Chapter 14
Anne told herself she did not care that the lady who had seduced her husband was in her house. But she was telling herself a lie.
Lady Vivian’s presence at Ashford Hall was no longer occasional, as a few guests were staying with them for the week of the race.
She arrived for dinners as if she did not need an invitation, always perfectly dressed, always perfectly composed, and always speaking as though she belonged exactly where she stood.
And she always spoke to Dorian and not to Anne.
Anne noticed the pattern forming, whether she wanted to or not.
“I heard the northern investors are arriving early,” Lady Vivian had said lightly the night before, swirling the wine in her glass. “They do enjoy watching you under pressure, Your Grace.”
Dorian had glanced at her, his expression unreadable but not unfriendly. “Then I suppose I will have to disappoint them.”
Lady Vivian had given him a slow, knowing smile. “You rarely disappoint people. At least, you have never disappointed me.”
Across the table, Anne had kept her attention on her plate, entirely calm. But she could feel Lady Vivian’s gaze linger on Dorian just a fraction too long, as though she were not speaking about investors at all.
Dorian had not corrected her. He had simply taken a sip of his drink and moved the conversation forward.
It should not have mattered, but it did.
Anne found herself walking back alone from the stables the day after. Tempest had finally settled after a difficult training session that had required more patience than usual.
He had been restless all afternoon, forcing her to remain longer than intended, and by the time she left the paddock, the sky had already begun to turn gray.
She adjusted her gloves as she walked, her thoughts still on Tempest’s stride, the minor correction needed in his left lead, the way he had responded better when she spoke quietly rather than issuing commands.
She thought of practical things, safe things.
She turned the corner to the west corridor without thinking, when voices carried from just ahead. She slowed down instinctively, before stopping. She did not intend to listen. She told herself she should turn around immediately.
Then she heard talk about her. It was indirect, but there was no denying that she was the subject.
“Blackwood’s marriage still surprises me, I must admit. One would think a man like him would choose someone less complicated,” a male voice said, sounding amused.
“He rarely chooses the easier course.”
There was the clink of a glass being set down, but Anne did not move. Then Lady Vivian’s voice followed, unmistakable even before she fully processed the words.
“You are all speaking as though marriage has changed him,” she said lightly.
“Has it not? He was always difficult, but lately there has been talk of responsibility and stability. All good things,” another male voice argued.
So there are two men with her.
“Dorian Blackwood, responsible?” Lady Vivian scoffed. “How very optimistic of you.”
The first man chuckled. “Well, you do know him better than most, Lady Vivian.”
“I know him well enough,” she replied.
Anne felt something tighten in her chest. She willed herself to walk away, but she could not move.
“He always goes through phases,” Lady Vivian continued. “He is deeply devoted, but only as long as the subject captures his attention.”
A brief pause followed. Anne could picture her smiling.
“This,” Lady Vivian added, “is simply the current one.”
“And what do you think of the Duchess?”
“The Duchess,” she said thoughtfully, “is quite fortunate in many ways.”
“Fortunate?”
Lady Vivian’s reply came easily. “She has arrived at exactly the right time in his life to be taken seriously. That is not insignificant, but Dorian has never been a man who remains in one place for long.”
Anne’s hands balled into fists at her sides.
“Is that to say that you believe this marriage is temporary?” the second man asked.
“I believe,” Lady Vivian said in a conversational tone, “that men like Dorian Blackwood are rarely changed by a lady. They are entertained briefly, then they revert to their true selves.”
“And what becomes of the wife?”
“The wife adapts,” she replied. “Or she does the more intelligent thing and finds herself a lovely little home by the sea and lives alone on an allowance. They have a choice in the matter, in that sense.”
Anne remained very still, listening to the ease with which the words were said, the lack of cruelty required for them to hit their target.
“I have known Dorian long enough to understand what people often misunderstand about him,” Lady Vivian added. “He does not belong easily to anyone, and when he is drawn to something, it is rarely permanent.”
The first man gave a soft laugh. “You speak as though you were once very close to being one of those things.”
Lady Vivian did not answer immediately. But when she did, her voice carried the faintest hint of amusement. “People like Dorian are not difficult to get close to,” she said. “They are difficult to keep close.”
A pause followed, lighter now, the conversation drifting to the men’s wives.
Anne stepped back slowly from the corridor, feeling as though she had been intruding on their home rather than the other way around. Her gloves felt tighter than they should have. She adjusted them, then she turned and walked away, as though she had simply chosen a different route.
That evening, everything changed without warning.
Tempest collapsed during training. One moment, he had been moving through his exercises as expected, his stride strong and responsive under the supervision of the stablehands; the next, he faltered sharply, stumbling as though the ground itself had shifted beneath him.
The change was so sudden that for a brief second, no one reacted at all, as if the sight had not yet registered properly.
Then the stables erupted into chaos. Voices rose immediately, overlapping in confusion and alarm.
One of the trainers shouted for assistance while another rushed forward to steady the horse, only to be nearly struck as Tempest lashed out in panic.
His breathing had already become ragged, his eyes wide with distress as he fought against something unseen that no soothing voice or familiar touch seemed able to reach.
Anne was moving before she fully processed what she was seeing.
She pushed through the line of startled stablehands without hesitation, ignoring the calls behind her, her focus narrowing on Tempest. The moment she reached him, she placed her hands firmly against his neck, speaking his name in a low, steady voice that cut through the surrounding panic.
“Tempest,” she said sharply, then again, softer, more controlled. “Look at me.”
The horse trembled beneath her touch, uncharacteristically unresponsive at first, but she did not move away. She adjusted her stance, keeping herself close enough that he could feel her presence, her hands steady despite the chaos around them.
“Easy,” she murmured. “Easy. I am here.”
One of the trainers spoke urgently behind her. “Something is wrong with him, Your Grace. Something is very wrong.”
Anne did not look away from Tempest. Her hand moved carefully along his neck, her attention shifting as she began to register what others had missed in their panic. The signs were subtle but unmistakable to someone who knew him.
Her gaze dropped immediately to the nearby feed trough, then to the bucket that had been left partially full beside it. Something about the arrangement felt wrong, too careless for a stable that took great pride in its appearance.
She stepped forward without announcing her intention and examined it quickly, her fingers brushing the rim of the bucket before she smelled it.
“This was not an accident,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise.
The nearest trainer turned toward her. “What do you mean?”
Anne lifted her hand slightly, showing the residue on her glove. “This feed has been tampered with.”
The words silenced the immediate panic for a second, then disbelief followed almost instantly.
“That is impossible,” someone said quickly. “Everything is monitored.”
“Then your monitoring has failed. I know what he eats, and I know how it smells.”
The horse shifted again beside her, his movements less frantic but still unstable. She returned her attention to him immediately, continuing to steady him, her voice never rising despite the tension building around them.
It was only moments later that Dorian arrived. He had crossed the yard at speed, having clearly been summoned mid-arrival from elsewhere on the estate. The moment his gaze landed on the scene, the controlled detachment he usually displayed in public vanished entirely.
His attention went straight to Tempest, then to Anne, then to the feed. He did not ask what had happened. He simply understood.
One of the trainers began speaking quickly, trying to explain, but Dorian lifted a hand sharply to silence him.
“How long has he been like this?” His voice was controlled in a way that felt more dangerous than anger.
“No more than a few minutes,” someone replied quickly. “It happened during training. He just collapsed.”
“It was the feed,” Anne interjected, her voice quieter.
Dorian’s gaze shifted toward her. For a brief moment, something unspoken passed between them, and suddenly the last several days did not matter. If Tempest could not race, the entire structure they had built around the stable’s recovery would collapse with him.
Dorian looked back down at the bucket, his expression hardening further as the implications sank in. Someone had tried to sabotage them, and they had attacked a defenceless animal to do it.
Anne did not move away from Tempest, and neither did Dorian. For the first time that evening, neither of them was thinking about anything except the very real possibility that someone within their walls had decided to destroy them.