She was surprised that her mother remembered something so personal about her. She had never once thought that her mother noticed her at all.
“No arguments,” her mother declared. “You are staying here.”
“I cannot impose?—”
“You are not imposing,” she interrupted, already calling for the housekeeper. “You are ill, and I am not allowing you to return to Ashford Hall in this condition. The Duke would not forgive me.”
Anne opened her mouth again, then closed it when another wave of exhaustion washed over her, leaving her more unsteady than she cared to admit.
“You will stay for several days if necessary,” her mother added, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “At least until you are properly recovered.”
Anne hesitated. A dozen objections formed and faded almost immediately, none of them strong enough to overcome the simple fact that she did feel unwell. But then she nodded, albeit reluctantly.
“Very well.”
Her mother’s expression softened at once, as though that single concession had eased something she had been holding tightly for years.
“Good,” she replied. “Then you will rest, and for once, you will not argue with me about it.”
Anne managed a faint, tired smile. “I make no promises,” she murmured.
But even as she spoke, she was already being guided to the quiet comfort of the guest room, the world around her beginning to blur at the edges in a way she could no longer quite control.
Her mother was at last acting like a mother.
She only wished it had happened years before.
CHAPTER 23
Your Grace,
I write to inform you that my daughter has developed a mild fever following her journey yesterday and is currently resting under supervision here at Rosemere House. There is no immediate cause for concern, though I have insisted she remain here until the fever subsides fully. She is weak but stable and being attended to properly.
In truth, I must admit that I am grateful for the opportunity to see my daughter, and she told me enough to know that she would not have come in the first place if it were not for you, so I must thank you for that.
It might not seem like it, but I do love my daughter, and I must also thank you for caring for her the way you do.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Holloway
Dorian stopped reading for a moment, simply staring at the words as though they might shift into something less alarming if he gave them enough time. When they did not, he forced himself to read it again, though the calm phrasing did nothing to ease what had already begun to take hold.
The letter had arrived the evening Anne had left, and was delivered with the kind of unhurried politeness that suggested the messenger had no idea that what he was carrying mattered at all.
Dorian did not think much of it at first, since he had been expecting to hear from Anne, but the handwriting was not hers, and that alone made something in his chest tighten before he had even read a full sentence.
He read it again, then again. By the time he reached the end, he was once again forced to think of Lily. He lowered the letter slightly as the study around him fell too quiet, the stillness pressing in where distraction had been only moments ago.
He remembered this pattern too well. A small illness first, dismissed as fatigue or nothing serious, followed by reassurances that rest would be enough, followed by days where everyone insisted there was no need to worry while he convinced himself that other matters demanded his attention more urgently.
He had believed them then. Everyone had. He had been told that Lily was simply tired, that she needed rest, that it was nothing to concern himself with, and he had accepted those explanations because he had wanted to believe them, because life had been full of obligations that always seemed louder than quiet unease.
There had been meetings that felt important at the time, social obligations he had not wanted to break, conversations that felt meaningless in hindsight. He could still remember laughing at something someone said about racing odds while Lily had been upstairs, unwell enough that she had not come down for dinner. He could still remember someone telling him not to fuss because it would pass soon enough.
He had listened. He had believed it.
His grip tightened slightly on the edge of the desk as the memory settled more heavily than he wanted it to, the past pressing itself into the present in a way he could not easily dismiss.
