intention of sleeping, but hours passed without rest taking hold, leaving her increasingly aware of the stillness around her and the restless thoughts she could not quiet.
Eventually, she gave up on the attempt.
She stepped out of her room and moved through the corridor without calling for assistance, the faint light from distant sconces catching only briefly in her nightdress as she made her way downstairs.
The library door was not fully closed when she reached it, and the thin strip of light spilling into the hall was enough to make her pause before she entered.
Dorian was inside. He sat on the floor near the fire, one arm resting loosely over his bent knee, the other holding something that caught the shifting firelight in uneven fragments.
He did not turn when she entered, though his voice came anyway, calm and slightly rough with fatigue, as if he had been awake long enough for silence to settle into him.
“You are either louder than you seem, or I am not as good at focusing as I once was.”
Anne stepped further into the room, closing the door softly behind her before replying, her voice steady despite the hour and the unexpectedness of finding him there. “I am usually told I do not make much noise when I move.”
“I shall bear that in mind.” Dorian chuckled.
“So that you can stare at me more?” she joked.
He tutted playfully. “Not you too.”
She laughed softly, moving closer to him.
The firelight shifted as she approached, revealing the object in his hand. It was a sketch, carefully drawn, the lines precise in a way that suggested familiarity rather than formality. She took a seat nearby, careful not to intrude on his space, when he set down the sketch beside him.
“I did not mean to intrude,” she said quickly. “Do not stop on my account.”
“I did not, and you are not intruding. You cannot do so in your own home, after all.”
Anne nodded once.