Page 11 of Miss Ridley and the Duke

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.