Chapter 12
Anne had slept badly. Or rather, she had not slept much at all.
She sat before the dressing table in silence while her maid moved quietly through the room, opening curtains just enough to allow weak morning light to spill across the floor.
The brightness did nothing to improve her mood. If anything, daylight only made the previous evening feel more embarrassing, humiliating even.
She stared absently at her reflection, willing herself to think of anything else. It had become increasingly difficult to avoid the truth, particularly now that the shock of the evening had settled.
Now she could say for certain that it did indeed happen.
She had allowed herself to hope. That, more than anything else, felt intolerable. Not because Dorian had promised her something he had failed to give, but because he had promised nothing at all.
Their marriage had always been practical. He had made that clear from the beginning. They would have separate rooms, and there would be no expectation of affection.
Yet somewhere along the way, be it during that ride in the morning or that night in the library, Anne had begun imagining things that had never been part of the arrangement in the first place. She had begun to think that she had changed his mind.
The realization stung more sharply than she wanted to admit, because what exactly had she imagined? That she would somehow become indispensable to a man like Dorian?
The same man whose reputation had followed him through half of Yorkshire and most of London would never change. A man who flirted as naturally as breathing, who likely had years of practice making women feel momentarily chosen, would never think that she was special enough for him to reform.
Anne closed her eyes briefly. It had felt real, and perhaps that was the cruelest thing of all, because that meant she could no longer entirely trust her own judgment.
“Your Grace?”
Anne blinked, pulling herself back to the present.
Her maid, Clara, stood nearby holding out a selection of gowns, uncertainty written plainly across her face.
“The blue silk for today, perhaps?” Clara suggested carefully. “Or the cream one?”
Anne looked at the dresses without truly seeing them. “Whichever is simpler.”
Clara hesitated. “You usually prefer to choose yourself.”
“I am tired. Last night was rather intense, and I do not have much energy.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
But Clara did not move immediately.
Anne noticed it after a moment. She glanced at her reflection again to find her maid watching her with quiet concern that she was failing to disguise.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing, Your Grace. Forgive me. It is only… You do not seem yourself this morning.”
“I am perfectly fine.” The answer came too quickly.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Clara said politely, though her expression suggested she was not convinced.
Anne looked away again. Nothing was wrong. That was precisely the problem. Nothing had happened, as far as anyone knew. There had been no arguments or betrayal, only her own foolishness.
After a moment, Clara resumed brushing her hair gently.
“Was the ball unpleasant?”
“No.”
“Did someone upset you?”
“No.”
A pause followed.
“Did His Grace upset you?”
Anne turned immediately. “No.”
The answer came sharper than she had intended.
Clara blinked once, and Anne exhaled quietly, composing herself.
“No,” she repeated more evenly. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Again, the maid sounded unconvinced.
Anne looked back at the mirror, her frustration rising. Not with Clara but with herself, because apparently, whatever she felt had become visible enough for the servants to notice.
“I simply did not sleep well,” she added after a moment.
“That can make everything feel heavier than it is,” Clara offered gently.
Anne almost laughed at that. If only the lack of sleep were truly the issue.
She found herself staring again at her own reflection, suddenly struck by how foolish she looked while sitting there and trying to recover dignity from feelings she had never intended to have.
How absurd that she had allowed herself to imagine she could matter to her husband, even briefly.
Lady Vivian’s words echoed in her mind. Dorian did not belong easily to anyone, and why should he? He had not offered devotion; he had offered practicality. Everything else that she had seen had simply been her fault.
Perhaps he behaved that way with every woman who lingered near him long enough, given that charm came so naturally to him that he seemingly no longer recognized when he was using it.
“You know,” the maid said cautiously after a while, “you do not have to tell me what troubles you, but it might help.”
“I know, but I am not troubled.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“You clearly disagree.”
“A little,” Clara admitted softly.
Against her better judgment, Anne almost smiled.
“You are becoming rather bold,” she noted.
“I spend enough time in this house to know when it feels unsettled,” Clara replied carefully. “And it feels unsettled whenever you and His Grace are unhappy.”
Anne went still. “We are not unhappy.”
“No,” Clara said gently. “Although I must say, the two of you are rather strange.”
The word felt dangerously accurate.
Anne looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. “I think,” she murmured after a long pause, “sometimes people imagine things where none truly exist.”
“Sometimes they do. And sometimes, they only think they imagined them because they are frightened of being disappointed.”
Anne looked up sharply at the mirror, and Clara immediately lowered her eyes.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. That was not my place.”
“Do not apologize. Sometimes, I need to hear the truth, and I am most grateful that you are willing to do that for me. I value it more than you could possibly know, for not many people would dare do so.”
By breakfast, Anne had rebuilt every wall she had spent weeks slowly lowering around her husband. The effort required far more discipline than she had expected, but whatever had begun growing between her and Dorian had been imagined too freely and understood too foolishly.
He had never promised affection. Their marriage had been practical from the beginning, and she had been reckless enough to mistake closeness for something deeper.
She would not make that mistake again.
By the time she entered the breakfast room, every trace of vulnerability had been carefully hidden.
Dorian was already there, sitting near the long windows overlooking the eastern grounds. A cup of coffee sat untouched near one hand, while a paper rested in the other.
He looked as though he had only recently dressed, his dark hair still slightly mussed in a way society somehow found charming when attached to a man like him.
Anne found she resented that, because even after everything she had spent the morning reminding herself of, she still noticed things she ought not to.
He looked up the moment she entered, and warmth crossed his face immediately.
“Good morning,” he greeted, setting aside the paper. “You are later than usual. I was beginning to think you had abandoned me to break my fast alone.”
Anne took her seat opposite him, setting her gloves on the table beside her before answering, “Good morning, Duke.”
His smile disappeared. It was subtle, but still she noticed. There was a brief pause before he leaned back in his chair, studying her with more focus than amusement.
“Duke,” he repeated. “That feels alarmingly formal for this hour.”
Anne reached for the teapot as though nothing at all had changed. “It is your title.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Though you generally reserve it for occasions when you are displeased with me.”
“I was unaware you monitored my habits so closely.”
“I monitor everything involving you closely,” he replied without hesitation. “I would never claim the contrary.”
The words landed harder than they should have, for he sounded as though he meant them.
Anne kept her attention focused on pouring tea. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is, occasionally,” he admitted. “Particularly when my wife arrives at breakfast behaving as though I have committed some terrible offense I am not aware of.”
“I assure you,” Anne said evenly, “nothing is wrong.”
Dorian was quiet for a moment. She could feel him watching her, trying to determine whether she meant it.
Ordinarily, she would have already corrected what he had said, and he would have smiled in that infuriatingly easy way that somehow made annoyance difficult to maintain. Today, she kept her attention firmly on her tea.
“You slept poorly,” he noted after a while. “I can tell.”
“I did.”
“You usually tell me why. Is today different for some reason?”
“Perhaps I did not think it necessary.”
His brows lifted faintly. “Well,” he said, attempting lightness, “this is already concerning. You have become mysterious overnight.”
“I was not aware that mystery was concerning.”
“From you?” he drawled. “Extremely. You generally prefer disapproval to nothing at all.”
Anne lifted her gaze briefly. “You say that as though I spend my days criticizing you.”
“You do,” he replied easily. “Though I have become rather fond of it.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around her teacup before she set it down. The ease in his voice irritated her suddenly. He was speaking to her as though the previous evening had not happened at all.
“You truly are upset,” he said, quieter now.
“I am perfectly well.”
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
Anne reached calmly for an apple. “You seem unusually determined to invent problems this morning, Duke.”
“I am trying to understand why my wife suddenly looks at me as though I have disappointed her.”
That almost made her laugh, not because it was amusing but because it struck far too close to home. And yet he did not seem inclined to search too deeply.
“You assume a great deal,” she said.
“You are avoiding my eyes.”
“I am eating breakfast.”
“You have called me Duke twice.”
“It remains your title, does it not? If it has changed, then we ought to speak about it.”
“Of course it is my title,” he said patiently, “but you usually speak to me as though I am an overconfident stable boy who happened to inherit land. You have never seemed troubled by titles before.”
Her irritation flared. “Sometimes it might be best that we remember our places.”
“There.” He leaned forward slightly. “That sounds more familiar.”
Anne looked down again. She could not allow familiar. That had led to the library and the near-kiss and a foolish hope she had no right to entertain.
Dorian remained quiet for a moment before trying again, his voice gentler, as if that would help. “Anne, if I have done something, I would prefer to know.”
Something in his tone almost weakened her resolve. Almost.
But then she remembered Lady Vivian leaning too close to him, remembered the effortless smile he had given her, only to then follow her out of the ballroom. She remembered how quickly she had begun imagining that she mattered.
She would not embarrass herself further.
“You have done nothing,” she said calmly. “I am simply tired.”
He did not look convinced. Still, after a moment, he looked away with a soft sigh. “Well, if my company is intolerable this morning, perhaps your horse will prove more agreeable.”
“What do you mean?”
A faint flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. “He trained exceptionally well yesterday. I have been told that he cleared nearly the entire eastern course without terrifying the stablehands for once.”
She hesitated. “Truly?”
“Yes,” he said. “Though I suspect he only behaves properly because he fears disappointing you.”
“That sounds unlikely.”
“He is remarkably devoted to you.”
Anne’s composure slipped, only slightly. She would have liked Dorian to be the same, but that was no fault of his.
“I should like to see him.”
“Good,” he said quickly. “Come with me after breakfast.”
Anne hesitated. The stables had become dangerous territory in ways she had not anticipated.
There had been too many easy conversations, too many moments that had begun to feel dangerously close to something real, but Tempest belonged to her in ways no one else did, and she refused to surrender that.
“Very well,” she agreed. “For Tempest.”
Dorian smiled faintly. “For Tempest,” he echoed.
The walk toward the stables felt unfamiliar despite the route becoming routine over recent weeks.
Usually, they spoke easily together. Dorian would tease her relentlessly, and she would correct him with growing ease.
Somewhere between irritation and amusement, they had developed a rhythm neither of them seemed to notice.
But that morning, silence stretched awkwardly between them. Dorian glanced at her more than once as they crossed the yard, though she kept her attention fixed firmly ahead.
The stablehands moved quickly through the yard, preparing horses for training. Somewhere nearby, a mare protested loudly while another trainer attempted unsuccessfully to calm her. Normally, Anne would have commented on it, but that day she said nothing.
Finally, Dorian broke the silence.
“You are unusually quiet.”
Anne kept walking. “I have already spoken. You know why I am not my usual self.”
“Yes,” he said. “But that does not mean I cannot be concerned.”
“That sounds most dramatic.”
“You generally enjoy it when I am dramatic.”
“I do not recall saying that.”
“You implied it,” he replied. “Repeatedly.”
Anne exhaled quietly. “You seem determined to continue speaking regardless of whether I encourage it or not.”
He looked sideways at her. “That is because you are behaving strangely.”
“I am behaving normally.”
“No,” he said gently. “You are behaving politely.”
She glanced at him. “And those are different things?”
“With you?” he asked. “Very.”
The answer unsettled her more than she wanted to admit, because some dangerous part of her still wanted to believe he paid attention in ways that mattered.
The stables appeared ahead before she could respond. Tempest noticed her immediately. The black horse lifted his head sharply, ears pricking forward before he moved instinctively toward the edge of the enclosure.
Anne softened automatically.
“There you are,” she murmured quietly.
The horse pressed closer at once, calmer already beneath her hand as she reached for his neck. Dorian stood nearby, watching the transformation happen, and she was tempted to look back smugly.
“He has improved,” she said after a moment, examining him carefully. “His gait looks steadier.”
“You were right about adjusting his training schedule,” Dorian acknowledged. “Pembroke has become intolerably pleased with your success.”
“That must be difficult for you.”
“It is unbearable.”
Ordinarily, she would have smiled, but this time only the faintest hint of amusement touched her lips before disappearing again.
Dorian noticed.
Against her better judgment, Anne hoped that he was hurt by it, even though she knew he would not be. After all, why would he?