Page 4

Chapter Three

“I am content to reason with you.”

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

* * *

“B efore we proceed, have you eaten anything today?” Halmesbury asked.

Annabel couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face, but she quickly tempered it. His solicitousness was appealing, but she reminded herself not to judge too hastily. Richard had often appeared solicitous, only to use it as a tool for manipulation. Kindness could not be taken at face value; it needed time and consistency to prove its authenticity. If she accepted this man’s offer of marriage, she would be entrusting him with her future—there would be no undoing such a decision.

“I have not,” she admitted. “I am, in truth, famished.”

“Very well. I will have a light meal prepared,” the duke replied. He paused, then added, “Mrs. Thorne—I mean, Clinton—will see to it.”

“Mrs. Thorne?”

“Mrs. Thorne was my housekeeper until recently. She approached me with concerns about the poor conditions at the Halmesbury Home for Children. Together, we worked to improve the facility, which has since been renamed the Halmesbury Home for Beloved Children. Mrs. Thorne is now its matron. She is an extraordinary woman—competent and compassionate. The children are fortunate to have her care and attention.” His tone softened with genuine respect. “As for us, we are managing without her, though not without difficulty. Clinton has taken on additional responsibilities with the assistance of a senior maid. My wife”—he coughed lightly—“if I had one, would be involved in sorting it out.”

Annabel grinned. “That is shameless.”

The duke arched a golden eyebrow. “I do not know to what you are referring.”

“You are using your admirable philanthropic efforts as a bribe to sway me, along with the promise of managing this elegant home.”

Halmesbury shrugged, his expression entirely unrepentant, as he rang for Clinton and returned to his seat on the red-and-ivory striped Chippendale sofa. Annabel could not help but notice the way his broad shoulders filled his navy coat. His posture was relaxed, his manner at ease, suggesting he did not stand on formality within his private domain.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Halmesbury called.

An elderly butler stepped inside. Tall and slim, with a distinguished air and graying hair, he glanced briefly at Annabel before addressing the duke.

“Miss Ridley and I would care for a light meal,” Halmesbury said. “Perhaps tea and sandwiches. Please see it is prepared quickly.”

Clinton bowed.

“And,” the duke added, “Miss Ridley’s presence here is not public knowledge. Ensure the servants understand this visit is not to be discussed.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Clinton rasped in a hoarse voice. He bowed again and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Clinton,” Halmesbury lifted a brow to Annabel in question. “Miss Ridley has a mount we should see to?”

Annabel nodded. “Starling is tied to the first copse of trees near the drive, just beyond the bushes.”

Clinton nodded. “I will send a groomsman to retrieve the mount, Miss Ridley.” With a final bow, he exited the study, closing the door softly behind him.

“So, Miss Ridley,” Halmesbury said, turning his attention back to her, “do you have any questions while we wait for your meal?”

Annabel hesitated briefly, then said, “What would make you a better choice than Lord Saunton?”

“For one, I am committed to being faithful to my wife. I believe that was an important criterion?”

Annabel nodded.

“And, like you, I wish to build a family and enjoy a harmonious household. I would not leave you isolated at my country estate, which I suspect is what Lord Saunton had planned. When I go to London, I would want you at my side, sharing in the duties and social commitments. That said, I prefer life here at Avonmead, so we would spend much of our time at home. Together.”

“That sounds promising,” Annabel admitted.

Halmesbury smiled. “I am also invested in the well-being of my tenants and the community. I am currently improving the tenant homes, expanding the local school, and establishing a vocational program for the older children at the Halmesbury Home. I would welcome a wife who could assist with these projects, as well as manage the household.”

“I would love to be involved,” Annabel replied earnestly. “I have always visited our tenants and tried to help where my father allowed. Sometimes a little more than he permitted, if I am being honest.” She smiled wryly. “What the baron does not know cannot be criticized.”

The duke chuckled softly. “Good. I will be honest in return—I do want children.”

“Of course,” Annabel said, inclining her head.

Halmesbury hesitated briefly, as though choosing his next words carefully. “And I do intend to engage in the activities that lead to children.”

Annabel swallowed hard, heat rising to her cheeks. She knew little of what those activities entailed, though she had a vague understanding. The candid way he spoke surprised her, though it also reassured her of his honesty. She could imagine that intimacy with a man like Halmesbury would be … agreeable.

She quickly banished the thought and managed a composed smile. “That sounds agreeable to me.”

For the briefest moment, a look of relief flickered across Halmesbury’s face before he returned to his usual calm demeanor. Annabel could not help but wonder what had passed through his mind, though she supposed she might find out in time.

* * *

They lingered over their impromptu meal, their conversation flowing easily as the duke spoke of his estate and tenants. He described the improvements he had implemented over the years with a balance of passion and practicality. Annabel listened intently, impressed by his dedication. His plans were carefully designed to benefit both the estate’s profitability and the well-being of his tenants.

It was clear to her Halmesbury viewed himself as a caretaker, striving to create equilibrium within his community. He introduced changes gradually, ensuring they would be sustainable and harmonious. His attention to both the broader vision and the finer details revealed a thoughtful leader. To Annabel, this only heightened his appeal as a potential husband.

“I make the decisions regarding the stables at Baydon Hall,” Annabel offered, encouraged by his openness. “With my brother gone these past four years and my father rarely involved, I have worked closely with our stable master to maintain them. It is one area where I have had some autonomy.”

She paused mid-sentence as their hands brushed while reaching for the same sandwich. The touch of his warm fingers sent an unexpected tingle up her arm, and she quickly withdrew her hand, willing herself to maintain composure.

“Please, go ahead,” he said, his voice courteous as he gestured for her to take the sandwich.

Annabel hesitated, wishing—though she dared not admit it aloud—that he had left his hand resting on hers. Richard had often touched her in passing over the years, but his touch had never elicited such a reaction. She began to see her relationship with Richard for what it truly was: a comfortable familiarity, not the grand love she had once naively believed.

“How many mounts do you have at Baydon Hall?” the duke asked, smoothly steering the conversation forward.

As Annabel answered, she acknowledged to herself how intoxicating it was to have his full attention. He listened with genuine interest, his engaging manner putting her at ease. She quelled any inclination to flirt, determined to match his calm and composed manner.

Once their meal concluded, Halmesbury led her on a tour of the house. The grand library captivated her immediately. Its soaring bookcases, shaped arches, and a large medallion inset against towering windows overlooking the parkland gave the room a majestic air with the added whimsy of Moroccan influences. Annabel felt a pang of longing to explore its shelves at leisure. The thought of having access to such a collection was yet another reason to seriously consider his proposal.

They moved on to the portrait gallery, where a long line of family portraits stretched along the right wall, interspersed with Italian marble sculptures and tall windows on the left. Halmesbury guided her down the gallery, sharing stories of seven generations of the Markham family.

“… and this was my mother,” he said, stopping before the portrait of a serene, elegant woman. “She passed away when I was a boy, during childbirth. She loved lively debates and brought a sense of unity to our family. I miss the feeling of togetherness she created.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Annabel said gently. “And your father?”

“He died a few years after my mother,” Halmesbury replied. “I suspect he never recovered from losing her. Without her to anchor us, our family slowly drifted apart. My younger brother, Sebastian, is currently on his Grand Tour. He writes occasionally but has been away for some time.” He paused, then added, “But I miss having family here. This house can feel empty without them.”

Annabel nodded, sensing his loneliness.

As they approached the next portrait, the duke’s expression shifted. The painting depicted a beautiful woman with golden curls and crystalline blue eyes, dressed in elegant court attire. Halmesbury’s jaw tightened as he averted his gaze, looking toward the far end of the gallery as though seeking an escape.

“This is my late wife, Jane,” he said finally, his voice subdued.

Annabel remained silent, allowing him the space to continue. The air between them felt heavy, thick with unspoken emotions. It was clear he had loved his wife deeply, and Annabel felt a pang of something she could not name.

“She was a proper daughter of polite society,” Halmesbury said, his tone measured. “But we were not well-matched. I regret not taking the time to truly know her before we wed. Our marriage was strained before she fell ill.”

Annabel gazed at the portrait, marveling at the late duchess’s flawless beauty. Encased in a gilded frame, Jane held a place of honor in the gallery. Annabel could easily imagine what had first attracted the duke to her. Compared to such perfection, she felt acutely aware of her own disheveled state: her sweat-dampened buckskins, limp linen shirt, and hair in a simple plait.

What could he possibly desire from her?

Seize the day, Annabel, she told herself firmly. Not tear yourself to pieces. Squaring her shoulders, she resolved to focus on what truly mattered: the man before her and the possibilities of their future.

* * *

Philip stared up at the face of his late wife. He rarely ventured into the portrait gallery, avoiding this particular image that reminded him of an unhappy time. Yet today, he felt compelled to confront it. Annabel deserved honesty about his past—about his imperfections. She needed to know he had experienced failure in the most personal of unions.

He had not realized, until those early days of his first marriage, that he could be selfish. Jane had been young and shy, her delicate nature unsuited to the strength of his personality. Her silences, her tears, and her eventual retreat into isolation had revealed truths about himself that he could not ignore. Somehow, without meaning to, he had driven her to despair.

Her ghost lingered in his thoughts. The knowledge that he had failed her haunted him, even now. He had lacked sufficient patience, gentleness, and understanding. The realization had come too late to undo the damage. Her death had cemented his regrets, leaving him to grapple with the consequences of his self-absorption.

But those regrets had also taught him valuable lessons. He had learned from his mistakes and resolved to do better. He could not remain in solitude forever, locked in a half-life of regret. His thirtieth birthday had dawned with the startling awareness that three years had passed while he merely existed, not truly living.

It was time to try again.

Annabel was nothing like Jane. Where his late wife had been quiet and retiring, Annabel was bold, fiery, and untamed. Her strength was a magnet for his own, drawing him toward a possibility he had not dared imagine. If he approached their union with care, he believed he could build something real, something lasting, with this remarkable woman.

The thought gave him hope.

“My late wife was a restrained and proper daughter of polite society,” he continued, his voice steady though his heart felt exposed.

He glanced at Annabel, gauging her reaction. She listened intently, her expression unreadable but not dismissive. Encouraged, he continued.

“I am afraid I did not get to know her as well as I would have wished before she passed. Our brief marriage was … strained, even before she fell ill. There are things I wish I had done differently, lessons I have taken to heart.”

He let the admission settle between them, the weight of his words filling the quiet. As he looked back at Jane’s portrait, he made a silent vow:

I will not repeat my mistakes. I will treat Annabel with care. I will not overwhelm her with my ardor or let my impatience push her away. If she will have me, I will protect her, cherish her, and honor her as I failed to do with Jane.

Closing his eyes briefly, he steadied himself. When he turned to Annabel, he found her watching him closely. Her thoughtful gaze unsettled him. What was she thinking?

Was she repulsed by his past? By the admission of his flaws and the weight of his history? He could not blame her if she was. But the thought of losing her—of her choosing to walk away—clenched his chest in a way he had not expected.

He valued her presence more than he could articulate. She was vibrant and compelling, her intelligence and wit a match for his own. In the short time they had spent together, she had stirred feelings he had thought dormant. He hoped, fervently, that he had not scared her away with his candor.

Pretending patience he did not feel, Philip returned her gaze, waiting for her response.

* * *

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.