Page 18 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

T he guests had begun to assemble in the blue drawing room ahead of dinner, voices murmuring over the clink of glass and the soft rustle of silk.

Velvet drapes framed the tall windows, filtering in the last of the afternoon light, while candles flickered to life in polished sconces, catching the gilding along the cornices and wainscoting.

Footmen moved discreetly through the space, offering sherry and light conversation. The air held that familiar tension between civility and appetite, the low thrum of elegance rehearsed.

Near the hearth, the pianoforte sat closed, its lacquered surface gleaming. The Dowager Duchess had already claimed her customary seat by the fire, her embroidery untouched in her lap, offering a gentle nod here and there to arriving guests.

Anna stepped into the drawing room with Julia and Gretchen at her sides, their laughter still clinging from something said on the stairs.

“I swear if one more man tells me the weather has been charming, I shall marry a cloud and be done with it,” Julia said under her breath.

Gretchen gave her a sidelong look. “If you do, I hope it’s the cool, disapproving kind. It would suit you.”

Anna smiled faintly, nodding as if following the conversation, but her eyes were already scanning the room.

She didn’t mean to look for him. Truly, she didn’t. But it was like gravity. Her gaze pulled past the clusters of guests, the flickering candlelight, the gilded mirrors. And then…there he was.

Henry.

Their eyes met across the drawing room.

And for one suspended breathless moment, nothing else existed. No voices, no footsteps, no candlelight, only that shared stillness between them.

She felt his searing gaze everywhere, at her throat, down her spine, across every inch of skin hidden beneath silk and stays.

He looked devastating in black. The crisp lines of his coat, the white at his collar, the way the candlelight caught at the edge of his jaw.

One hand rested lightly on the glass in his fingers, but his posture wasn’t idle, it was coiled.

As though he’d rather be moving than standing perfectly still.

She didn't breathe, everything vanished except the man across the room.

Then…

“If you please, my lords and ladies, dinner is served.”

The butler bowed, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the hum of conversation. His voice rang with the quiet dignity expected of a house like Yeats.

There was a rustle of skirts and silk gloves, the murmuring hush of movement as the guests began their procession toward the dining room.

The table was already aglow, lined with silver, crystal, and an unbroken line of candles flickering in polished candelabra.

Tall arrangements of white roses and lavender graced the center, carefully placed so as not to obstruct conversation.

Henry, as host, offered his arm to the Dowager Duchess and escorted her to the head of the table, taking his place beside her as the others found their seats in the arrangement dictated by rank, age, and favor.

Anna had been placed midway down the long table, just beside Nathaniel. She offered her thanks to him as he adjusted her chair, smoothing her napkin across her lap with a grace that seemed almost instinctive.

The dining room at Yeats was already familiar after several evenings, yet it never failed to impress.

Its high ceilings, polished paneling, and long candlelit table had the kind of grandeur that made one conscious of posture, of voice, of every delicate gesture.

Candlelight reflected in cut glass and polished silver, and a long table that gleamed beneath its weight of linen and crystal.

Everything in perfect symmetry. Even the seating had been arranged with a precision that left no room for accidents.

She had been placed midway down, sitting beside Julia and Nathaniel who always wore an easy smile and a string of practiced charm that he seemed to distribute in even measures to every lady within reach. He was saying something clever, he always was, but Anna only caught fragments.

Her awareness was elsewhere.

She didn’t need to look to know he was watching. She could feel it. That subtle awareness that someone was watching her, not idly, but with intent. It threaded through her spine like a string drawn tight.

She could feel it, like warmth at the side of her face, a tether across the table too carefully maintained to be accidental.

Her fingers tightened just slightly on her fork. She kept her posture composed, her eyes on her plate, her expression the same calm one she wore in every drawing room, every dinner, every moment she wasn’t allowed to feel too much.

But then she glanced up. It kept pulling at the edge of her attention.

And there he was.

Henry.

His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady, and unmistakably fixed on her. It lasted only a second. Maybe two. But it struck her somewhere beneath the bone.

She looked away first.

The Duke of Frayton said something again, his voice a little louder this time. “Lady Anna, are you very fond of roast pheasant, or simply contemplating it as if it were a tragedy?”

She blinked, then offered a soft smile. “I’m quite undecided.”

It earned her a laugh from the table, which was a mercy.

She could still feel the weight of Henry’s gaze, less pressing now, but still there.

Anna kept her gaze on her plate, though her mind wandered. The conversation around her was pleasant enough, Nathaniel's wit was sharp and unthreatening, and the lady to her right, Miss Lyndell, had a soft way of laughing that made it easy to join in without thinking too much.

She adjusted the angle of her posture, her hand grazing the stem of her wine glass, and then, against her better judgment, she glanced up.

Henry was looking at her again.

Their eyes met across the table, only for a second, and then he looked down, as though he’d been caught.

So had she.

Nathaniel leaned slightly toward her, lowering his voice just enough to create a bubble of conversation between them.

“You’ve missed the end of my story,” he said with mock injury. “A crushing blow to any raconteur.”

Anna blinked, startled, then gave a small smile. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I was…”

“Somewhere far away,” he finished for her, gently. “Though I hope not entirely bored.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not bored. Just… distracted.”

“Don't worry, I was just getting to the best part.” He winked.

She smiled and turned toward him, but her thoughts didn’t follow. She nodded at the right moment, even let out a quiet sound of amusement—but she couldn’t have repeated what he said if pressed.

Out of habit, or weakness, her gaze flicked back across the table.

Henry was still watching her.

She lifted her wine glass to hide the way her breath had gone uneven.

It didn’t help.

After dinner, the guests drifted back into the drawing room with the quiet ease of practiced society.

Candles had been replaced and the fire stoked higher, lending the space a soft, golden glow.

Someone had opened a window just slightly, letting in the faintest breath of night air, tinged with roses and cool grass.

Anna moved toward one of the smaller chairs near the wall, her gloves freshly buttoned, her posture composed. She did not fidget. She never fidgeted. But something in her pulse was off-beat tonight, subtle, but present.

She caught a glimpse of Henry across the room.

He stood just beyond the pianoforte, his profile to her at first, speaking with Lord Elberton.

The flickering candlelight played across the strong line of his jaw, catching the gold thread at his cuff.

His coat fit with effortless precision, dark navy set against a snow-white cravat, the line of his shoulders broad beneath the cut of evening wear that no tailor could take credit for. It was simply how he was made.

He didn’t speak loudly. He never needed to. And yet people seemed to part for him in small, unconscious ways. As if the room bent slightly around him.

She told herself she was merely observing.

But when he turned, just slightly, and his gaze swept the room, and landed on her, her breath caught before she could help it.

A few murmured conversations began around the room. The Dowager Duchess took her usual chair by the fire, a thin shawl draped around her shoulders, and Lady Gretchen positioned herself with calm dignity near a side table stacked with cards no one would touch until later.

She glanced toward the pianoforte and lifted a hand, elegantly. “Sophia, my dear. Play us something gentle, will you? Something with fewer tempests than last evening.”

Sophia looked up at her mother, and with a slight dip of her chin, rose from her chair.

She had been seated quietly, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, but now she curtsied with the poised confidence of someone used to being watched.

“Of course, Mama,” she said, her voice smooth as cream. “Something serene. The gentlemen look tired.”

A few soft chuckles rippled through the room.

Lady Gretchen, who had settled herself by the card table, murmured, “Or they’re bracing for the second act.”

Sophia’s smile didn’t waver as she crossed the room, her ivory skirts whispering across the rug.

Laughter faded to murmurs. Conversations slowed. The Dowager Duchess, seated near the fire, looked up from her cup with a knowing smile.

There was no fanfare, only a moment of silence as Sophia lifted the lid, and set her fingers to the keys. She didn’t wait for permission, didn’t ask for silence, she simply sat, adjusted her posture, and began to play.

The first notes drifted into the air, delicate, rippling, the familiar strains of a waltz slow and soft at first, rippling like sunlight across still water that turned the room’s quiet hum into something softer, more expectant.

Nathaniel, who had been conversing lazily near the door, straightened with theatrical purpose and crossed the room to the Dowager Duchess.