Page 13 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

W hile Henry attended to the footman, Anna pressed a hand to her chest, willing it to still. What was she doing? Hiding in a man’s chambers like a reckless schoolgirl in a gothic novel? She could practically hear Julia’s voice, If you’re going to do something mad, darling, do it beautifully.

It wasn’t beautiful. It was disastrous. And foolish. And far, far too late to turn back.

“I won’t need anything further,” Henry said, his voice calm, smooth as ever. Did he feel this frantic thrum in his blood, this spark dancing in the room like a struck match? Did his hands shake slightly, the way hers now did beneath her gown’s wide sleeves?

Anna took a good look at the room. His room was warm and dark-wooded, a fire banked low in the hearth, casting gold across thick rugs and leather-bound books. A decanter sat half-empty on the table, beside a glass he had almost finished.

She turned and faced him. He looked tired, shirt slightly unbuttoned, waistcoat gone, hair mussed like he’d run his hand through it one too many times. The lighting was low, warm, and private. She shouldn’t be here. She knew that.

Henry exhaled as the door latched once more. He held the tray in one hand, but his gaze flicked back toward the hearth, where Anna lingered in the half-light.

“You may come out now,” he said quietly. “I believe the danger has passed.”

Anna stepped forward slowly, her hands clasped, eyes darting toward the door before settling on him again.

Henry set the tray on the sideboard, turned to face her, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“I thought I planned this,” she said at last.

“I rather assumed you didn't.”

Her lips twitched into something too pained to be a smile. “I stood by my window for what felt like an hour. Told myself I was being foolish. I still may be.”

His brow lifted slightly. “And what conclusion did you reach?”

“That being foolish might be preferable to being silent.”

He folded his arms loosely, studying her. “You’ve never struck me as particularly silent.”

“Not with other people,” she admitted. “But with you…”

He waited.

“With you, I second-guess myself.” Her fingers twisted at the sash of her robe. “And I don’t particularly like it.”

“Nor do I,” he said, quietly.

That seemed to catch her off guard. She blinked. “You don’t?”

“No.” He moved a step closer, his expression unreadable but not cold. “I’ve been second-guessing myself all day. Possibly all week. And I make it a rule not to do so.”

“Ah,” she said lightly, “you must be terribly uncomfortable.”

“You have no idea.”

They stood there, the space between them small but charged, as though the room itself was holding its breath.

Anna looked away first. “I came to say something. But now that I’m here, I realize words are woefully inadequate.”

“That’s rather the curse of them, isn’t it?” he said. “They’re never enough when one needs them most.”

Her eyes met his again. “Then allow me to try anyway.”

He inclined his head slightly. “I’m listening.”

“I won’t stay long,” she said.

“I suppose that depends on how long it takes you to say what you came to say.” He gestured towards the settee beside him.

She didn’t sit. She barely moved, hands clasped in front of her like she might wring the courage from her fingers. “There’s been talk. About you. And me. About how… we’ve behaved.”

He looked amused. “We exchanged ten lines at a picnic.”

“That’s nine more than I should have,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek.

“You came to apologize for that?”

“No,” she said. Then, “Yes. I don’t know. I came because… I need to be clear.”

“I know what they say about you, I came to say that… whatever this is, it cannot happen. You’ve made your intentions clear to the entire ton. ”

“Have I?”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Everyone knows you won’t marry. And the entire ton knows it. Knows that any woman foolish enough to believe otherwise is courting heartbreak.”

His mouth tightened, not in anger, but something more complex. He said nothing.

She stepped closer, slow but sure, though her heart thudded wildly in her chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown as if to anchor herself.

“I’m not foolish, Henry.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something in his expression shifted. His voice was low, almost reverent. “Anna... I never took you for such.”

“I had to make that clear. To you. To myself.”

Her chin lifted, defiant even as her voice wavered. Henry stepped closer, not enough to touch, but near enough that she could feel the heat of him. His presence was overwhelming, and yet, maddeningly still.

“And you think,” he said quietly, “that a man incapable of marriage cannot want?”

Anna blinked, her breath catching. For a heartbeat, she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“You said so yourself,” she finally managed, her voice strained and breaking in places. “You don’t intend to marry. Well, I must. I have to.”

The confession came out in a rush, edged with bitterness she hadn’t meant to reveal. Her throat tightened. She hated that it trembled, hated how bare she felt standing there.

“This thing,” she whispered, eyes shimmering though she refused to let a single tear fall, “whatever it is between us, it cannot go anywhere. I cannot afford for people to think otherwise.”

Her voice cracked, and she hated the vulnerability in it, the ache of wanting what she could not have. She hated, too, that she meant every word.

Henry stood completely still, but his expression warred between frustration and something far more dangerous: longing. His jaw was clenched, his hands curled at his sides like he was holding back from reaching for her.

“I know,” he said, after a long silence. “I know, Anna.”

But his eyes didn’t move from her face. And the space between them felt impossibly charged.

“And yet,” he stepped forward slowly, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “And yet, here you are.”

“I’m here,” she echoed. “To make things clear.”

“Are they?”

No. They weren’t.

Her eyes searched his. “We’ve… danced near something. I don’t know what it is, and maybe you don’t either. But I need you to know that I see it. And I’m walking away from it. Before it becomes something I cannot leave behind.”

He looked at her for a long, still moment. The kind of look that stripped her down to bone and breath, that made the air between them feel tight and heavy.

Then, quieter now, almost disbelieving, “You came here. Alone. At night. To tell me you're walking away?”

She hesitated, her resolve warring with the way his voice slid under her skin.

“Yes,” she whispered, though it barely felt like a word at all.

He stepped forward, just enough to be close, not enough to touch. That small mercy was the only thing keeping her steady.

“You’re brave,” he said, his voice like velvet over iron. “But not very convincing.”

The truth of it struck her clean in the chest, and her breath hitched.

“I don’t need convincing,” she shot back, trying to hold the line, trying not to unravel.

“Oh no?” he murmured, his gaze dark and intent. “Then why are you still here?”

Her throat tightened. She hated how he did that, how he saw straight through the walls she so carefully built. “You make me…” she began, then stopped, swallowing the storm inside her. “You make me forget myself.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “Then perhaps,” he said softly, “you’ve found your true self.”

That should have terrified her. Instead, it only made her pulse race faster.

She folded her arms across her chest, not from cold, but to stop her hands from doing something foolish, like reaching for him.

“You like to play games, don’t you?” she said, her voice low, trembling with the effort it took to keep her guard up.

His expression shifted, something between amusement and something deeper, quieter, almost reverent. His mouth then curled into that slow, knowing smile that always made her stomach tighten. “Only with worthy opponents.”

“I’m not your opponent.”

“No?” He stepped closer, his voice low. “You argue like one. Look at me like one.”

“I look at you like someone who needs a stern warning.”

His brow arched. “Then by all means, warn me. Use that devastating tone.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he said, stepping close enough that she had to tip her head back to hold his gaze, “are luminous when you're angry. Terrifying, too. It’s a heady combination.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh, it absolutely is.” He gave a soft chuckle, then tilted his head. “You’re here to tell me off, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” The word came out sharper than she intended. She cleared her throat. “I am.”

He moved to the side, circling slowly, studying her like something he meant to memorize. “And is this how you usually tell men off? In a nightgown? Alone in their rooms after midnight?”

She flushed, flustered and furious all at once. “I was not thinking clearly.”

“I hope not,” he said smoothly. “I’d be very disappointed if you were thinking clearly while doing something so deliciously improper.”

“You shouldn’t flirt with me.”

“I don’t flirt,” he said, amused. “I provoke. You flirt.”

“I do not!”

He laughed. “That’s exactly what someone flirting would say.”

Anna stepped back, toward the hearth, trying to catch her breath. “This is exactly why I came,” she said more to herself than him. “To remind myself that you’re dangerous. That I have responsibilities.”

“To marry, you mean.” He was beside her again, too close. “To someone proper and dull.”

“To someone who won’t try to kiss me in the shadows and then pretend it meant nothing.”

He froze. “Is that what you think I’ve done?”

“I don’t know what you’ve done. You flirt, you mock, you smirk,”

“You drive me mad.”

The words dropped between them like a stone in still water.

Her breath hitched. “What?”