Page 25

“And you found yourself bested once more? Oh, yes, I remember well,” Theodore replied, the recollection offering a brief respite for him.

“Shall we, then?” Preston asked, his grip tightening on his reins.

“By all means,” Theodore responded. “We begin at the count of three. One. Two?—”

“Three!” Preston finished, urging his horse forward. This was exactly the way they always raced. Theodore would start the count and Preston would finish it.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as they raced through the field. Preston gained a slight advantage. With a grin, he called out, “You know, Theodore, I do believe I am going to win this one!”

“Do not delude yourself, Anthony!”

“Do not delude yourself, Anthony!” He leaned forward in the saddle, urging his horse on with all his might. The ground appeared to shake beneath the hooves as he aimed toward the distant woods. “Are you still confident?” he called.

“Always!” Preston made the mistake of glancing behind, and that slowed him, giving Theodore complete advantage. With a triumphant cry, Theodore sped past Preston, reaching the edge of the field where the woods began.

His heart was pounding, and his hair was in his eyes, but he was glad he won and appreciated Preston’s company.

“I should accuse you of cheating,” Preston said as he stopped beside him.

“How so?” Theodore threw him a smug smile.

“By distracting me.”

“I do not recall ever asking you to glance behind.”

Preston held out his hand. “You deserve this win as you deserved all the others.”

“Thank you!” Theodore shook his hand.

A part of him yearned for the return of those lost days of youth. Days when life unfolded with the simplicity of a child’s play, devoid of the burdens that now weighed heavily upon his shoulders. Back then, he could retreat into the cloistered confines of Eton and his friends’ company, a safe haven from his father’s stern disapproval, and indulge in the blissful pretense of being just another boy, rather than the heir to a cursed title.

But the naive boy of his past had been compelled to mature, spurred on by a duty far greater than himself—his devotion to his sisters. Despite the trials, he wouldn’t trade his place as their protector for anything in the world.

As they lingered near the woods, Theodore eventually broke the silence. “It is late. You should return to your wife, Anthony.”

“My wife will understand that tonight, someone else needs my company,” Preston responded. It was his way of offering solace, ensuring Theodore was not left to brood alone in the shadows of his troubles. “We should have another race,” he suggested. “A proper one with an audience and wagers.”

“That sounds like a splendid idea,” Theodore agreed.

As the night wore on and their time together neared its end, Preston ventured, “Miss Young would make an excellent Marchioness, you know.” The words, though softly spoken, struck Theodore with the force of a gale, unsettling the precarious balance he had fought to maintain.

Theodore’s jaw tensed as he grappled with the implications of his friend’s suggestion. “Have a good night, man,” he dismissed the topic with finality, unwilling to delve deeper into the complexities that lay beneath.

Yet, as he rode back home, the reality that he might have to extend an offer of marriage loomed over him. Another disconcerting possibility was that Agnes might not desire his proposal. And amidst this maelstrom of duty and desire, he was confronted by an even more unsettling truth—he would never be able to love her.

CHAPTER 13

“Agnes, darling, open the door,” Caroline’s gentle voice seeped through the wooden barrier for what felt like the umpteenth time that morning.

The events of the previous night had left Agnes with a heart so heavy she was anchored to her bed, her tears having been her sole companion as she drifted into a restless slumber. With the dawn, she had chosen solitude as her refuge, locking herself away in her room, desiring to bear her sorrows in isolation, reluctant to impose her gloom upon those she held dear.

“Agnes?” Caroline’s voice pierced the silence once more, a tender entreaty that tugged at Agnes’s heartstrings.

With a sigh borne of a mixture of fatigue and resignation, Agnes made her way to the door, her steps as hesitant as her resolve. Her hand lingered on the doorknob, the metal feeling unusually cold. Yet, the courage to open the door and face her mother eluded her. She stood motionless until the hall fell into a hush, signaling her mother’s reluctant departure.

Retreating to her previous vigil by the window that overlooked the garden, Agnes picked up her drawing sheets and sat. As she touched her pencil to the parchment to continue drawing the flowers in the garden, her eyes flooded with tears, blurring her vision. She had never felt removed from the world around her as she did not, and it was taking everything she had not to fall into despair.

“Aggie,” came Emma’s voice.