Page 2 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

“Lady Anna,” he said, voice smooth and low, as though he only ever spoke when necessary. “And Lord Stenton. A pleasure.”

That sounded like a lie.

“Your Grace.” Anna dipped into a practiced curtsy. “Thank you for receiving us.”

“I didn’t,” he replied coolly. “My mother did.”

Anna blinked.

She straightened, her gaze steady despite his cool reception. “How kind of your mother, Your Grace,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.

Beside her, Isaac cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ahem, well, fine property. Fine weather.”

“Well,” Patricia said, her expression warm, “I’m certain you must wish to rest after your journey. Come inside. You’ll be shown to your chambers. We dine at seven.”

The Duke’s gaze remained fixed on Anna, but he said nothing more.

As he turned away, Anna felt something peculiar stir in her chest. Not anger, exactly. Something warmer. Sharper. It reminded her of the way whiskey felt, burning on the way down.

The entrance hall of Yeats Estate was as grand as expected, and nearly as cold.

The stone floors bore the Duke’s crest in faded mosaic, and the high arched ceiling gave the impression of walking into a cathedral.

Though the hearth at the far end crackled with fire, it seemed to do little to warm the large space.

Anna stepped inside and resisted the urge to rub her arms. The air smelled faintly of lavender, old wood, and the sharper edge of stone. She wasn’t sure if it was the architecture or the way the Duke had glared at her that made her feel she ought to watch her every word.

The drawing room was warmer. The furnishings were obviously of great craftsmanship, the duke's wealth clear, but the arrangement was welcoming. A fire crackled gently in the hearth.

She stepped into the corridor and let her gloved fingers trail lightly along the carved paneling. It was quiet here. Echoing quiet. The kind that made her acutely aware of the sound of her own shoes on stone.

A door at the end of the hall creaked open.

She paused as the Duke of Yeats stepped through, dressed more simply than she expected, no cravat, only a dark waistcoat over his shirtsleeves, his coat folded over one arm. He hadn’t seen her yet. His brow was furrowed, expression was set with the grim focus

Anna considered retreating, but it was too late.

Then his eyes lifted, landing squarely on her.

“You’re exploring,” he said, voice flat.

“I find estates tell you more than their owners ever do,” she said as lightly as she could manage.

He nodded once. “Then I hope mine keeps its mouth shut.”

She gave a soft huff of amusement but didn’t answer.

As he passed her, her gaze drifted upward again, to the arching ceiling and cold stone. “Rather cold for a house that seems to welcome.”

She hadn’t meant to speak aloud. At least, not fully. But the words were out.

To her horror, he stopped.

Then—“We don’t tend to heat rooms no one uses.”

She turned to find him watching her, his frown had deepened.

“Didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

He raised a brow. “No?”

“Not quite,” she allowed.

There was a pause. His gaze flicked back toward the drawing room.

“You’ll find the fire warmer in there,” he said finally. “The company too, if you can bear it.”

“And if I can’t?” she asked before she could stop herself.

His jaw tightened. “Then you’ll be colder.”

There was no smile. No tilt of his head. Only that steady, furrowed look.

Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the adjacent corridor, boots echoing against the stone floor.

Anna remained where she stood, the chill of the stone floor creeping through the soles of her boots.

She wasn’t sure what had just passed between them, but it wasn’t nothing.

Later in the day, as the sun began to dip just enough to stretch golden light across the estate’s windows, the first guest arrived.

Anna stood near the tall window in the morning room, watching the breeze toy with the long drapes as a coach rolled to a halt outside. She didn’t have to wait for the butler to announce the name; only one person she knew could arrive so precisely on time.

“Gretchen,” Anna murmured with a smile, already moving toward the door.

Moments later, Lady Gretchen Houston stepped inside. She entered as if gliding on polished air, composed, cool, and so thoroughly proper that Anna felt herself stand just a bit straighter.

“I should have known you’d be first,” Anna said with a soft grin as Gretchen approached.

“Being first spares one the awkwardness of entrances,” Gretchen replied. “And affords time to assess the room.”

She wore a gown of soft lavender silk with a high neckline trimmed in pearl, her dark hair twisted into a perfect chignon beneath a bonnet of dove grey.

There wasn’t a wrinkle in her gloves nor a single strand out of place; only the faintest flush on her cheeks betrayed that she’d traveled more than a dozen miles.

“Your bonnet is tilted,” Gretchen murmured, just loud enough.

Anna didn’t blink. “It’s a strategic angle. Disorients the judgmental.”

Gretchen laughed. “Still fighting Lady Penfield?”

“She’ll die angry that I never curtsied deep enough.” Anna scoffed and they both laughed.

Gretchen pursed her lips, concern creasing her face, “You surely are thinner than when I saw you last. Is your cousin wearing you to the bone already?”

“Only emotionally,” Anna replied, pulling her friend into a brief, whispered hug. “You look flawless, as usual. Tell me you loathed every minute of the journey.”

“With all my heart. The roads were the worst. My breakfast threatened to make a reappearance with every jolt.”

They shared a soft laugh before Gretchen leaned closer to Anna.

“Come,” she said, hiding her mouth with her gloves. “Tell me whether this Duke is as impossible as they say.”

“I cannot quite decide if he’s a man or a particularly elegant thundercloud.”

Gretchen raised a brow. “That much?”

“Oh yes. Glared at me as though I personally offended the furniture.”

Before Gretchen could reply, the sound of another carriage rolling to a halt filtered in from the hall.

“Anna!”

Julia Proctor arrived in a burst of sapphire blue, her skirts swishing dramatically as she pulled Anna into a full-bodied embrace.

Her dark hair was swept into a crown of curls, pinned with silver combs that sparkled as she moved.

Her cheeks were pink from excitement, or the wind, and she smelled faintly of rosewater and citrus.

“Don’t you dare begin without me,” she declared, releasing Anna and turning in a theatrical circle. “Good heavens, this place is dreary. Grand, yes, but positively built for brooding.”

“That is the idea,” Anna said. “The Duke of Yeats appears to thrive on draughty corridors and Gothic moods.”

“Delicious,” Julia said with a grin. “Where is he? Lurking in a tower with a goblet of red wine and a dramatic monologue?”

“Likely reading business contracts in silence, such a waste of such a handsome face” Gretchen muttered, smoothing her skirt.

Trailing behind Julia was her younger sister, Natalie, eighteen and still getting used to being in rooms filled with strangers. She wore a pale blue gown, soft and demure, her honey-brown curls tucked beneath a bonnet several shades too simple for the occasion.

Natalie gave Anna a shy smile. “It is beautiful here,” she said softly, “but I certainly will ruin everything by saying something foolish,” she added, half under her breath.

“Nonsense,” Julia said, slipping an arm around her sister. “That’s my role.”

“I still cannot believe we were invited,” Natalie whispered to her sister.

“That’s because I was invited,” Julia said breezily. “You were simply attached to my hem like always.”

A dry cough snapped through the air behind them.

Isaac.

He stood at the threshold like an ill-timed footnote, glancing between the girls and frowning slightly as Henry stepped beside him, wearing the same impenetrable mask and ignoring the sighs and fluttering of lashes from the ladies save Anna.

Anna didn’t turn. “Must my cousin always appear just when I’m about to enjoy myself?” she murmured under her breath.

Voices echoed from the hall and a moment later, Nathaniel Lowton entered.

He was tall, golden-haired, and entirely too aware of his own effect. His coat was still open from the ride, his breeches dusted, and his boots gleamed with a polish that could not have survived travel, yet somehow did.

“Yeats,” he greeted, clapping Henry on the shoulder as he passed, “you’re looking unusually grim today. Is it because you’re playing host?”

He grinned at Henry's understated glare then turned toward the ladies with the kind of grin that had likely ruined hearts from London to Bath.

“Ladies,” he said with a bow that balanced charm and calculation, “your radiance has thoroughly outshone the chandeliers. I am Nathaniel, Duke of Frayton, and I must apologize in advance for whatever offense I shall inevitably commit this evening.”

Gretchen's smile was faint, her tone cooler than the firelight behind her. “How considerate, Your Grace. Apologies offered before offenses are rarely sincere.”

He tilted his head, amused. “I find it efficient to front-load expectations.”

“Or lower them,” she replied crisply.

Anna raised a brow in quiet amusement. Nathaniel’s grin widened, but his eyes lingered on Gretchen with something between curiosity and caution.

“I was told this house party would be lively,” he said, “but I wasn’t prepared for someone to draw steel upon my arrival.”

“Consider it a polite warning,” Gretchen said smoothly. “Not all ladies are content to be charmed, Your Grace.”

“Ah,” he murmured, placing a hand to his chest. “A challenge. How refreshing.”

“An example,” she corrected.

The house had quieted. Footsteps had faded upstairs, murmurs trailing into the hush as the guests retired to their rooms to prepare for dinner. Even the drawing room, moments ago bustling with laughter and silk swishing, now sat empty, save for the glow of the fire.

Anna lingered.