“Is it not?”
She looked at him, her cheeks burning, and then she stepped into the stall to prepare Tempest for a ride.
Light slanted through the open doors in pale strips, catching on dust and straw as she tightened the final buckle on Tempest’s saddle.
“Careful,” the Duke cautioned from behind her. “If you secure that any more firmly, I may have to assume you are preparing him for battle rather than exercise.”
“He behaves better when he is properly secured.”
“So do most people,” he pointed out. “And yet I have not begun strapping them down before a conversation.”
“Perhaps you might find it helpful.”
“I do not need to. You will find that I can be quite convincing when I need to be.”
She rolled her eyes and returned to the saddle. “That explains a great deal.”
He leaned against the wooden post nearby, watching her work.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “marriage to me cannot possibly be so terrible if you already spend most of your time glaring at me like a disapproving wife.”
Anne paused just long enough to tighten a strap before responding, “I am not a disapproving wife, and I do not intend to become one.”
“You are certainly performing the role convincingly.”
“I am merely reminding you when you behave foolishly,” she said, as if it were the simplest fact in the world.
“Frequently, then?”
“Regrettably often.”
That earned her a laugh. It was not the practiced, controlled laugh he used in drawing rooms or in front of investors. It came more suddenly than he seemed to expect, brief and genuine, as though something had slipped past whatever careful restraint he usually kept in place.
Anne’s hands stilled for half a second before she realized she had done it. She was looking at him, properly looking without meaning to, and before she knew it, she was climbing over the gate to swat at him, albeit playfully. Alas, she did not place her boot correctly on her descent. She stumbled back before she realized what was happening.
Fortunately, as with her current predicament, he seemed prepared to catch her.
He was still smiling as he caught her in his arms, seeming slightly surprised by his own reaction. When his gaze met hers, the moment held for just long enough to feel different from everything before it.
Anne looked away first. Her attention turned back to Tempest’s tack, and she quickly joined him again to finish fixing everything in place.
For his part, the Duke did not tease her. Instead, his expression softened into something quieter, more thoughtful, as he watched her finish adjusting the saddle. For reasons neither of them acknowledged, the stables felt a little smaller than they had a moment ago.
Neither of them noticed Mr. Pembroke watching from the stable doors. He had arrived quietly, as he always did, his presence so habitual in the estate that even the servants rarely registered him until he chose to speak.
That day, however, he did not enter. He simply stood at the threshold with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding inside the stables.
The Duke stood near a post, still smiling faintly, and Anne was beside Tempest, her attention deliberately focused on him. Between them, the air felt different than it had days ago—less guarded, less formal, more dangerously unguarded in ways neither seemed willing to admit.
He spoke again, lightly, something about Anne’s disciplinary habits, and she responded without looking at him, rolling her eyes in a way that no one would have dared to do before a duke.
The exchange was brief, almost ordinary, and yet it lingered in a way that felt anything but.
The Duke laughed again. It was the kind of sound a man did not make when he had stopped noticing he was performing, and once again, Anne could not help but be caught entirely off guard by it.
When the moment passed, both returned to what they were doing as if nothing had changed, but Pembroke remained where he was, his attention lingering a moment longer than necessarybefore he finally stepped into the stables. His entrance was unremarkable. It always was.
“Your Grace,” he said evenly.
