Page 41 of Six Nights to Marry a Marquess

As he rode, the open fields a blur of greens and browns, Theodore’s mind raced as fast as his horse. The missed opportunity with Asmont loomed large, casting a shadow over his already burdened heart. His responsibilities—to his sisters, his tenants, and especially to Agnes—weighed heavily on him. The thought of failing them was intolerable.

He had always known his duty to his sisters, to protect and provide for them. Yet, unexpectedly, the desire not to disappoint Agnes had woven itself into his mind. Despite the pragmatic nature of their marriage, the thought of letting her down stirred an unfamiliar ache within him.

As the horse carried him further from his estate, the prospect of returning home—to face the consequences of his actions, to confront the uncertainties of his future—seemed more daunting than ever.

As Theodore reined his horse to a stop in the clearing, he raised his eyes toward the sky. Dark clouds were gathering, and they appeared to herald a storm. Despite that, an inexplicable reluctance held him back from turning around. The sound of approaching hoofbeats snapped him from his contemplation, and turning, he saw Agnes approaching.

Good heavens!He maneuvered his mount to face her.

Stopping before him, Agnes said, “I thought I should seek out my husband since he is reluctant to see me.” The sight of her, with wisps of hair dancing in the breeze and her eyes—so undeniably vibrant—quickened his pulse.

“I was going to return to the manor soon,” he found himself saying, though her pointed look told him she was unconvinced.

“I doubt that, given how far out you’ve ventured,” she retorted, one eyebrow arched.

“Ah, you not only came to find me but to challenge the verity of my words,” Theodore murmured as a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. “How did you find me?”

“I arrived at the stables shortly after you left, and the groom told me you headed north.” His brows furrowed, and she added, “Before that, Quentin told me that you left for the stables.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” He recalled how excited Quentin had been about the wedding, and he supposed the butler was already fond of Agnes.Who wouldn’t be? She practically looks angelic!

Agnes glanced upward. “We should go if we don’t want to be caught in the rain.”

Seizing the moment to tease her, Theodore said, “Do not tell me you are afraid of the rain, Lady Gillingham.” His use of her title carried a tenderness he did not expect, and he hastily shoved aside.

“Afraid? I merely prefer not to look like a drowned cat, unlike some.”

Theodore chuckled, “I assure you, my ability to repel water is second to none. But if we are to talk of cats, I daresay you’d make a rather elegant one, rain-soaked or not.”

Her cheeks flushed, and her laughter was warm. He was tempted to reach for her hand, to gain some of the connection he had lost. However, his contemplation was cut short as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, quickly escalating into a deluge. “We should have turned back when I said!” Agnes shouted over the roar of the rain.

“We would never have made it!” Theodore called back. “Follow me!” Urging his horse into a gallop, he led them toward the ruins of an old castle atop a hill.

By the time they reached the shelter of the ruins, both were thoroughly soaked, Agnes visibly shivering. He dismounted swiftly, assisting her down before tying both horses to a post in what used to be a great hall. Taking her hand, they hurried deeper into the structure until they found a large room with a fireplace.

He walked swiftly over to a blanket draped over a chaise and collected it, offering it to her. “You should dry yourself before the cold gets to you,” he advised, then turned his attention to kindling a fire.

“You come here often, do you not?” Agnes inquired, her gaze taking in the prepared kindling and the conveniently placed blanket.

“Yes,” Theodore responded simply, focusing on the task at hand. The room slowly warmed as the fire took hold.

As he turned away from the fireplace, his gaze fell upon Agnes, who was drying her hair with the blanket, her tresses taking on the appearance of gold ropes. “Come closer to the fire,” he said.

“Where is this place?” she asked, curiosity lighting her eyes as she moved to kneel beside him, the glow of the flames casting a soft light upon her features.

“It was the Gillingham ancestral seat during the Tudor era, but it fell to ruin after a fire,” Theodore explained.

“It must have been beautiful,” Agnes remarked, a note of reverence in her voice.

“The fire?” Theodore chuckled.

“No! The castle,” she clarified, smiling in spite of herself.

“It was. There’s a painting of it in the gallery back at the manor.”

“Will you show me the gallery?” Agnes’s request was straightforward, yet it held an undertone of something more—offense perhaps.

Theodore instinctively retreated behind the formality of their arrangement. “I am sure Mrs. Davis will be happy to?—”

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