“I am reacting to the absurdity of this conversation.”
“That is how it starts. Besides, this is exactly what I mean. He is watching over you, Your Grace, and I cannot help but feel as though neither of you is seeing it.”
Anne turned her attention back to her plate, though her awareness of Dorian beside her had shifted in a way she could not fully ignore.
It was not new, but hearing it spoken aloud changed something about it. It was not as though she disliked it, but it felt strange all the same that they were being scrutinized in such a way.
Then again, she had known that becoming the Duchess of Ashford would come with scrutiny.
Dorian, for his part, looked increasingly aware that the conversation had turned against him.
“I would like to remind everyone present,” he said evenly, “that I am the Duke of Ashford.”
Lord Harrow raised his glass. “And tragically in love, apparently.”
Dorian choked slightly on his drink. Anne froze. Margaret’s eyes widened briefly before she masked it with a polite sip of wine.
“That is not—” Dorian started.
“Relax, dear friend. I am not reporting it to Parliament.”
Anne set her glass down carefully. “I believe,” she said quietly, “this conversation has gone quite far enough.”
“But we are just beginning to enjoy it.”
Dorian leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand briefly over his mouth as though trying to regain control of the situation through sheer will alone. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
“You are all imagining things.”
Lord Harrow nodded. “That is exactly what a man says whenhehas been caught imagining things.”
Anne turned her head slightly toward her husband. This time, she caught him. He was looking at her for a second too long for it to be a coincidence.
Lord Harrow leaned back in his seat, looking deeply satisfied. “I rest my case.”
Dorian sighed, then picked up his glass again as though the entire conversation had become irrelevant. “I hate you all,” he muttered.
Lord Harrow smiled. “No, you do not.”
Against her better judgment, Anne found herself smiling properly this time. She noticed something in Dorian’s expression shift, as though the amusement he refused to acknowledge was directed entirely at her.
It was clear that he did not mean what he had said. He liked the company, even if he claimed the contrary.
Anne wondered why he would do it when he so obviously liked having people over. It was not the time to ask him about it, but she knew that eventually the time would come.
Strangely, she rather looked forward to it.
After the dinner party, when the servants had retreated and the corridors of Ashford Hall felt wider than they should have, Anne went to bed with every intention of sleeping, but hours passed without rest taking hold, leaving her increasingly aware of the stillness around her and the restless thoughts she could not quiet.
Eventually, she gave up on the attempt.
She stepped out of her room and moved through the corridor without calling for assistance, the faint light from distant sconces catching only briefly in her nightdress as she made her way downstairs.
The library door was not fully closed when she reached it, and the thin strip of light spilling into the hall was enough to make her pause before she entered.
Dorian was inside. He sat on the floor near the fire, one arm resting loosely over his bent knee, the other holding something that caught the shifting firelight in uneven fragments.
He did not turn when she entered, though his voice came anyway, calm and slightly rough with fatigue, as if he had been awake long enough for silence to settle into him.
