The estate itself continued as it always had, with servants moving through corridors, horses being tended in the stables, and the racing operations pressing forward despite the troubles facing them. But within it, something subtle had shifted.
He had expected Anne to need time before she understood how it all worked. Instead, she took to learning the estate in fragments. He was pleased with the arrangements that had been made for her there. Her rooms were spacious and carefully prepared, yet he still found her pausing at the doorway as though waiting for permission she no longer needed to ask for.
For his part, he resumed control of the racing stables with the same efficiency he had always been known for.
To the staff, nothing had changed. Orders were given, races were planned, and negotiations continued with investors who were suddenly far more willing to speak with him now that he had a wife. He also lingered longer than necessary in certain places and asked questions he would have once delegated to someone else.
More often than not, his attention drifted without warning or explanation toward the house. Towardher.
It began subtly, in moments too small to confront directly. A presence at the edge of a corridor when she turned a corner, or his voice behind her in the stables when she had believed she was alone. He made sure that he was in the stables when she was out tending to her horse, as the steed was the perfect excuse for him to remain within reach without admitting it.
“Your saddle adjustment is uneven,” he remarked one morning as she checked Tempest’s tack.
Anne did not look at him. “It is not uneven.”
“It is slightly off balance,” he insisted.
“It is not.”
“It is,” he said, sounding amused.
She exhaled through her nose, continuing her work without acknowledging him further. “If you are so interested in saddles,I am sure your trainers would appreciate your assistance elsewhere.”
“I am assisting,” Dorian replied lightly.
“With what, exactly?”
“With ensuring your safety. I would rather my wife were not hurt.”
Anne finally looked up at him, clearly warning him not to correct her further. She seemed to have taken it far more personally than he had expected, for although he did enjoy the way heat rose in her cheeks when she was flustered, he did not want to undermine her.
“I do not require supervision.” She returned her attention to Tempest immediately, refusing to give him the satisfaction of saying anything further.
At meals, it was no better. He would try to befriend her, only for him to sound slightly out of touch.
He had made a habit of appearing slightly too late or slightly too early for dinner, and he never understood why. One evening, as they sat across from each other in the dining room, he observed her for a moment before speaking.
“You are very determined to treat this house as though it might reject you at any moment,” he noted.
Anne kept her gaze on her plate. “I am not.”
“You are,” he countered.
“I am adjusting to it all,” she sighed. “It is not something that will come immediately.”
“It has been a week.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around her fork. “Must you analyze everything I do?”
“I find it difficult not to,” he said simply.
That earned him a brief, sharp look from her.
He had not meant it in the sense that she was being obvious in what she was doing, for in truth, she was not. He had noticed it because he watched her so often.
He smiled at the thought, even though he knew it was dangerous, and she looked away too quickly.
There were the smallest changes in her—an unexpected smile, a softer tone when speaking to him in the stables, and the way her attention lingered when she entered a room that he was in—and they began interfering with the distance that she continually tried to put between them.
