“I am,” Tristan admitted. “Deeply. Now, when will I meet her?”
“If ever, it will be after the wedding.”
Tristan grinned, and despite everything that was happening around them, Dorian did too. At least he had a friend.
* * *
At Rosemere House, Anne heard none of the gossip at first. She remained where she always seemed to exist: on her morning walks and then handling brief correspondence. She spent a good amount of time thinking of her dear friends, whom she was missing greatly and would not see again until the next season.
She would have to write to them, though she did not know what to say.
It was only when she entered the breakfast room and noticed her mother’s expression that she understood something had changed.
Lady Carlisle sat perfectly still at the table, a letter resting beside her untouched tea. She was a composed woman by habit, but that morning, her composure had an edge to it, as though it had been pressed too tightly.
Anne paused in the doorway. “Is something wrong?”
Her mother did not answer immediately. Instead, she lifted the letter slightly, studying it as though it might change meaning if examined long enough.
“It seems,” she replied carefully, “that your life has become a subject of conversation.”
“Who wrote it?” Anne asked.
Her mother hesitated just long enough to confirm what she already suspected.
“A neighbor. Two, actually, as well as someone from town who claims to have heard it from Ashford Hall.”
“I cannot believe that he has already told people. We were not supposed to announce anything yet, and?—”
“I do not believe he needed to,” her mother cut in. “It seems people have decided the story on their own.”
Anne turned away slightly, as though the room had become too small. She had not told her mother, even though she knew she needed to. She had not toldanyone, for she had not known what to say.
It had all been so sudden, and though she knew she would have to lie and say it was for love in order to save face, the thought of being so dishonest to the people she loved upset her greatly.
“There is no story.”
Her mother finally looked at her. “Then you should be prepared for the fact that everyone else has made one up anyway. They will not accept there being no truth to it at all, so find something to say.”
“Very well. I shall take some time to do so now.” Anne turned to leave.
Somehow, that made panic and then regret flash across her mother’s face.
Lady Carlisle had been so careless with what she had agreed to on Anne’s behalf, but she had not always been that way. She had been a loving mother once, and Anne had struggled to reconcile that person with the one standing before her.
Regardless, she knew what she had to do, and that meant leaving.
“You do not have to do this,” her mother said.
Anne paused. “It is already done. You chose this for me.”
When she climbed into the carriage, she did not look back at Rosemere House, because looking back would have made it harder to leave.
Ashford Hall came into view as it had the day before, and it was no less imposing. It was larger than Rosemere, certainly taller, with grounds that stretched outward as though the estate had never stopped expanding. There was order there, but it was a different kind than she was used to, more absolute.
The moment she arrived, she went into the stable yard. When Tempest saw her, he calmed down, his hooves no longer striking hard against the ground. The change was instant. It always was.
Anne stepped forward without hesitation.
