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Chapter Four

“There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand.”

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

* * *

P hilip smiled, working to contain his delight. Every instinct told him this was right. This was no mere coincidence—it was destiny. An amazing quirk of fate had placed Annabel Ridley on his path, and he knew, without doubt, that this day would redefine his future.

This girl was special. This moment was special. It felt as though the very hands of providence were altering the course of his life.

And Richard is going to be furious. That thought brought an added rush of satisfaction, mixing triumph with his joy.

Philip was careful to hide the flood of emotions coursing through him, keeping his demeanor steady even as his heart raced with excitement.

“Excellent,” he said warmly, taking her hand in his. He raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her gloved fingers, his touch lingering just a moment longer than propriety dictated. “Our partnership shall be long and happy, my dear Miss Ridley.”

His mind filled with hopeful visions. He wanted a home filled with warmth, laughter, and life. He wanted to discover all the little things that made Annabel so fascinating, from her boldness to her quick wit. What books did she read? What dreams did she hold in her heart? What drove her to defy convention and ride through the night to seek him out?

He silently thanked his decision to agree to that magazine piece—an effort he had dismissed at the time as a silly vanity project. Yet it had drawn this extraordinary woman to him, and for that, he would be forever grateful.

He wanted to debate her ideas over dinner, share quiet moments in the library, and learn everything about her. She intrigued him like no one else ever had.

But now was not the time to indulge his dreams. He composed himself and spoke evenly. “I imagine you are in need of some rest after your journey. I will arrange for Clinton to find you something to wear while your riding clothes are cleaned. We can have dinner this evening, and tomorrow at first light, we will set out. I will see you safely home before your father has any reason to suspect your absence.”

Annabel tilted her head, studying him. “You do not plan to tell him about my … unconventional journey?”

Philip chuckled, shaking his head. “My dear Miss Ridley, I would not dare.”

Relief bloomed across her face, her smile lighting up the room. It was clear she had feared a reprimand, but instead, she had found an ally.

“As long as you promise,” he added, “that you will not risk your lovely neck on any more dangerous, cross-country escapades.”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “We shall see,” she replied, her voice light with insolence. “Once you come up to scratch, I will consider your request.”

Philip laughed heartily as he led her back into the hall. “Don’t worry, Miss Ridley. We shall wed before the week is done. Until that happy moment, I shall not sleep a wink, for I must ensure Scotland plays no part in your future plans.”

* * *

Within half an hour, a tall, redheaded maid led Annabel into a grand, ornate bedchamber overlooking the gardens and woods behind the manor. Through the large sash windows, she could see far into the distance, a stunning tapestry of walled gardens, trees, and bushes in a riot of colors, dissecting the expansive lawns. A gleam of water beyond the trees hinted at a hidden lake.

She sighed in delight. The park was magnificent.

Annabel arrived at the chamber slightly breathless from the effort it had taken to reach it. Avonmead was vast, its two enormous wings stretching in either direction. The trek up a grand staircase with ornate balustrades and through several lengthy passages, combined with her earlier exploration of the estate alongside the duke, had demonstrated the mansion’s immense size and scope.

The maid, however, showed no signs of weariness, her steady pace suggesting she was well accustomed to traversing such distances in her daily duties.

On the sky-blue jacquard counterpane, a fresh chemise had been laid out. Annabel’s fingers brushed the fine fabric of the bedcovers, admiring the intricate damask pattern woven with glossy and matte threads. If this was the luxury of a guest chamber, the Markham family’s private quarters must be astonishing.

Mary, the maid, cleared her throat. “I will help you undress to bathe, miss. We will have your ... riding clothes cleaned for the morning, and I will return to help you dress for dinner at about six this evening. His Grace instructed that you not be disturbed until then. We will find suitable garments for you to dine in.”

Mary hesitated over the mention of Annabel’s attire, and her disconcerted expression as she helped remove the unconventional clothing made it clear she was unsure what to make of it. Annabel suppressed a wry smile. No doubt, the girl had never encountered a woman daring enough to don masculine attire, and it left her feeling a bit self-conscious.

At Baydon Hall, the servants were tolerant of her eccentricities, but Annabel knew well that in more formal households, propriety was enforced with even greater rigor than among the peers they served. Richard had often regaled her with tales of his youthful exploits in such homes, though hindsight now made her wince. It was all too likely those anecdotes had omitted the disreputable details that caused the real trouble. Zooks, she had been na?ve not to have questioned them more deeply!

A hand-painted screen of flowers and birds shielded the hammered copper tub positioned near the fireplace. Rising steam curled around its edges, and Mary’s damp skin and slightly limp red hair attested to the effort she had expended filling it. Gathering Annabel’s unconventional attire with visible discomfort, the maid made for the door.

“Thank you, Mary,” Annabel said warmly.

The maid glanced back, her blue eyes rounding as if startled. Annabel supposed that gratitude from a guest was rare. But, earlier that day, the duke had demonstrated a familiarity with his household staff that spoke of a very different attitude. He had shown genuine regard for them, something Annabel doubted her father could even fathom. The baron’s interaction with his staff rarely extended beyond barking commands.

“Do you require help bathing, miss?” Mary asked hesitantly. “I can deliver your clothing to be laundered and return directly.”

“No, that will not be necessary. I shall see you later, to dress for dinner.”

Mary nodded shyly, retreating with a quiet click of the door.

Alone at last, Annabel took in her surroundings. The room was breathtaking. Sky-blue silk covered the walls, trimmed with freshly painted wainscoting. The bed—a massive four-poster—featured mahogany posts carved into palm trees, their gilded feather-like branches forming a canopy crowned with creamy feather finials.

A rich ivory, gold, and sky-blue rug framed a seating area with a striped damask sofa and matching armchairs, all arranged by a low table. Through a far door, Annabel glimpsed an adjoining room just as opulent as this one. Opposite the windows, gilt-framed portraits of Markham ancestors hung in stately grandeur.

Above her, the intricately paneled ceiling, painted in soft whites and creams, gleamed in the late afternoon light. Baydon Hall’s Tudor interiors, with their dark timbers and somber cream-painted panels, seemed gloomy compared to Avonmead’s airy elegance.

Annabel marveled at how her life had shifted in a single day. She could scarcely believe her daring in coming here.

She approached the copper tub, tested the water with her fingers, and stepped in, letting the warm embrace soothe her aching muscles. Leaning back, she breathed in the lavender-scented steam. Her pulse, racing with excitement since her arrival, refused to settle.

When she closed her eyes, her mind swirled with thoughts of Halmesbury, of his promise, and of the remarkable change in her fortunes.

She startled awake twenty minutes later, the water now cool and her neck aching from an awkward angle. Shaking off the lingering haze of sleep, she washed quickly, dried herself, and tugged on the fresh chemise.

Her limbs felt heavy as she slipped between the cool sheets of the magnificent bed. Exhaustion tugged at her, the culmination of a sleepless night and a month of ceaseless worry. For the first time in weeks, her mind was at ease.

As she drifted into slumber, her thoughts wandered back to her earlier conversation with Halmesbury. Why had he not spoken to Richard in three years?

* * *

As Philip buttoned his small clothes, he found himself bemused by the unexpected turn his life had taken earlier that day. His thoughts lingered on Annabel Ridley, the remarkable young woman who had so suddenly—and delightfully—changed his course.

Jones handed him his black trousers, but Philip waved them away.

“Jones, I believe something less formal is in order. Miss Ridley does not have proper evening attire for dinner, and I would not wish to embarrass her.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Might I suggest day wear to match the lady?”

Philip nodded, and Jones quickly returned with ivory trousers, a navy coat, and a poplin waistcoat.

As Philip stepped into the trousers, he felt a growing anticipation for the evening ahead. He eased his arms into the waistcoat, standing still as the valet tightened it to an exact fit. Raising his chin, he allowed Jones to tie his cravat in an intricate knot; the folds draping elegantly at his throat. Though Philip often avoided such stiff formalities when at Avonmead, tonight felt different. He wanted to look his best for Annabel.

“Will Miss Ridley be staying beyond tonight, Your Grace?” Jones’s tone was casual, but his curiosity was evident.

“Miss Ridley will leave in the morning,” Philip replied, adjusting his sleeves. “But I hope she will return by the end of the week—this time, as my bride.”

Jones’s hands stilled briefly before he resumed tying the cravat with practiced efficiency. “Congratulations, Your Grace. Just this morning, you were discussing the marriage mart, yet tonight you have a new duchess in hand.”

Philip chuckled softly at the valet’s understatement, recognizing the carefully phrased question behind the comment.

“Indeed, Jones. I was most surprised by Miss Ridley’s visit. Her timing was impeccable, and I find myself quite taken with her.”

Jones paused again, his gaze lifting to meet Philip’s. The valet’s bespectacled eyes shone warmly. “I am delighted to hear it, Your Grace. It will be uplifting to have a lady in residence once more. Miss Ridley sounds lovely—from what Clinton mentioned earlier.” He blanched. “Not that Clinton was gossiping, mind you!”

Philip allowed himself a brief smile. Jones had been with him since his teenage years, and their relationship had grown into one of mutual respect and trust. The valet’s well wishes were genuine and deeply appreciated.

“Miss Ridley is indeed lovely,” Philip said quietly as Jones retrieved the coat. Sliding his arms into the coat, Philip felt the weight of the fine wool settle over his shoulders. Jones fastened the gilt buttons with deft fingers, then circled him for a final inspection, smoothing the fabric and straightening every detail to his meticulous standards.

“I believe you are ready, Your Grace. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Thank you, Jones. I will meet with my man of business before dinner. Please ask Clinton to show him to my study when he arrives.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

“And Jones,” Philip added as he prepared to leave, “do not wait up for me tonight. I will undress myself. But I shall see you an hour before sunrise—I will escort Miss Ridley home at first light.”

The valet bowed, his satisfaction evident as he stepped back.

Philip exited his rooms, his mind racing with plans. He needed to set arrangements in motion, not only to finalize the matter with Lord Filminster, but also to prepare for his future with Annabel. His steps quickened as his thoughts turned to her—her courage, her wit, her intriguing nature.

The day had brought with it an unexpected joy, a sense of lightness he had not felt in years. As he moved purposefully toward his study to meet with his man of business, Philip could not help but feel a growing eagerness for what lay ahead.

* * *

As the quiet maid, Mary, helped her into an old-fashioned muslin dress, Annabel worked to quell the nervous excitement bubbling within her. The thought of spending an entire evening in the duke’s company felt both thrilling and daunting.

What would she talk about?

It was not every day she dined with a duke. Until this morning, she had never even seen a duke, much less spoken with one. She began mentally listing possible topics, but each one struck her as woefully dull.

Perhaps she should recall the conversations she had shared with Richard over the years. He had once told her she was captivating, so surely those topics would suffice. Horses and estate management were safe subjects, and she could always inquire about local customs or upcoming seasonal celebrations.

Her hand settled over her stomach as she fought to quiet the fluttering sensation of nerves. Butterflies seemed to whirl beneath her ribs. If she did not calm herself, she feared she would not be able to eat a bite.

Mary’s deft fingers moved quickly, working Annabel’s tangle of chestnut hair into a coiffure. Taking a deep breath, Annabel steadied herself.

No matter what happened, she would not ruin this proposal. She would learn everything needed to make the duke proud of her. For reasons she could not fully explain, his opinion mattered now. She wanted him to like her, to be glad he had offered her this chance.

She closed her eyes briefly, her resolve solidifying. She would be a good wife—and a good duchess, though the notion still seemed overwhelming. Such an elevation in status was unexpected when she had only ever hoped for a kind husband and a warm household. Now she faced a future so grand it left her a little breathless.

Mary stepped back and gestured toward the mirror.

Annabel turned, gasping softly at her reflection. The maid had outdone herself, fashioning Annabel’s hair into a cascade of chestnut curls that framed her face beautifully. She had never seen her hair styled so elegantly.

The muslin dress, while outdated, was simple and charming, its delicate red flowers embroidered around the hem adding a cheerful touch. The colors suited her, bringing a healthy glow to her cheeks. Annabel tilted her head, taking in the woman staring back at her. She suspected she looked ... attractive.

Still, she worried. The late duchess, with her flawless porcelain complexion, had set an impossibly high standard. Annabel’s sun-kissed skin, earned from hours spent riding outdoors, was far from the pale ideal of London fashion. She hoped the duke would not mind.

Her gaze lingered on her reflection. This was who she was—her complexion, her frame, her spirit. She could not change those things, and deep down, she did not wish to.

I am simply Annabel; she thought. And I must trust that I am enough.

* * *

Philip paced the length of the library, his boots soundless on the Axminster carpeting of rich gold and deep gray. Despite his calm exterior, a current of excitement hummed through him. He ran a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic display of nerves.

He could not remember the last time he had looked forward to spending time with someone as much as he anticipated this evening with Annabel. She was unlike any woman he had met—warm, genuine, and entirely without artifice. The prospect of her presence thrilled him, even as he reminded himself to temper his behavior. He did not want to overwhelm her or give her any reason to regret her decision to accept his proposal.

The sound of light footsteps echoed from the hall, interrupting his restless thoughts. Drawing a steadying breath, Philip straightened his coat and turned toward the door, schooling his features into a calm smile.

Annabel hesitated on the threshold, framed by the soft light of the sconces lining the hall. She wore an older muslin dress, likely unearthed from his late mother’s trunks. Though simple and modest, the gown suited her, its bodice highlighting her natural curves with an effortless grace. Her hair, styled in a cascade of chestnut curls, framed her face beautifully. She looked lovely—so much so that Philip’s heart skipped a beat.

Striding forward, he reached for her hand, brushing a light kiss across her gloved fingers as he bowed. A delicate scent of lavender drifted from her, and he forced himself to keep his thoughts—his impulses—in check.

“Your Grace,” Annabel said shyly, a small smile playing on her lips, “I must confess to feeling a little mortified this evening.”

“Mortified?” Philip asked, arching a brow in mock disbelief.

“I can only imagine what you must think of me—riding alone across two counties to seek you out.”

“We have already discussed this, have we not?” Philip replied, his tone light. “You are reckless and daring.” He paused, his voice softening. “But despite your teasing to the contrary, promise me that is the last time you do something so dangerous.”

Her gaze was earnest as she nodded. “I promise.”

“Good. Now promise me you will remain daring, though with a bit more caution.”

She gave him a startled look, then broke into a smile. “Daring but not reckless,” she agreed.

“Excellent.”

“In that vein,” she began, her eyes twinkling with humor, “I should know your name if we are to marry.”

“Philip. Philip Markham, at your service.”

“And do you?” she asked with a playful tilt of her head.

“Do I what?”

“Do you love horses? Your name—it means lover of horses, does it not?”

Her whimsical observation caught him off guard, and he chuckled. She was a puzzle—part country hoyden, part sharp-witted gentlewoman. Every moment spent with her revealed another delightful facet of her personality.

“I do, in fact,” he answered, smiling. “Very much.”

“I love horses, too,” she said warmly. “I ride daily. Avonmead must be a revelation to explore on horseback.”

“Then we shall ride together, and I will show you your new estate. Once we marry, you will have access to the finest stables in Wiltshire.”

“It is my first visit to this county. In fact, it is the first time I have left Somerset. Today has been quite the adventure.”

Philip watched her closely, marveling at her calm demeanor. She had agreed to marry him—a stranger—and yet showed no signs of wavering. She was no timid miss, and her fortitude only strengthened his belief that she was the perfect choice.

“Annabel,” he began, “may I call you Annabel?”

“I think it is far too late in the day to stand on ceremony,” she teased. “May I call you Philip?”

“I would be delighted.” He offered his arm. “Shall we explore the library until dinner is ready?”

As they strolled among the towering shelves, Philip pointed out various sections of books. “Here, we have periodicals—including Ackermann’s Repository and The Gentleman’s Magazine. It is quite helpful to read back issues when preparing for a Season. That way, one can catch up on the latest trends and topics of interest.”

“Does that include the recent issue featuring you?” Annabel asked, her tone teasing.

Philip grimaced. “Yes, it is all a bit embarrassing. Though I suppose I should not complain—it did bring you to Avonmead.”

Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled, clearly pleased.

They lingered in conversation, discussing the classical murals adorning the arched ceiling and their shared appreciation of Italian artists. They debated architectural styles—Annabel favoring the features of Avonmead, while Philip championed Gothic elements.

The library, with its eclectic blend of silks and Morocco leather furnishings, delighted Annabel. She marveled at its cozy yet grand design, imagining herself spending countless hours among its treasures.

The rich scent of aged paper and leather surrounded her, soothing and enticing. She realized with a start that this library might be the most enchanting aspect of the wealth and status marriage to Philip could offer.

Before she could voice her admiration, Clinton appeared at the doorway to announce dinner.

As Philip offered his arm once more, Annabel reflected on the day’s events. It felt like a dream—a perfect, unexpected dream. And as they left the library, she found herself hoping it would never end.