Chapter 2
From the height of his saddle, William pointed toward the sagging beam above the first stall.
“That brace is crooked,” he called down. “Shift it two inches to the left. No, to your left, Carter.”
William watched the men shift uncertainly beneath the beam. He could see the hesitation in Carter’s hands, the slight tremor that always appeared when the young man felt the duke’s eyes on him.
William tried to soften his tone, but the morning had already worn thin on his patience.
He reminded himself that the men worked hard and did not deserve the sharpness that sometimes slipped into his voice.
He adjusted his grip on the reins, feeling the leather warm beneath his palm, and waited for Carter to try again.
The stable hand flushed and adjusted the beam, but it wobbled again. William exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp in the quiet yard.
“Hold it steady. I’ll do it.”
He swung down from the saddle before the horse had fully stopped.
Crossing the packed earth in three long strides, he reached the loose beam the men were wrestling with. He set his hands beneath it and lifted, steady and controlled, until the weight shifted into place.
The muscles along his forearms tightened under his rolled shirtsleeves, dust settling over his skin.
The strain in his arms was familiar, almost grounding.
Physical work had always calmed him. William felt the beam settle and held it firm while the men scrambled to secure it.
Their movements grew more confident with his presence, their earlier uncertainty fading.
He stepped back once the beam held, brushing sawdust from his palms. His black hair had fallen forward, the slight curl at the ends catching against his brow until he pushed it aside.
The faint stubble along his jaw roughened the strong lines of his face, a look he rarely bothered to soften unless his aunt insisted.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the stiffness that had settled there after a restless night.
Sleep had been difficult. His thoughts had circled the same worries, the same questions about Henry, the estate, and the expectations that pressed on him from every direction.
They had circled other memories as well, ones he seldom allowed himself to revisit.
He had been married once, long enough to believe they might grow into a secure life together.
In the early years, before the strain of the title and the demands of society began to wear on them, there had been lighthearted moments.
He thought of the way she had held Henry when he was an infant, her voice soft as she tried to soothe him.
Those moments had grown fewer with time, replaced by long silences and a distance he had not known how to bridge.
He had tried to be patient and meet her needs, but nothing he offered had been enough to keep her from turning away.
She had left the estate without a word, and had been found dead two years later.
He had never wished her harm, yet he could not remember her with anything but a quiet bitterness, shaped by the years of strain that had come before her departure, and the years of shame that had followed it.
Henry was all he had kept from that life, and the boy was the only part of it he did not regret.
William felt the familiar pull in his chest as he thought of his son.
He wished he could give Henry more than the stern guidance he often slipped into.
He wished he could give him a home that did not carry the shadow of what had been lost.
He pushed the hair from his brow again, wishing he had taken a moment to shave, though he doubted it would have made any difference to his aunt. She always found something to criticize.
The horse behind him snorted, shifting its weight. William reached back and laid a hand along its neck without turning, his touch firm enough to settle the animal. His blue eyes stayed fixed on the next section of the roof, studying the angle of the beams as though nothing else in the yard existed.
They darkened as he spotted another misalignment, and he pointed it out with a short, clipped instruction. The stable hands corrected it at once.
William felt a slight pang of guilt as he once again realized that Henry should have been his concern that morning.
William knew the boy was inside, bent over his Latin, tapping the table with the same restless rhythm he used whenever frustration took hold.
Every other subject came easily to him, but Latin always ended in tension with Henry’s eyes brimming with tears and William’s tone sharper than he intended, followed by a cold silence. He wondered if he had pushed too hard, and if the boy’s mistakes were truly worth the arguments they sparked.
He adjusted the reins in his hand, his jaw tightening for a moment before he forced the tension out of it. His child was seven years old and already trying to meet expectations he had never asked for. William knew he was the one who placed them there.
The stable hands stepped back again, waiting for his judgment. William moved closer, checked the beam’s placement, and gave a single nod. It was enough.
He stayed where he was for a moment, breathing in the scent of hay and fresh timber.
The stables had been built during his father’s time, following the style that had been common in country estates.
The beams were thick and plain, meant to last decades rather than impress visitors.
William had kept the same approach in all his repairs, choosing durability over appearance.
The estate had been managed that way for generations, and he felt a quiet responsibility to maintain it, even when the work felt endless.
He looked over the grounds that stretched wide around him, taking in the fields he had tended and fences he had repaired, the quiet work that kept him grounded. He preferred it to the world beyond his gates, the world that had watched his wife leave and whispered about it for years afterward.
He had never been comfortable in drawing rooms or at long tables filled with simple conversation.
The idea of seeking a new wife felt more like an obligation than something to hope for.
He knew what society expected of him, but he did not know what kind of woman could tolerate the quiet life he preferred.
He did not imagine there would be affection, but there was the possibility of someone who might not resent the solitude he needed.
William had never cared for the scrutiny that came with his title. He was tired of the polite smiles, the whispered judgments, and the constant expectation that he perform a role he had never wanted.
Out there, no one asked him to pretend. The land did not care about his reputation. The horses did not care about the gossip that followed him. The work was honest, and it demanded nothing more than his effort. He found comfort in that simplicity, even if it was fleeting.
He rested a hand on the saddle, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the men return to their tasks. The steady rhythm of hammering filled the yard until a sharp voice cut straight through it.
“William! Must I truly hunt you down in barns and fields like a stray boy?”
He turned and straightened instinctively.
His aunt’s voice always had that effect on him.
He felt the familiar mix of irritation and resignation settle in him.
He had hoped for a quiet morning, but Lady Spencer rarely allowed such things.
He braced himself for the criticism he knew would follow, reminding himself to remain calm.
She was family, and despite everything, he did not wish to quarrel with her. Not that day.
Lady Spencer stood at the edge of the stable yard, looking as though she had stepped into the wrong world entirely. She lifted the hem of her lavender gown between two pinched fingers, holding the fabric away from the dirt as she picked her way forward with small, irritated steps.
Each movement carried a quiet note of disapproval, her mouth tightening every time her shoes touched the packed earth.
The dust in the air clung to the fabric despite her efforts, and she brushed at it with a sharp flick of her glove.
Her hat, wide, feathered, and wobbling with every breath, made her appear even shorter than she was.
Her thin white hair was pinned into its usual severe bun, her round face set in determined disapproval, and her brown eyes sharp and unblinking as she surveyed the yard with open distaste.
Behind her, Mr. Hensley hurried across the yard, breathless. His long stride was usually measured and composed, but the uneven ground forced him into a quicker, less dignified pace. He was a tall man with a lean frame, his posture straight even when winded.
His neatly combed gray hair caught the light, and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened with the effort of crossing the yard.
His coat was immaculate despite the dust around him, the dark fabric pressed and perfectly fitted, a quiet contrast to the upheaval of the stables.
He dipped his head politely as he passed Lady Spencer, then stepped closer to William, lowering his voice so only His Grace could hear.
“My deepest apologies, Your Grace,” he murmured. “Her Ladyship insisted she knew precisely where to find you. I attempted to direct her to the drawing room, but she…”
William lifted a hand. “Hensley, there is no man alive who can stop my aunt once she has decided upon something.” His tone was dry. “You are not expected to be the first.”
Relief flickered across the butler’s face. He bowed again and withdrew, quickly walking back toward the house.
Lady Spencer waited only until he was gone before clicking her tongue.
“Really, William. Standing out here like one of your own stable hands.” She brushed a speck of dust from her glove, her nose wrinkling.
William said nothing. He simply watched her approach, his expression controlled.