"Do you mean that?"
"I'm beginning to," Anne replied honestly. "Time and distance have provided perspective. What happened was painful, but I cannot deny that I'm happier now than I would have been as Charles's wife."
Marie's eyes filled with tears.
"I never thought to hear you say such a thing. I've been consumed with guilt even in my happiest moments with him."
Anne reached out impulsively, squeezing her sister's hand.
"Perhaps it's time we both found peace with what happened."
The gesture, simple though it was, marked a significant turning point in their fractured relationship. As they rejoined the main group, Anne felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. Not completely, but enough to breathe more freely.
The remainder of the day passed pleasantly, the countryside bathed in golden late afternoon light as the party returned to Brentwood Hall.
Anne found herself beside David for the journey back, seated comfortably in an open carriage as their driver navigated the winding country lanes.
"You seem lighter, somehow," David observed. "Your conversation with your sister went well."
"Better than I expected," Anne admitted. "We've taken the first steps toward reconciliation, I think."
David's smile was warm with approval.
"I'm glad. Family bonds should not be discarded lightly, even after significant hurt."
"Your wisdom continues to astonish me, Your Grace," Anne teased gently.
"Hardly wisdom," he replied, "merely observation. My own family has weathered its share of storms."
Anne realized how little she knew of his personal history.
"You rarely speak of your family."
"There is little to tell. My parents died when I was young, my father of fever, my mother of a broken heart not long after. I was raised primarily by my grandfather, the previous duke."
"I'm sorry for your losses," Anne said softly.
David's expression grew distant.
"My grandfather was a good man, if stern. He taught me the responsibilities of my position, the importance of honor and duty, but there was little warmth in our home after my mother's passing."
"Is that why you never married?" Anne asked, then immediately regretted her boldness. "Forgive me. That was impertinent."
"Not at all," David assured her. "And yes, perhaps that contributed. I saw little evidence of love in marriages around me, merely arrangements of convenience and advantage. I decided I would either marry for deeper reasons or not at all."
The carriage rounded a bend, bringing Brentwood Hall into view, its windows glowing amber in the setting sun.
"And now?" Anne asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
David's gaze met hers, intense and unwavering.
"Now I find myself reconsidering that position. Quite significantly."
The implications of his words hung between them as the carriage rolled to a stop before the house. Before Anne could respond, footmen appeared to assist them, and the moment for intimate conversation passed.
That evening, as the guests gathered in the drawing room after dinner, Lady Caroline announced an impromptu musical entertainment.
"We have several accomplished musicians among us," she declared. "I insist we take advantage of such talent."
Various guests were cajoled into performing. A gentleman played the violin rather skillfully. A young lady sang an Italian aria with more enthusiasm than precision. And Charles demonstrated unexpected talent at the pianoforte.
"And now," Caroline announced, "we simply must hear from Lady Anne. I'm told your playing is quite exceptional."
Anne demurred.
"You're too kind, Lady Caroline, but I fear my skills have grown rusty with disuse."
"Nonsense," the hostess insisted. "Lord Harrington mentioned your beautiful rendering of Beethoven just the other day."
Anne glanced at David, who looked both pleased and slightly embarrassed at being revealed as her advocate.
"Very well," she conceded, moving to the instrument as Charles vacated the bench.
The pianoforte was a fine one, responsive to her touch as she began a Chopin nocturne from memory. Anne lost herself in the music, the haunting melody filling the room as her fingers moved with increasing confidence across the keys.
When she finished, the applause was genuine and appreciative. She looked up to find David watching her with such undisguised admiration that her cheeks grew warm.
"Magnificent," Caroline declared. "Now, Lord Harrington, I believe you owe us a song."
David looked startled.
"I fear you're mistaken, Lady Caroline. I possess no musical talent whatsoever."
"Then recite something for us," she persisted. "Poetry, perhaps? Every educated gentleman has a verse or two committed to memory."
Cornered, David rose and took a position near the fireplace.
"Very well. A brief selection from Tennyson, if I may."
Anne watched as he composed himself, surprised by this unexpected development. When he began to speak, his rich baritone gave new dimension to the familiar lines.
"Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white. Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk. Nor winks the goldfinch in the porphyry font. The firefly wakens. Waken thou with me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, and slips into the bosom of the lake. So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me."
The room fell silent when he finished, the atmosphere charged with emotion. Anne felt her heart racing, the poet's words and David's gaze combining to create a moment of profound connection.
Caroline broke the spell with enthusiastic applause.
"Splendid! I had no idea you had such a gift for recitation, Lord Harrington."
The evening progressed with more music and conversation, but Anne remained acutely aware of David's presence, of every glance they exchanged, every accidental brush of hands as he passed her a cup of tea.
Later, as guests began retiring for the night, David approached her in a quiet corner of the room.
"Would you walk with me in the gardens tomorrow morning?" he asked. "There is something I wish to discuss with you."
Anne's pulse quickened.
"Yes, of course. After breakfast?"
"Perfect," he replied, his smile warming his serious features. "Until then, sweet dreams, Lady Anne."
She watched him depart, a curious mixture of anticipation and anxiety fluttering in her chest. Something had shifted between them, something significant and irrevocable.
In her chamber that night, Anne stood by the window, gazing out at the moonlit gardens where she would meet David tomorrow. Whatever he wished to discuss, she sensed it would change her life forever, and found herself embracing that change with open arms.
Dawn arrived with gentle insistence, pale golden light filtering through the curtains of Anne's chamber. She had slept fitfully, her dreams filled with fragments of poetry and David's voice. Now fully awake, she found herself both eager for and apprehensive of their morning meeting.
After a careful toilet, Anne selected a walking dress of pale blue muslin, simple yet becoming, with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt, suitable for a country morning. Her maid arranged her golden hair in a neat chignon, adorned with a single blue ribbon that matched her gown.
"You look particularly lovely this morning, my lady," the maid observed as she adjusted a final pin.