Chapter 13
Dorian noticed the change in Anne before he fully understood what had caused it.
At first, he had assumed it was simply because the ball had been intense and her first time hosting was bound to be exhausting. He told himself that she would return to normal within a day or two, that she would be back to her usual self, tearing him apart in a way that only she could.
She did not. Instead, the distance remained, and it grew more deliberate with each passing day.
At breakfast, she no longer met his eyes for longer than necessary.
Conversation, when it occurred at all, was limited to polite exchanges about the household, the horses’ training, or the day’s obligations.
When he attempted humor, she responded with calm acknowledgment rather than the quick corrections or faintly amused remarks he had become accustomed to.
It was as though he was suddenly married to another woman, and he found it irritating in a way he could not easily justify.
He told himself it should have been a relief.
If she no longer wanted familiarity, then he was under no obligation to maintain it.
Their marriage had been arranged for practicality, not companionship.
He had repeated that to himself often enough that it should have settled into certainty, and yet it had not.
What unsettled him most was not the absence of affection, but the absence of reaction.
Anne no longer corrected him when he spoke too freely.
She no longer challenged him when he pushed too far.
She gave him nothing at all, and whether that was what he had originally wanted in a wife or not, it did not make it easier to witness.
Three days before the upcoming race, he stood at the edge of the training grounds watching the stablehands move through their morning routine.
Diamond moved well under guidance, his stride stronger than it had been weeks ago.
The improvements were obvious enough that even the most skeptical of the trainers had begun to acknowledge Anne’s influence on the horse’s recovery.
Dorian should have been pleased with the progress.
Instead, he found himself watching Anne more than the horse.
He also could no longer ignore the fact that Diamond only responded to his other name, so he reluctantly accepted that Tempest would have to remain stormy and brooding in both nature and name.
The guardedness in Anne’s expression eased around Tempest in ways it no longer did around him. Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled around the horse in a way she no longer did around him.
Unexpectedly, Dorian found himself envying the horse.
Anne stood a short distance from the paddock when he arrived, speaking quietly with one of the stablehands as they discussed adjustments to the tack.
Her attention was focused entirely on the task at hand.
When she finished speaking, she gave a brief nod and turned away without looking at him, as though his presence was incidental rather than acknowledged.
“Your Grace.”
Dorian exhaled slowly and turned his head. Mr. Pembroke stood a few paces away, calm in the way that suggested he had been observing them for some time before choosing to speak.
“You have been standing here for quite a while,” Pembroke noted.
“I am overseeing preparations,” Dorian replied.
“Yes,” Pembroke said mildly. “You seem to be doing that very intensely.”
Dorian glanced back toward the field. “A race is approaching. It is to be expected that I remain here to ensure all is well.”
“Races take place frequently,” Pembroke pointed out.
Dorian did not respond.
Pembroke followed his gaze, pausing briefly before speaking again. “The Duchess has been quite occupied with the stables these past days.”
“That is not unusual,” Dorian said. “She loves that horse.”
“It is the manner in which she is occupied that seems to have changed.”
“I have not noticed anything particularly different.”
Pembroke inclined his head, as though accepting the statement without necessarily agreeing with it. “Of course,” he said.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable for Dorian.
He looked back toward the paddock, where Anne was now moving along the fence line, checking Tempest’s tack while speaking briefly to another trainer.
Her voice carried just far enough for him to catch her tone, stripped of anything personal in the strangest way.
He found himself listening for something that was no longer there.
Eventually, Pembroke spoke again.
“The investors arrive tomorrow,” he informed him.
“Yes.”
“And the neighbors will be present by evening.”
“Yes.”
“The success of the race will determine whether confidence in the stables is restored.”
“I am aware.”
Pembroke did not comment further. He did not have to. Dorian was more than aware of how high the stakes were. This was their only chance to prove themselves, and if they failed, he was ruined.
“There will be a great deal of attention,” Pembroke said. “It may be worth ensuring that nothing within the household is unstable at the same time.”
Dorian glanced at him.
Pembroke’s expression remained neutral, but Dorian knew what he meant. He had taken a wife to appear more stable. He could not allow his marriage to be the reason why he was no longer perceived that way.
After a moment, he exhaled slowly and turned back toward the field.
Anne had moved further along the fence line, Tempest beside her as she guided him. The horse responded immediately to her presence, calm and steady in a way that no one else had managed to achieve.
Dorian watched her for a long moment. If she truly wanted nothing more from him than this distance she had created, then perhaps he should feel relieved.
That would have been the sensible reaction, the correct one. Instead, he found himself more aware than ever of how much space now existed where there had not been any before.
Anne threw herself completely into preparing Tempest for the upcoming race. There was a precision to her work that left little room for interruption, and even less for conversation that was not strictly necessary.
She arrived at the stables earlier each morning and remained there until late afternoon, moving between trainer discussions, tack adjustments, and exercise routines with a level of focus that made it clear she had redirected all of her attention away from everything else.
Dorian tried not to mind that. If anything, he was pleased that somebody cared as much as he did for the success of their horse.
Tempest responded to her presence immediately, as he always did.
Under her guidance, the horse moved with increasing confidence, his earlier volatility replaced by a steady obedience that even Dorian’s most experienced trainers had failed to achieve alone.
There was no question that her influence had been the decisive factor in his recovery.
Dorian noticed all of it. He noticed the way she no longer looked toward him when she entered the stables, as though her awareness of the space now began and ended with the horse she had come to see.
He noticed how her answers had become brief and entirely focused on practical matters. He noticed how she no longer lingered after conversations the way she once had, nor allowed silence to stretch into anything personal or unstructured.
Most of all, he noticed that she had stopped letting herself be drawn to him.
He tried briefly to reintroduce the ease that had once existed between them, offering remarks that might have elicited a sharper response or a faintly amused correction, but she simply responded politely.
And that, more than anything, made it clear that something had shifted in a way he could not casually reverse.
He found himself watching her more than he intended to, especially in the quieter moments when she was occupied with Tempest or speaking to the stablehands.
He began to recognize how deliberately she avoided meeting his gaze, how carefully she kept her distance as though it required effort to maintain.
And in time, he began to interpret it in a way that felt almost reasonable, because it was clear that she regretted it.
Whatever had begun forming between them in recent weeks, however unspoken or undefined, she had seemingly decided it had gone too far.
Perhaps she saw it as a mistake, something that had blurred the boundaries of what their marriage was meant to be, or perhaps she had realized what he had been reminding himself of all along—that their arrangement was practical, not personal.
The thought should have reassured him. Instead, it upset him. Because if that was true, then her withdrawal made perfect sense, and if it made sense, then there was nothing to challenge.
And so Dorian did what he had always done when faced with something he could not afford to misjudge: he kept his distance, ensuring that whatever ease had once existed between them was no longer something he allowed himself to reach for again.
At breakfast, he kept conversation light and neutral.
In the stables, he spoke only when necessary, focusing on training progress rather than anything personal.
In the house, he stopped lingering in rooms where she was present for longer than required, and when their paths crossed, he maintained the same restraint she had adopted first.
If Anne had chosen distance, then he would respect it.
That was simple enough, practical even. What he did not allow himself to examine too closely was the way the house felt increasingly divided by something neither of them had named aloud.
Or the fact that, despite his decision to step back, he still noticed everything she did, and against his better judgment, he still found himself watching.
He did not intend to leave the house that evening.
He told himself there was work still to be done in the study—correspondence to review and a dozen small matters related to the approaching race that required his attention more than anything else.
And yet, by late afternoon, he found himself outside, walking without clear direction along the quieter paths that led away from the formal gardens and toward the stables.
It was not a conscious decision, at least not one he was willing to acknowledge as such. He barely registered anything happening around him, even though everyone was working harder than usual.
He stopped only when he heard footsteps behind him.
“You have been avoiding your own house, I see.”
He did not turn immediately. He recognized the voice well enough to know that there was no point arguing.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“There is very little that I do not know,” Tristan replied. “But if you must know, it is evident, given that you are currently walking in the opposite direction of every responsibility you have.”
Dorian resumed walking without waiting for him. “If you are here to offer commentary on my movements, I am not in the mood.”
Tristan fell into step beside him, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. “I am always in the mood to offer commentary on your movements. It is one of my more consistent habits.”
Dorian exhaled slowly. “How fortunate for me.”
“It is,” Tristan agreed. “Most people have far duller interests, such as gossip. You need not worry about me in that regard, although I do not know in this moment if that is still your preference.”
Dorian did not respond.
They walked in silence for a moment, the gravel path crunching lightly beneath their shoes. The stable roofs were visible in the distance, though Dorian made no move toward them.
Tristan glanced sideways at him. “Denial,” he said after a moment. “Is that what this is?”
Dorian stopped walking. Tristan stopped as well, undeterred.
“Say what you came here to say.”
Tristan’s expression shifted slightly, losing some of its usual humor. “I heard your wife has been living in the stables.”
“She has been working with Tempest. A most important race is coming up, and we cannot afford for it to go awry.”
Tristan sighed lightly. “Dorian, you are very good at pretending you do not understand things you absolutely understand.”
“I understand perfectly well,” Dorian said. “She is dedicated to the horse. It is not unusual, given his condition and her involvement in his recovery.”
Tristan watched him for a moment longer than necessary, studying him, then he shook his head slightly. “No,” he insisted. “That is not what this is.”
“And what exactly is it, then?”
Tristan gave a short, almost incredulous laugh. “You genuinely do not see it?”
“I see everything that is relevant.”
“That is your problem,” he scoffed. “You only see what you deem of immediate importance and forget everything else.”
Dorian looked away and resumed walking. “If you are finished speaking in riddles—”
“She is pulling away from you,” Tristan cut in.
Dorian froze, and he did not respond immediately.
Tristan followed him again, unbothered by his silence.
“And instead of asking yourself why,” he continued, “you have decided the most logical explanation is that she simply prefers distance now.”
“That is certainly one way of looking at things.”
“It is also a cowardly thing to do,” Tristan replied without hesitation. “You can stand there convincing yourself that this is about practicality, that she has suddenly remembered she married you for logistics and nothing else, but you cannot fool me.”
“That is what it was.”
Tristan let out a quiet breath, almost amused. “You are a fool.”
Dorian’s gaze darkened. “Be careful.”
“No,” Tristan said, shaking his head once. “You need to be careful, because what you are doing is watching your wife retreat from you and deciding it is noble to do the same, as if your dignity matters more than understanding what is actually happening in front of you.”
Dorian did not answer.
Tristan stepped back slightly, his tone softening again, though it was less teasing than before. “You can keep pretending this is simple if you want, but do not mistake avoidance for clarity.”
Dorian looked away toward the stables in the distance, where movement could just be seen between the buildings. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before.
“What would you have me do instead?”
Tristan gave a faint, knowing smile. “For once, stop acting like a man who is afraid of wanting something he already has.”