Clara blinked once, and Anne exhaled quietly, composing herself.
“No,” she repeated more evenly. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Again, the maid sounded unconvinced.
Anne looked back at the mirror, her frustration rising. Not with Clara but with herself, because apparently, whatever she felt had become visible enough for the servants to notice.
“I simply did not sleep well,” she added after a moment.
“That can make everything feel heavier than it is,” Clara offered gently.
Anne almost laughed at that. If only the lack of sleep were truly the issue.
She found herself staring again at her own reflection, suddenly struck by how foolish she looked while sitting there and trying to recover dignity from feelings she had never intended to have.
How absurd that she had allowed herself to imagine she could matter to her husband, even briefly.
Lady Vivian’s words echoed in her mind. Dorian did not belong easily to anyone, and why should he? He had not offered devotion; he had offered practicality. Everything else that she had seen had simply been her fault.
Perhaps he behaved that way with every woman who lingered near him long enough, given that charm came so naturally to him that he seemingly no longer recognized when he was using it.
“You know,” the maid said cautiously after a while, “you do not have to tell me what troubles you, but it might help.”
“I know, but I am not troubled.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“You clearly disagree.”
“A little,” Clara admitted softly.
Against her better judgment, Anne almost smiled.
“You are becoming rather bold,” she noted.
“I spend enough time in this house to know when it feels unsettled,” Clara replied carefully. “And it feels unsettled whenever you and His Grace are unhappy.”
Anne went still. “We are not unhappy.”
“No,” Clara said gently. “Although I must say, the two of you are rather strange.”
The word felt dangerously accurate.
Anne looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. “I think,” she murmured after a long pause, “sometimes people imagine things where none truly exist.”
“Sometimes they do. And sometimes, they only think they imagined them because they are frightened of being disappointed.”
Anne looked up sharply at the mirror, and Clara immediately lowered her eyes.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. That was not my place.”
“Do not apologize. Sometimes, I need to hear the truth, and I am most grateful that you are willing to do that for me. I value it more than you could possibly know, for not many people would dare do so.”
By breakfast, Anne had rebuilt every wall she had spent weeks slowly lowering around her husband. The effort required far more discipline than she had expected, but whatever had begun growing between her and Dorian had been imagined too freely and understood too foolishly.
He had never promised affection. Their marriage had been practical from the beginning, and she had been reckless enough to mistake closeness for something deeper.
She would not make that mistake again.
