“Your Grace, I am being as reasonable as I can be, given the circumstances. Do not act as though it pains you to force me into such a role. You heard what my mother said. You know how dire my situation?—”
“Which is why you should marry me.”
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 sheno 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.
