Chapter 19
Dorian did not know quite what effect his wife was having on him, but he knew it was dangerous.
Several days after their walk, when he explained that Lady Vivian did not pose any real threat to their marriage, he found Anne in the breakfast room earlier than usual, sitting surrounded by ledgers she had almost certainly taken far too seriously for that hour of the morning.
“You look alarmingly occupied,” he remarked as he entered.
Anne glanced up briefly. “Some people work before noon. I happen to be one of them.”
“How disappointing.”
“You are leaving for town today. Someone must remain responsible while you are off gallivanting with your friend.”
Dorian poured coffee slowly, though not before noticing the way she had already reorganized three papers he distinctly remembered leaving elsewhere the previous evening.
He was to visit town with Tristan for a few days, and though he usually enjoyed spending some time away, this time he found that he would have preferred to stay home. And for the first time, it had nothing to do with the work that would need to be done.
“I am beginning to suspect you enjoy managing my estate.”
“Our estate,” Anne corrected absently.
The words slipped out so naturally that she did not seem to realize she had said them. Something warm settled in his chest before he dismissed it quickly.
“Our estate?” he repeated.
Anne looked up, slightly distracted. “You know what I meant.”
“I do.”
Unfortunately.
He sat opposite her. “You realize,” he said after a moment, “I will only be gone for two days.”
“Three, if Tristan distracts you.”
“That is unfair.”
“Would you call it inaccurate?”
Dorian smiled despite himself. The ease lingered for a moment, then he leaned back slightly. “You shall miss me terribly.”
Anne did not even look up. “On the contrary, the house may briefly recover its peace.”
“Is that to say you will be untroubled by my absence?”
Anne finally looked up. “You are leaving for business,” she said more quietly. “Not war.”
Not this time, he thought, but he did not say it. It would only have ruined the moment.
“You could at least pretend you are disappointed.”
“You could stop behaving as though you expect fanfare.”
“I do expect fanfare.”
Anne considered him for a moment before rising from her chair. “To ensure safe travel?” she asked.
“Obviously.”
She stepped closer than necessary, smoothing an imaginary crease from his coat. “There,” she uttered. “Entirely ceremonial concern.”
Dorian looked down at her hand against his sleeve. Once again, there was an intimacy to it that he had not once expected to feel, and it was not as easy to brush away as he had thought.
When he left later that morning, the last thing he noticed before climbing into the carriage was Anne standing at the front steps, watching after him longer than she likely intended.
By late afternoon, the business part of the trip had shifted just as Anne had expected. It became more social than productive.
Dorian found that the gentlemen’s club was the very last place he wanted to be. Instead, he wanted to be at home, and that was a feeling he did not want to have.
He had insisted that the visit remained useful. Tristan, naturally, had stopped believing that almost immediately.
“You have looked distracted since we arrived,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair.
Dorian barely glanced up from the glass in front of him. “I am listening.”
“You nodded at a man discussing grain tariffs,” Tristan pointed out. “You know nothing about grain tariffs.”
Dorian took a sip of his drink. “That has never stopped anyone else.”
Tristan laughed softly, studying him with growing amusement. “You are miserable.”
“I am perfectly content.” Dorian gave him a look that entirely failed to discourage him.
Across the room, several patrons were deep in conversation, the evening still loosely orbiting stable business and post-race speculation, though Dorian’s attention had drifted in and out of the conversations often.
Tristan noticed. Of course, he did.
“You have changed,” he said eventually.
Dorian sighed quietly. “Must we do this?”
“Oh, we absolutely must.”
“There are other ways for you to enjoy yourself.”
“Indeed, but they are not nearly as entertaining.”
Dorian set his glass down. “Very well, say whatever dreadful thing you are preparing to say.”
Tristan smiled, pleased by the invitation. “Ashford,” he said, shaking his head faintly, “has become unbearably respectable.”
“I am unclear how you intend that as an insult.”
“You have schedules now,” Tristan explained. “You discuss feed rotations.”
“I own a racing stable.”
“You care about feed rotations.”
“That is reasonable.”
“You voluntarily attend dinner,” Tristan continued. “Without drinking enough to tolerate it.”
Dorian exhaled through his nose.
“And,” Tristan added, clearly enjoying himself, “you acquired a duchess capable of forcing grown men to obey her.”
That finally elicited a reaction.
Dorian’s mouth twitched. “She does have an unfortunate talent for that.”
“Unfortunate?” Tristan scoffed. “I watched a trainer apologize to her last week for disagreeing about horse recovery as though he had committed a moral failure.”
“He was wrong.”
Tristan paused, then slowly lowered his glass. “Oh, this is much worse than I thought.”
“What is?”
“You defended her without hesitation.”
“She was right.”
“You said it immediately.”
Dorian looked briefly around the room, regretting the direction of the conversation already.
Tristan leaned forward slightly. “You are proud of her.”
“That is hardly scandalous.”
“No,” Tristan agreed, far too pleased. “The scandalous part is that you look as though you wish to be beside her even now, rather than enjoying your time with me.”
Dorian reached for his drink again. “You invent narratives when bored.”
“You smile differently when someone mentions her. You also stopped flirting.”
“That is hardly true.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Name the last woman you flirted with.”
Dorian opened his mouth, paused, then frowned. Tristan grinned at that, and Dorian knew he was going to crucify him for it.
“Oh my God.”
“Do not start.”
“You cannot even remember.”
“I have been busy.”
“Yes, with your wife.”
Dorian gave him a flat look.
“You do hear yourself, yes?” Tristan continued. “You disappeared into marriage and returned discussing household management.”
“I discuss stable management.”
“You discuss her, too.”
“Anne happens to be involved in the stables, and I—I regret speaking.”
Tristan burst into laughter. “You used to refer to every woman in your life with strategic distance. ‘Her Grace,’ ‘Lady Whoever,’ vague gestures toward emotional avoidance. Now, it is simply Anne.”
Dorian fell quiet.
That alone seemed to amuse Tristan further. Then, after a moment, his expression softened just slightly beneath the teasing.
“You care for her,” he said.
The words landed with more weight than the rest of the conversation.
Dorian leaned back in his chair, quieter than before. “It is not that simple.”
Tristan’s smile faded into something more knowing. “No,” he murmured. “I imagine it stopped being simple quite some time ago.”
Dorian exhaled quietly and took a sip of his drink, as though patience alone might carry him through the conversation. “You are becoming tiresome.”
“You defend her constantly.”
“That is because she is often correct.”
“You look offended when anyone questions her. It is fascinating. You, of all people, are behaving like a husband.”
“I am a husband.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“Our marriage remains practical.”
Tristan gave him a long look.
Dorian knew exactly what that look meant, and he did not know how to proceed. He did not want to talk about his wife, even if she was all he could truly think about. He had to admit that it was partly because he did not like having other people commenting on their marriage.
“You say that,” Tristan said, “yet somehow every practical conversation turns into you discussing Anne.”
“I discuss the estate.”
“You discuss how she improved the estate.”
“She has. You are reading far too much into ordinary circumstances.”
Tristan let out a laugh. “Ordinary circumstances?” He leaned forward slightly. “You once spent three months incapable of remembering the name of a woman you were supposedly enchanted by.”
Dorian looked away, the noise of the club swelling around them. Racing patrons gathered near the fire, landowners exchanged stories they had certainly told before, and somewhere behind them, a card game had grown loud enough to suggest someone was losing badly.
Tristan followed his gaze briefly before looking back at him.
“Oh, this is dreadful,” he said quietly.
Dorian glanced at him. “What is?”
“You miss her.”
“I do not,” Dorian replied immediately.
“You are thinking about home.”
“I am thinking about the meetings we have.”
“You hate meetings,” Tristan snorted, his expression brightened by his unbearable satisfaction. “You are thinking about her.”
Before Dorian could answer, movement near their table interrupted him.
A woman approached with the easy confidence of someone entirely accustomed to being welcomed wherever she pleased. She was attractive, elegantly dressed, and carried the sort of practiced charm that once would have held Dorian’s attention without effort.
“Your Grace,” she greeted warmly, pausing beside their table. “I had begun wondering whether Yorkshire had hidden you away permanently.”
Dorian stood automatically, polite out of instinct rather than enthusiasm.
“Mrs. Ashcombe,” he said. “Good evening.”
Her smile widened slightly. “You remember me.”
“Of course. I remember all of you.” He smiled back, but the smile carried none of its former ease.
Mrs. Ashcombe settled into the empty chair beside them after encouragement from absolutely no one.
“You vanished after your marriage,” she remarked. “Half the county assumed domestic life had finally succeeded where scandal failed.”
Tristan nearly choked on his drink. Dorian remained composed.
“Marriage tends to alter schedules.”