Chapter 4
Anne did not sleep that night, though she lay perfectly still for hours as though stillness might eventually become rest.
The house around her fell into its familiar silence, the kind it had settled into since her father’s death. At first, she had hoped that it was only for the mourning period, but it had quickly become apparent that it was how life there was going to be.
Outside, the wind moved steadily through the trees, brushing against the windows in slow, patient passes that only made the hours feel longer.
She remained in her room long after the last candle had burned low, staring into the faint glow of the hearth as if the answer to everything troubling her might emerge from it if she waited long enough.
The Duke would not leave her thoughts.
It was not simply what he had said—though that alone was enough to unsettle her—but the certainty with which he had said it, as though the idea of marriage between them was logical rather than entirely absurd.
Anne had expected arrogance, perhaps even amusement at her expense, not a proposal delivered with such calm practicality that it had left her more disturbed than any of his teasing ever could.
She found herself returning, against her will, to the way he had looked at her while speaking. Not as though she were being pursued or entertained, but as though she were being understood in a way she had not been prepared for.
That possibility was far more dangerous than his reputation suggested he was.
She rose at some point in the early hours and crossed the room without fully deciding to, drawing the curtains back slightly so she could see the grounds beyond the glass.
Somewhere beyond them lay Ashford Hall, and with it the life she had tried very hard not to think about too closely since the previous afternoon.
The problem, she realized with quiet frustration, was that every version of refusal she constructed in her mind collided with something she could not easily dismiss.
Her mother’s remarriage would not be a mere inconvenience. It would change everything about her place in the house, until she no longer belonged to it in any meaningful sense and was forced to leave.
The polite finality in Holloway’s voice when he spoke of arrangements and the future made that clear. Without Rosemere, she would have no true independence left, and she would be left to fend for herself, which only ended badly in all of the tales she had heard.
Even that thought was not the most difficult to bear, because she still had to think of Tempest.
The horse had not simply calmed down in her presence the day before; he had returned to her as though some part of him had been waiting for it.
She had seen fear in him, yes, but also recognition, and that recognition had not faded even when she had stepped away.
To lose him again after losing so much already felt like a second grief that she did not trust herself to survive.
Refusal remained the only answer that made sense under ideal circumstances, yet nothing about her circumstances was ideal.
When she finally dressed and ordered for her horse to be prepared, she did so with the hope that she might find some clarity between that moment and the moment she arrived at her destination.
If she went to Ashford Hall, it would be to end the matter cleanly before it grew any more complicated than it already was.
The ride took longer than it should have, or perhaps it only felt that way because she could not stop thinking about what waited at the end of it.
Mist clung low across the fields, blurring hedgerows and turning the landscape into something half-formed.
When Ashford Hall finally came into view, it rose from the land with an imposing stillness, all stone darkness.
It was the kind of estate that made everything approaching it feel smaller. Anne certainly did.
She slowed down only when she reached the outer yard, dismounting before she could reconsider her decision. She had intended to ask for the Duke directly, yet she found herself pausing as raised voices carried from the direction of the stables. When she turned, she saw him there.
He was standing inside the paddock with the kind of focus that suggested he was attempting patience with a horse that had no interest in granting it, which she found amusing despite how dangerous the situation was becoming.
Tempest was not lashing out this time, but he was not listening either. He was simply pacing back and forth without so much as a glance in the Duke’s direction.
“I am beginning to think,” the Duke said, too calmly, “that you are not opposed to training so much as you are opposed to me personally, which I find unnecessarily personal.”
Tristan snorted and snapped his head toward him.
“That is fair, but also not constructive.”
Anne laughed softly despite herself, the sound slipping out before she could stop it.
His attention instantly shifted toward her. She tried to bite back her smile, but it was too late. She had not been mocking him. She found his manner endearing, in truth, and she had not expected to see a side of him that was so quiet and yet playful.
“Are you laughing at my plight?” he asked.
“I am observing it,” Anne replied. “If I find amusement in it, that cannot be helped.”
“Somehow, an observation feels even less forgiving than mockery.”
“I am not here to be forgiving.”
“That is unfortunate,” he said lightly, though his gaze remained on her longer than was necessary, “because I was hoping to begin improving my reputation.”
Anne sobered. “I have not come to discuss your reputation. The ton discusses it enough.”
Something in his demeanor shifted, the amusement fading slightly as he straightened. The air between them shifted at once. Anne felt it first, the return of everything she had spent the night trying to organize.
She had tried to place the man before her, labeling him as a cruel man or a foolish one or one who simply did not understand his privilege, but none of it felt right.
Meanwhile, he did not move toward her or away from her, only watched her with an attention that had not an ounce of performance in it.
“I came,” she said evenly, “to give you my answer.”
He nodded once, as though he had expected nothing less. “Well, that is the first encouraging response I have received today.”
“I was not encouraging you.”
“I will take what I can get,” he replied.
Tempest snorted sharply as if in disagreement.
The Duke did not look away from Anne when he spoke again. “You should know I have survived horse bites, racing debt, and half the women in London who insisted they could improve my character, and yet somehow, Lady Anne, you remain the most difficult creature I have encountered.”
“Then you are clearly accustomed to the wrong kind of company.”
“You and I are in agreement there. For what it is worth, you should know that I hate all of it. I hate that I am looked at as a man who must be tamed like that horse or revered as some miraculous thing. I do not—I would not want that from you if we were to marry.”
“You’re not presuming my answer suggests that,” she acknowledged. “Although that does not mean that I shall think highly of you.”
“There it is,” he said. “That tone. I was beginning to worry that you had softened overnight.”
“I have not softened.”
“I am relieved.”
“I have simply decided,” she continued evenly, “that I have no interest in becoming another woman impressed by your compliments. Much like yourself, I have received my fair share of empty words that have nothing to do with who I am and everything to do with my position, and I do not need more of them.”
“Most women,” he said after a moment, “do not usually announce that to me directly.”
“They would not dare, but frankly, I have very little left to lose, so I might as well be honest with you.”
Tempest shifted behind him, but the Duke did not turn. Whatever amusement had been guiding him a moment before seemed to settle into something less performative.
“Then let us be honest and practical,” he said. “If you are here to refuse me, you should hear my proposal properly first. There is no sense in rejecting something you do not fully understand.”
“I understand enough already.”
“Humor me,” he insisted. “If what I have to say matches what you believe, then there is no harm in confirming it.”
She hesitated only briefly before nodding.
The Duke moved away from Tempest, closing the small distance between them until the noise of the yard felt slightly distant. When he spoke again, it was without charm, or at least without the version of charm he had displayed before.
“You would remain here at Ashford Hall,” he began.
“As my wife in name. We shall have separate rooms, separate lives where necessary. I have no intention of demanding companionship you do not wish to give, and I will not expect affection as part of the agreement. In return, you remain with the horse, and you are not displaced by your mother’s decisions or anyone else’s convenience.
You would also be among the most powerful members of society, but something tells me you do not care for that part too much. ”
Anne studied him as he spoke, not interrupting, though she had to admit that she was unsettled by just how well he had read her. It was not a terrible offer if she could trust it, but there was something she still could not understand.
“And what do you gain?” she asked. “I am not foolish enough to believe that you would help a lady if there was nothing in it for you too. If that were the case, you would be married by now.”
A brief pause followed, then he chuckled.
“I shall gain control of my estate once and for all,” he replied.
“Not to mention stability in the eyes of men who would otherwise take it from me. I will no longer be treated as though I am incapable of bearing responsibility simply because I have spent too long pretending I was not interested in it.”
That, at least, sounded sincere. It meant more than false promises would have.
Somewhere behind them, a stablehand crossed the yard, but Anne barely noticed. She looked away, though only briefly, before she looked back at the Duke. There was only sincerity in his eyes, and either he was the most brilliant liar, or he was simply being honest about his intentions.
“You are asking me to enter into a marriage that means nothing beyond convenience,” she said.
“I am asking you to enter into a marriage that does not pretend to be anything else,” he corrected.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you walk away, and I continue managing stables that are currently held together by increasingly questionable optimism and the hope that horses will eventually decide to cooperate out of goodwill.”
Despite herself, Anne felt something close to amusement again, though she did not allow it to surface.
Another silence followed, shorter this time. When Anne finally spoke again, her voice was quieter.
“If I agree, it will be only this arrangement. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more.”
“And I will not be managed or directed as though I am part of your staff.”
“You will not be managed,” he assured her. “You will be Duchess of Ashford in title and nothing else you do not choose.”
She searched his face for something but found none of the things she had expected. At last, she exhaled, slow and controlled, arriving at a decision she had been circling for longer than she wanted to admit.
“Then I accept,” she said.
For a moment, the Duke did not respond. It was not shock exactly, but she could clearly see that the outcome had been anticipated and still landed with more weight than he had expected. Then he nodded once and stepped slightly closer, offering his hand without ceremony.
Anne looked at it for a brief moment before placing her gloved hand in it.
The contact was simple, expected, entirely appropriate for what they had just agreed to, and yet neither of them moved immediately after. His grip remained steady, not tightening, not loosening, simply there as though he had not quite decided whether to let go yet.
Anne felt it too, though she did not acknowledge it.
She did not want to acknowledge any of it, but she was an intelligent young lady. This was what had to be done. There were worse fates than marriage to a handsome duke, even if the one before her was a man she could not entirely understand.
Eventually, she withdrew her hand. He let her go without protest, though his gaze lingered longer than propriety required.
“This will be alright,” she allowed. “I suppose you are not the worst gentleman I could have been forced to share a life with.”
“Then I suppose,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “this is the first reckless decision I have made that I do not regret already.”