Chapter 8
The first week of marriage was far easier than Dorian had expected.
The estate itself continued as it always had, with servants moving through corridors, horses being tended in the stables, and the racing operations pressing forward despite the troubles facing them. But within it, something subtle had shifted.
He had expected Anne to need time before she understood how it all worked.
Instead, she took to learning the estate in fragments.
He was pleased with the arrangements that had been made for her there.
Her rooms were spacious and carefully prepared, yet he still found her pausing at the doorway as though waiting for permission she no longer needed to ask for.
For his part, he resumed control of the racing stables with the same efficiency he had always been known for.
To the staff, nothing had changed. Orders were given, races were planned, and negotiations continued with investors who were suddenly far more willing to speak with him now that he had a wife.
He also lingered longer than necessary in certain places and asked questions he would have once delegated to someone else.
More often than not, his attention drifted without warning or explanation toward the house. Toward her.
It began subtly, in moments too small to confront directly.
A presence at the edge of a corridor when she turned a corner, or his voice behind her in the stables when she had believed she was alone.
He made sure that he was in the stables when she was out tending to her horse, as the steed was the perfect excuse for him to remain within reach without admitting it.
“Your saddle adjustment is uneven,” he remarked one morning as she checked Tempest’s tack.
Anne did not look at him. “It is not uneven.”
“It is slightly off balance,” he insisted.
“It is not.”
“It is,” he said, sounding amused.
She exhaled through her nose, continuing her work without acknowledging him further. “If you are so interested in saddles, I am sure your trainers would appreciate your assistance elsewhere.”
“I am assisting,” Dorian replied lightly.
“With what, exactly?”
“With ensuring your safety. I would rather my wife were not hurt.”
Anne finally looked up at him, clearly warning him not to correct her further. She seemed to have taken it far more personally than he had expected, for although he did enjoy the way heat rose in her cheeks when she was flustered, he did not want to undermine her.
“I do not require supervision.” She returned her attention to Tempest immediately, refusing to give him the satisfaction of saying anything further.
At meals, it was no better. He would try to befriend her, only for him to sound slightly out of touch.
He had made a habit of appearing slightly too late or slightly too early for dinner, and he never understood why. One evening, as they sat across from each other in the dining room, he observed her for a moment before speaking.
“You are very determined to treat this house as though it might reject you at any moment,” he noted.
Anne kept her gaze on her plate. “I am not.”
“You are,” he countered.
“I am adjusting to it all,” she sighed. “It is not something that will come immediately.”
“It has been a week.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around her fork. “Must you analyze everything I do?”
“I find it difficult not to,” he said simply.
That earned him a brief, sharp look from her.
He had not meant it in the sense that she was being obvious in what she was doing, for in truth, she was not. He had noticed it because he watched her so often.
He smiled at the thought, even though he knew it was dangerous, and she looked away too quickly.
There were the smallest changes in her—an unexpected smile, a softer tone when speaking to him in the stables, and the way her attention lingered when she entered a room that he was in—and they began interfering with the distance that she continually tried to put between them.
Dorian dismissed it every time, knowing that it was for the best that things remained the way they were.
Yet none of it seemed to put her out of his mind, and he, for all his confidence, did not seem inclined to do it either.
He simply continued appearing where she was until he did so out of habit rather than as a conscious choice.
Neither of them spoke about it, and he took that to mean that she did not mind it.
The rain had begun falling by the end of the week. That day, it had been coming down since late morning, soft at first and then steadily heavier until the grounds blurred into a wash of muted greens and grays.
By the time Anne stepped out of the house, the paths had turned slick beneath her boots.
Dorian was already in the stables when she arrived, as he knew it would be dangerous. He was standing just inside the open doors, sleeves rolled up as it was easier to work that way. A groom spoke to him nearby, but his attention shifted immediately when he saw her approach.
“You will ruin your boots,” he warned as she stepped under the overhang.
“I am inspecting the stables,” she replied, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.
“We are in the middle of a storm.”
“They still require inspection.”
A faint smile touched his mouth, and he did not argue further. Instead, he fell into step beside her as she moved deeper into the stables, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to accompany her without her invitation.
The horses were restless in this weather.
Hooves shifted against straw and stone, with occasional snorts breaking through the steady rhythm of rain outside.
Anne moved between stalls, checking tack and speaking quietly to the grooms, her attention focused on the work rather than the man standing beside her.
“You realize,” Dorian said after a while, watching her adjust a strap on a saddle, “you have been here long enough now that the servants are beginning to listen to you more than they listen to me.”
Anne did not look up. “Perhaps you should consider giving clearer instructions, then.”
“I do give clear instructions.”
“They are often unnecessary, such as the one you made just now about me not ruining my boots.”
She stepped out of the stall and moved toward the far fence line, where a section of the paddock needed inspection after the recent weather. The ground was softer there, the mud deeper, and the wooden fence was uneven in places where the soil had shifted.
She lifted her skirt slightly and stepped carefully. Behind her, Dorian followed at a slower pace, watching rather than interfering.
“You do not have to accompany me,” she said without turning.
“I would rather know what is happening in these circumstances.”
Anne sighed faintly, choosing not to respond as she reached the narrow crossing point where the ground dipped slightly before the fence line resumed. She placed one foot forward, testing the stability of the mud beneath her boot. It held just long enough.
The second step did not.
Her foot slid unexpectedly, the slick ground giving way beneath her with a suddenness that knocked her off balance. The world tilted sharply, her breath catching as she instinctively reached out, but there was nothing stable enough to catch.
And yet she did not fall. Instead, she was pulled abruptly against something solid.
Dorian’s arm closed around her waist in an instant, drawing her against him with a strength that stopped her movement completely. Her breath came unevenly as the shock registered, her hands instinctively bracing against his chest.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Dorian was acutely aware of his hand on her waist and the other on her back, holding her securely. The heat of her skin cut through the damp cold of the afternoon in a way that made him all too conscious of just how close she was.
But he did not immediately release her. His eyes had locked onto her face, as though the realization of what he had just done was not reason enough to let go.
At last, Anne’s breath steadied.
“I can stand now,” she said, though she made no move to step away.
Dorian became aware that her hands were still pressed against his chest. She did not remove them immediately, nor did he loosen his hold. His eyes flicked briefly to her hands, then back to her face.
“I am aware,” he said.
But he did not move. For a brief, suspended moment, neither of them did. Then, slowly, as if reluctant to acknowledge the change in distance, he released her waist. His other hand lingered on her back for a fraction longer than necessary before finally dropping away.
Anne stepped back, adjusting her footing carefully.
“Thank you,” she said.
“They come in threes,” he replied. “You have slipped twice now, so you would do well to be careful.”
“Your concern regarding the inconvenience is well noted,” she said dryly.
That coaxed a faint smile from him. Though in all honesty, he would not have minded catching her several times over. It made him feel useful, as though she needed him.
Soon afterward, she returned to the house.
That evening, the rain had softened into a drizzle, leaving the air cool. Anne stood in her chamber preparing for dinner, the fire behind her casting warm light over the room while she adjusted the neckline of her gown. Dorian watched as she did it, wondering why she had not sent for a maid.
A necklace lay on the dressing table, a new one that he had purchased for her. She lifted it carefully, turning it over in her hands before reaching behind her neck to fasten it. The clasp resisted, and she could not quite make it open correctly.
“You are doing it incorrectly,” Dorian said from the doorway, causing her to jump.
Anne turned slightly, seeming surprised to find him there.
“I am fine,” she replied.
He stepped into the room without waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind him.
“You are struggling,” he chuckled. “I saw you.”
“I am not,” she insisted.
“Turn around. Let me help you.”
“I do not need—”
“Turn around,” he repeated, this time quieter.
Anne hesitated, then complied, turning so that her back faced him.
For a moment, he did not move, then his hands lifted, carefully taking the necklace from her fingers. He stood close enough behind her that he could feel her warmth as he leaned in to see the clasp properly.
“I am perfectly capable of—”
“I know,” he interrupted.
His fingers brushed the back of her neck as he worked, adjusting the clasp. The contact was brief, barely intentional, but it was more intimate than anything he had ever known.
Anne fell quiet, as did he. The room seemed to narrow in that instant, and his fingers hovered near her skin a fraction longer than necessary, rather than dropping away.
“There,” he said.
Anne swallowed. “Yes. Thank you.”
Still, neither of them moved.
Then, remembering himself, Dorian stepped back. The space returned between them too quickly for his liking.
“You should be ready for dinner,” he said.
Anne reached up to touch the necklace lightly, as though confirming it was properly secured.
“I am.” She nodded. “I will be downstairs in a moment.”
Dorian glanced at her once more, then toward the door. There was the briefest pause, so small it might have been nothing at all, then he walked out of the room.
Although he did not make it two steps before he stopped to watch her again.
Anne remained standing in front of the mirror for a moment longer, her fingers still resting against the clasp at her neck, as though the touch had stayed with her as much as it had with him.
But he doubted that it had.