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.”
CHAPTER 5
News of the engagement spread through Yorkshire with a speed that felt almost unnatural, as though the countryside itself had been waiting for something scandalous enough to carry on the wind.
By morning, it was in the kitchens of every great house, murmured between servants folding linen and polishing silver. By midday, it had reached the drawing rooms, carried in on tea trays and clipped conversations. By evening, it had become something embellished, reshaped, and endlessly repeated until it bore only a passing resemblance to the truth.
Lady Anne Carlisle had married the Duke of Ashford. Or at least, she was going to. In any case, she had been seen riding alone to his estate at dusk, which, depending on who told the story, was either romantic, reckless, or deeply improper.
