Page 12 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

T he corridor outside the drawing room was cloaked in quiet. A breeze stirred the curtains at the far end of the hall, and the candlelight cast long shadows on the walls. Anna stood near the staircase, her shawl wrapped loosely around her arms, her thoughts too tangled for rest.

Behind her, a soft voice broke the stillness.

“You find the night too restless for sleep, Lady Anna?”

Anna turned. Lady Sophia approached in a robe of fine muslin, her hair falling in soft waves, loosed from its usual pins. She held a small book in one hand but did not appear to have read a word of it.

“I might say the same of you, Lady Sophia,” Anna replied with a polite smile.

Sophia returned it with quiet ease. “Indeed. I find houses such as this are never entirely at rest. The silence has a way of stirring the mind.”

Anna inclined her head. “Too many thoughts, perhaps. Or too much company.”

Sophia stepped closer and leaned lightly against the banister. “There is always much to observe in a gathering like today’s. Picnics are rarely as simple as they appear.”

Anna gave a light laugh. “I am beginning to see that.”

Sophia studied her, calm and composed. “You seemed rather distracted this afternoon.”

“I did not mean to be.”

“No one said it was inappropriate.” She looked at Anna with a faint, unreadable expression. “Though I confess it is not every day one sees my brother engaged in such pointed conversation.”

Anna’s breath caught, but she lifted her chin. “I hope I did not overstep in speaking so plainly to him.”

“You did not. Henry is not easily offended.” Sophia paused. “Nor easily swayed.”

Anna folded her arms more tightly. “I wonder if anyone ever sways him.”

Sophia’s mouth curved faintly. “On occasion. Though he would never admit to it.”

Anna turned slightly, as if to look down the corridor. “He is… very certain of himself.”

“Too much so, at times,” Sophia said with a note of dry affection. “But it is a quality that serves him well.”

A beat of silence.

“Lady Sophia,” Anna began hesitantly, “I would not wish to be the subject of idle speculation.”

“You are a guest,” Sophia said evenly. “And I believe we have become friendly over the course of this visit. That is all that concerns me.”

Anna nodded slowly. “I thank you. I have grown fond of your company.”

“As I have of yours.” Sophia’s voice softened, but her bearing remained composed. “These gatherings can be stifling, particularly for those not inclined to play at things. It is nice to meet someone else who does not.”

Anna offered a quiet smile. “Sometimes I wish I did. It would make things easier.”

“Perhaps. But less honest.”

Sophia looked away then, toward the darkened end of the corridor. “Lady Anna… I would never presume to offer counsel where none is sought. But I will say this—my brother is his own man. Whatever his thoughts or intentions, he keeps them close. Always has.”

Anna swallowed. “That I have discovered.”

“Then let that be enough,” Sophia said gently. “You owe no one any explanation for your thoughts. Least of all in a house full of opinions.”

Anna drew a breath. “Thank you, Lady Sophia. Truly.”

Sophia offered a mild, composed smile. “Goodnight, Lady Anna.”

“Goodnight.”

The candle on her writing desk flickered, its golden light playing across the empty page before her.

Anna sat in her robe, her hair unpinned and falling in soft waves over her shoulder, pins tugged loose by sun and wind, with one curl trailing along her cheek. She didn’t try to tame it.

The house had fallen silent, no more laughter from the drawing room, no clinking glasses, no rustling of gowns. All the guests had retired. All was still.

Except her thoughts.

She dipped the quill, hesitated, and began to write.

“Henry…”

She stared at the name. It felt far too intimate on paper. Too raw.

She exhaled sharply and drew a line through it.

“Your Grace…”

That felt worse.

She paused again, the words refusing to come. Her fingers tightened around the quill.

Why was she doing this? Why had she let her feet pace the length of the room for nearly an hour, circling between restraint and recklessness like a moth to flame?

Because of the way he looked at her.

Because of the way she looked at him, and hated that she couldn’t look away.

She tossed the quill aside and stood abruptly, walking to the hearth. The fire had burned low, but it still offered a soft glow. Shadows danced on the walls as she wrapped her arms around herself.

It wasn’t just desire. It wasn’t only defiance.

It was that she didn’t know who she was around him, or rather, she did, and it terrified her.

She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Nearly midnight.

She crossed the room and paused at the window, fingers curling slightly against the sill. The gardens below were dark, the moon catching on silver leaves and stone paths. Somewhere in the stillness, an owl called once.

This was mad.

She turned toward the bed, as if to climb in, as if the idea of sleep could possibly compete with the storm inside her.

But her feet didn’t carry her there.

Instead, she went to the wardrobe. Her hand brushed over the silk of her nightgown, then hesitated over her dressing robe, simple but elegant, pale blue trimmed with lace. Her lamp cast a warm glow over the room, brushing golden light against the embroidered bodice of her nightgown.

If I go, I’ll regret it. If I don’t, I’ll always wonder.

She reached for the robe.

Slipping it on, she cinched the sash tight, her breath caught halfway between defiance and dread.

She paused at the door.

There was no point pretending this wasn’t impulsive.

Anna pressed her lips together, then turned.

Then she turned back, grabbed the note she had begun, crumpled it, and tossed it into the fire.

The paper curled and blackened.

She stepped into the corridor.

The air felt cooler outside her room. She kept her steps slow, alert to every creak, every breath of wind through the old house.

She moved quietly, slippers silent against the wooden floorboards as she slipped into the hall.

She passed the guest chambers slowly, her breath shallow, her ears straining for any sound behind the other doors.

Nothing. The gentle murmur of wind. The faint creak of a shutter.

Now she walked it, candle in hand, heart pounding.

The house was quiet now, thick with that peculiar hush that came after long summer days of company and conversation. Somewhere in the east wing, a clock ticked soft and steady.

Down the stairs, around the bend.

The east wing was quieter still. Warmer, somehow older wood, less draft. A hall lit dimly by wall sconces led her toward a series of dark oak doors.

She paused at the third one.

Her hand hovered just above the surface of it, heart hammering.

She wasn’t sure if she’d knock. She wasn’t even sure if she could. She wasn’t sure if this was a terrible idea, only that it was already far too late to turn back.

And then, light movement behind the door.

Footsteps. A shadow shifting past the gap under it.

Anna swallowed, raised her hand.

And knocked softly. Twice.

Henry leaned back in the armchair by the hearth, one leg crossed lazily over the other, a half-finished glass of brandy in hand.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the bookshelves and paneled walls.

He hadn't lit all the candles. Only a few glowed, enough to read, enough to think, not enough to make the room welcoming. He didn’t particularly want company.

The house was quiet. Most of the guests had retired after the picnic and supper. He should have been tired too, but instead, he was restless. Instead of quiet, his thoughts had turned louder.

Anna.

Anna Hessey had the singular ability to take up space in his mind with very little effort.

He had spent the day trying not to look at her too much, trying not to listen too closely when she spoke.

Her wit was impossible to ignore, but it was her silences that had undone him, those little pauses where she seemed to choose which part of herself to reveal.

And then that banter. God, that banter. She gave as good as she got, with a glint in her eye that both infuriated and fascinated him.

He didn’t trust himself around her, and worse, he didn’t trust what he wanted.

Since he’d met her, she’d been sharp. Bold. Too quick for her own good. But today, today had left an ache in him he couldn’t name. A taste of something he wasn’t supposed to want.

That one moment when the wind had caught her hair and she’d caught him watching. The way her smile had faltered just slightly before she turned away. He wasn’t sure what that had meant, but he’d felt it like a thread tugged tight between them.

And now here he was. Sitting alone, restless, staring into the fire as if it might burn the thought of her from his mind.

It didn’t.

Only because His Grace insists on being…inscrutable.

He smirked faintly. She’d thrown that line during the picnic. And he’d thought about it far too many times since.

“Inscrutable, indeed,” he muttered.

Still, it wasn’t untrue. He was deliberate. Guarded even. There were things he didn’t allow himself to feel, not fully. Not anymore.

He crossed the room to his writing desk and poured himself the last of the brandy from the decanter, but the glass barely held two fingers. He sighed, then reached for the bell pull and gave it a short tug.

“Brandy,” he said to the footman just outside his door. “And something to put out the damn fire.”

He rolled his neck, loosened the collar of his shirt, and leaned back against the edge of the desk, eyes flicking to the closed door. No doubt the footman would knock any moment with the tray, just as he’d requested.

So when the knocks came, he didn’t bother looking up.

“Finally,” he muttered, “Took you long enough, Reynolds.”

The door creaked open an inch, then stopped, enough for the warm light inside to spill across the hall.

He walked towards the door, his voice came, low and distracted. “Ah, thank you, I was starting to think you were slow. I’d-”

He stopped because it was not the footman with brandy.

It was Anna.

In a robe. Hair undone. Eyes too bright for the hour. He thought his mind was playing tricks and making a mockery of his thoughts.

For a moment, he could only stare.

The door opened further, and there she really was, framed by the flicker of candlelight from the corridor.

Her hair was half-pinned, a few errant strands brushing her cheek.

She wore a dressing gown over her nightclothes, the hem just brushing the tops of her slippers.

Her lips parted slightly, as though even she hadn’t fully decided what she would say.

Their eyes locked. She looked every bit the tempest she always was, defiant and uncertain all at once.

Henry’s grip on the door tightened subtly. His expression shifted, shocked, yes, but something else too. Alert. Controlled, like a man very suddenly aware of a precipice underfoot.

“Lady Anna,” he said, slowly, as if naming a dream might cause it to vanish. “Forgive me. I was expecting brandy.”

Anna’s chin lifted half an inch. “May I come in?”

He blinked once. “I… yes. Of course.”

He stepped aside. She entered and he closed the door behind her, slowly. The latch clicked like thunder.

Anna turned to him.

“I came to say something.”

“Clearly,” he said, a touch wry now, though his voice was lower, his words cautious. “Though I admit, this wasn’t quite the encounter I imagined.”

“Nor I,” she replied.

Henry had always prided himself on restraint.

But this, Anna standing there in a robe and slippers, her eyes uncertain but burning, this was not something he’d prepared for. This was not a scenario for which he had ever rehearsed.

He’d seen what happened to men who lost their heads over women. He’d sworn he never would.

And yet, here he was. Breath unsteady. Heart pounding like it had recognized her before his mind had caught up. His gaze swept over her face, lingered on the flush in her cheeks, the flicker of doubt in her eyes. She had come here afraid, and still come anyway.

She folded her hands before her. Unfolded them. She looked like she’d rehearsed a speech but now found it abandoned her completely.

And damn him—he wanted her for it. Not just her beauty, though God knew she was a vision that would haunt his sleep. No, it was the nerve of her. The boldness. The soul of a woman who would walk down a corridor after midnight just to say what needed to be said.

He could feel himself slipping.

Not into lust—he could name lust. He had made peace with it. But this? This was something else. Something more dangerous.

Something terrifying.

A second knock startled both of them.

Henry’s blood ran cold.

“Stay behind the door,” he said swiftly, pressing a finger to his lips. She obeyed without question, slipping into the shadows near the hearth as he stepped back into the light.

Reynolds entered with a silver tray. “Your brandy, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” Henry said, taking it with a nod, body angled to block the view of the room. “I won’t need anything further.”

Nothing the footman could give him.

The door closed with a soft click. Silence stretched.