Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“Releasing the horses was a very bad idea,” Athena said as soon as she heard.
Cassandra, seated at the small writing desk by the window, did not look up.
“I know.”
“You could have been discovered.”
“I know that as well.”
“That does not make it any less reckless.”
Cassandra’s fingers tightened around the edge of the desk before she finally turned.
“I did not mean for it to become… that,” she said quietly. “I only wanted to ride. For a moment. I wanted to feel as though I were choosing something for myself.”
Athena studied her. “And did you?”
Cassandra’s laugh was soft and humorless. “No. It seems even freedom does not wait for me.”
“Oh, dear… I do understand you, but please don’t put yourself in danger.”
Cassandra turned then.
“And what would you have me do?” she asked quietly. “Spend the rest of my life with a cold husband who regards me as an inconvenience?”
Athena hesitated. “Cold is not the word I would choose.”
Cassandra let out a short, humorless laugh. Her friend seemed hesitant to say it, which did not surprise her at all given that it was so blatantly incorrect.
“You have known him for less than a day.”
“And in that time, I have observed him,” Anthea replied evenly. “And this morning at breakfast, he did not appear cold at all.”
Cassandra frowned.
“Toward whom?”
“Toward all of us, but especially about you.”
“That is impossible. He hardly has a good thing to say about me.”
Anthea smiled faintly.
“Then you must not have been paying attention.”
Cassandra looked away, unsettled despite herself.
“He watches you,” Anthea continued. “Not as one watches a problem.”
“He watches me as one watches a fire. To ensure it does not spread.”
“Perhaps,” Anthea said. “But fires may also be admired.”
Cassandra did not answer. She did not wish to consider that possibility, as it complicated everything.
They were not alone for long. Cassandra sensed him before she saw him, the way one sensed a change in the weather. Anthea noticed as well, her posture shifting, her expression smoothing into polite neutrality.
“Lady Cassandra,” His Grace said as he entered.
Cassandra turned. He stood a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. If he was angry, he concealed it well. If he was amused, she could not yet tell. Anthea curtseyed.
“Your Grace. I believe I shall leave you to speak.”
Cassandra shot her a look, half warning, half plea. Anthea only smiled apologetically.
“I should see whether anyone requires me.”
And then she was gone. The silence that followed felt heavier for her absence. The Duke regarded Cassandra for a moment longer than was comfortable.
“So… what happened?”
Cassandra hesitated. The bold certainty that had carried her to the paddock had long since faded, leaving behind a sharp awareness of consequence. She folded her hands together.
“I wanted to ride,” she said at last, meeting his gaze. “Only for a moment.”
A faint pause.
He raised a brow.
“And that resulted in every horse on the estate being released?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds dreadful.”
“I imagine that is because it was.”
She braced herself for reprimand. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Tell me,” he said dryly, “was this part of a larger plan, or an experiment that escaped you?”
“I did not intend for it to become a spectacle, if that is what you are suggesting.”
“And yet it did.”
“Yes. It did.”
Another pause. Then, to her surprise, he laughed quietly. Not unkindly, not loudly, but unmistakably amused.
“That does explain a great deal,” he said.
“You are not angry.”
“I am,” he replied calmly. “But anger is not particularly useful in this situation. In fact, it hardly ever is.”
He turned and gestured down the path.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“To see the consequences of your curiosity.”
She hesitated before following him.
“Am I to be lectured?”
“Almost certainly.”
“And punished?”
“Unlikely,” he said. “I would only find that tedious.”
As they walked side by side, Cassandra became acutely aware of the strange shift between them. He was no longer confronting her, nor was he retreating. Something had changed, and it was subtle but undeniable.
She did not know whether that unsettled her more than plain anger would have.
Voices carried across the lawns, urgent but controlled, servants spreading out in disciplined lines, calling softly, scanning tree lines. Grooms moved with practiced efficiency, reins looped over their arms, expressions tight with concern.
Cassandra slowed her steps. She had not considered this part, not truly.
“They will be found,” His Grace said beside her, reading her hesitation with unnerving ease. “Most of them have not gone far.”
“And if they have?” Cassandra asked quietly.
“Then we will find them as well.”
They walked on. It was near the lower meadow that she saw it first: a dark shape near the treeline, head lowered, utterly unconcerned by the commotion it had caused.
“There,” she said.
The Duke followed her gaze. He moved with measured confidence, raising a hand to still her instinctive step forward.
“Slowly,” he said. “Do not approach him directly. If we frighten him, he will run.”
“Frankly, I am not certain I should approach at all.”
“What do you mean? You released them without fear.”
“That was from a distance,” she replied. “And through a gate.”
The horse lifted its head. His Grace regarded it for a moment.
“Since you seemed so eager for early riding lessons, this appears to be your opportunity.”
Her heart stuttered.
“I did not say I wished to ride.”
“Yes, you did.”
He stepped closer to her, and she realized that she, indeed, had said exactly that. It had been a weak excuse at best, and he had to have known that it was untrue, and now he was getting his revenge.
Which, she reasoned, was quite deserved.
“Do you trust me?” he asked, and the question unsettled her more than the horse ever could.
“I do not know,” she admitted.
“Then it may well be all right, though I cannot quite guarantee it.”
She hesitated, then nodded once. There was no use arguing. They approached the horse together, and he spoke softly to it. Cassandra mirrored him as best she could, but her pulse was loud in her ears, every muscle tense.
When the horse took a step toward them, she nearly retreated.
“It senses tension,” he murmured. “Breathe.”
She forced herself to inhale, then exhale, slow and deliberate. The horse lowered its head again, accepting their presence.
“Well done,” His Grace said.
He showed her how to hold her hand, how to let the horse smell her glove. When its warm breath brushed her skin, she startled despite herself. He smiled faintly at that.
“Would you look at that? You are still alive.”
“By some miracle, yes.”
They prepared the horse together. When he helped her mount, his hands steady at her waist, she became acutely aware of the closeness, the care with which he handled her fear without comment or condescension.
“You may dismount if you wish,” he said quietly. “I will not blame you if you choose to return on foot.”
She considered it for a moment, then shook her head.
“No. If I dismount now, I will never do this again.”
“Very well.”
They rode slowly at first, side by side. Cassandra gripped the reins too tightly, but gradually it became easier.
“This is pleasant,” she admitted reluctantly.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
They rode on, not speaking for a time. Cassandra became aware of how different he was here. He was not the Duke presiding over guests or issuing quiet commands, but a man entirely at ease, patient, attentive, almost gentle.
When Sherton Manor came back into view, Cassandra felt an unexpected pang of disappointment. She dismounted with his help, steadier now, though her legs still trembled.
“Thank you,” she said, before she could stop herself.
“You did well.”
As they walked back toward the house, side by side, Cassandra realized something that unsettled her more than any scandal or scheme. For the first time since this engagement had been forced upon her, she had forgotten, briefly, to resist.
And she did not know what that meant.
They had nearly reached the doors when His Grace stopped. Cassandra halted beside him, confused, the fading warmth of the ride still lingering.
“There is something you must understand,” he said.
She braced herself.
“I should not have done what I did to you. I should have defended you, I know that. Since we are to be husband and wife, you are to come to me with whatever you need, no matter how trivial.”
The words caught her off guard.
“I do not require–”
He raised a hand, stopping her gently.
“That was not a request.”
She studied his face, searching for mockery, but she found none.
“You will not be alone in this house,” he went on. “Not anymore.”
Her throat tightened.
“And if what I need is freedom?”
“Then you will tell me,” he replied. “And we will address it.”
We.
The word echoed, unwelcome and strangely grounding all at once.
“You are also not to interfere with my horses again, of course.”
“No,” she agreed softly.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone.
Cassandra remained where she was for several long seconds, heart racing, breath unsteady.
She had meant to provoke him. Instead, she felt claimed in a way that had nothing to do with ownership.
She did not know whether that frightened her more than his anger would have.
They played archery that afternoon, and Cassandra decided almost immediately that it was a deeply offensive sport.
The targets had been set along the edge of the lower field, bright against the greenery. Bows rested on stands nearby, arrows arranged with military precision. Several guests lingered at a polite distance, content to watch rather than participate.
Cassandra lingered with them.
“I have never done this,” she said flatly to her friend.
Anthea’s eyes lit with unmistakable opportunity.
“Then this is the perfect time.”
“It is not!”