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As Annabel stood in silence, she realized it would be difficult, if not impossible, to compete with the late duchess in the duke’s heart. It was clear how deeply his feelings ran. Halmesbury was not a demonstrative man, but beneath his composed exterior, he felt things with a depth that set him apart from any other man she had ever known.
Earlier, he had spoken of his estate and his responsibilities with a passion that revealed his care for others. He was a man of genuine emotion and honor, and her heart wanted to trust him.
She wanted this. She wanted it far more than a lifetime tied to faithless Richard.
Annabel turned her gaze back to the painting. The duchess was riveting—her soft blonde curls, crystal blue eyes, and poised elegance were the epitome of perfection. In comparison, Annabel felt all too aware of her own perceived shortcomings. Her father had never hesitated to point out her unfashionable olive skin, her darker hair, and the figure that defied conventional ideals: hips a bit too rounded, a frame a bit too slim, and a bosom a bit too full.
“She was a beautiful woman,” Annabel murmured.
“Yes,” Halmesbury replied simply. “The duchess was a diamond of the first water.”
Annabel glanced down at her masculine attire, her buckskins and linen shirt clinging after her long ride. Standing before the portrait of such a refined lady, she felt like a world apart. She could imagine Jane excelling at all the ladylike pursuits that had eluded her own interest—playing the pianoforte, needlework, singing. Annabel had never mastered any of it.
It was as if it were a before-and-after comparison perhaps, with Annabel representing the before. Before attending finishing school, before an introduction to court, and before visiting a London modiste for an appropriate wardrobe.
“I must be honest,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “I would have much to learn to become a proper duchess.”
Halmesbury’s tone was reassuring. “We will hire a companion and tutors to prepare you.”
She nodded, though the comparison to Jane lingered. Unlike the late duchess, Annabel had not captivated this man across a ballroom or inspired a romantic pursuit. He had not sought her out, compelled by some irresistible force. No, she had fallen into his lap at precisely the moment when, for reasons she did not fully understand, she met his private criteria for a wife.
Perhaps the only thing in her favor was her timing, and that Halmesbury felt inclined to help her. She knew he could find a wife who was more gracious, more beautiful, and more deserving of his attentions.
“The ton will not be kind when they compare me to her,” she declared softly.
Halmesbury snorted. “As a collective, the ton is never kind. But you are an original, Miss Ridley. And as my wife, no one I care about will dare to be unkind.”
Annabel felt a warmth bloom in her chest at his words. She was unused to such appreciation, and his compliment made her feel unique, even beautiful. Whatever had prompted the duke’s offer, today she allowed herself a moment of selfishness. This was her chance to change her fate.
No longer would she have to risk a perilous journey to Scotland, relying only on her mother’s jewels to survive. She could marry the duke. And, if she were honest with herself, she wanted to know this fascinating man of hidden depths. He was a man who treated others with dignity and kindness, even when there was nothing for him to gain. It had been so long since anyone had truly cared for her—not since Mama.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling within her.
Annabel knew, as surely as she had known in the stable a month ago, that this moment would change her life forever. She did not know what the future held, but she understood the gravity of the decision before her.
For weeks, she had felt like a leaf in the wind, carried wherever her father’s ambitions and Richard’s indifference dictated. Now, for the first time in weeks, someone had offered her a choice.
She could walk away and accept the future her father had arranged—a future of neglect and isolation at Richard’s country seat. Or she could take a chance on this man, this guarded but generous stranger, who promised to stand by her side.
Her pulse quickened as her thoughts came into focus.
Fortune favors the bold, Annabel.
“I accept.”
The words hung in the air, decisive and clear. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her resolve held firm.
Annabel looked at Halmesbury, the guarded man who had offered her a lifeline, and felt a flicker of hope. She liked him—more than liked him. She respected him. And she would do everything in her power to make this unexpected partnership not only work, but thrive.
Chapter Four
“There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand.”
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
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