She had allowed herself to hope. That, more than anything else, felt intolerable. Not because Dorian had promised hersomething he had failed to give, but because he had promised nothing at all.
Their marriage had always been practical. He had made that clear from the beginning. They would have separate rooms, and there would be no expectation of affection.
Yet somewhere along the way, be it during that ride in the morning or that night in the library, Anne had begun imagining things that had never been part of the arrangement in the first place. She had begun to think that she had changed his mind.
The realization stung more sharply than she wanted to admit, because what exactly had she imagined? That she would somehow become indispensable to a man like Dorian?
The same man whose reputation had followed him through half of Yorkshire and most of London would never change. A man who flirted as naturally as breathing, who likely had years of practice making women feel momentarily chosen, would never think that she was special enough for him to reform.
Anne closed her eyes briefly. It had felt real, and perhaps that was the cruelest thing of all, because that meant she could no longer entirely trust her own judgment.
“Your Grace?”
Anne blinked, pulling herself back to the present.
Her maid, Clara, stood nearby holding out a selection of gowns, uncertainty written plainly across her face.
“The blue silk for today, perhaps?” Clara suggested carefully. “Or the cream one?”
Anne looked at the dresses without truly seeing them. “Whichever is simpler.”
Clara hesitated. “You usually prefer to choose yourself.”
“I am tired. Last night was rather intense, and I do not have much energy.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
But Clara did not move immediately.
Anne noticed it after a moment. She glanced at her reflection again to find her maid watching her with quiet concern that she was failing to disguise.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing, Your Grace. Forgive me. It is only… You do not seem yourself this morning.”
“I am perfectly fine.” The answer came too quickly.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Clara said politely, though her expression suggested she was not convinced.
Anne looked away again. Nothing was wrong. That was precisely the problem. Nothing had happened, as far as anyone knew. There had been no arguments or betrayal, only her own foolishness.
After a moment, Clara resumed brushing her hair gently.
“Was the ball unpleasant?”
“No.”
“Did someone upset you?”
“No.”
A pause followed.
“Did His Grace upset you?”
Anne turned immediately. “No.”
The answer came sharper than she had intended.
