Page 22 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

T he breeze had cooled as the hour wore on, yet the quiet corner near the window remained warm from lamplight and low voices.

The lamp flickered faintly behind them, casting a golden haze across the patterned rug. A log settled in the hearth with a sigh, and beyond the closed doors, the house stirred with the distant steps of a footman and the low murmur of a departing guest.

Anna reclined against the arm of the chaise, her posture still drawn with tension, despite the hush that had settled around them. The others sat close, watching her with a steady, unspoken attentiveness.

It was Julia who broke the silence, folding her fan with unusual care.

“I jest often, you know I do,” she said quietly, “but you must listen, Anna. If the Duke means to pursue you, let it be of his own volition. Not Isaac’s. Not society’s. And most certainly not some convenient arrangement dressed in the language of sentiment.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly. “Even if his intentions are not unkind, his world is not ours. Men such as he seldom feel the weight of consequence. That burden, I fear, belongs to us.”

Gretchen, seated with her hands folded in her lap, lifted her gaze just slightly. “It is said,” she murmured, “that His Grace has no intention of marrying at all.”

Anna looked up. The words were not new, but they struck afresh, nonetheless.

“I have heard the same,” Julia said, her tone more subdued than usual. “His name has danced through half the drawing rooms this season, and yet not even a mother’s whisper of an understanding. No speculation. No hope.”

“It has become something of a certainty,” Gretchen added. “He possesses title, fortune, and reputation. What incentive has he to bind himself, unless out of some reluctant sense of duty?”

Anna pressed her fingers to the embroidery on her sleeve, tracing the thread as if it might anchor her. She remembered the first time she’d heard it, Lady Pembridge at a supper, laughing into her wine. “Yeats? Oh no, dear. He won’t marry. Not unless God Himself commands it.”

Anna swallowed. “I did not ask for any of this.”

“No,” Gretchen replied gently, “you never do. And that is precisely why we speak now. You must remain steady. The ground beneath you has shifted too often already.”

There was a silence, broken only when Julia reached forward and laid a gloved hand gently atop Anna’s wrist.

“You have given so much, Anna,” she said softly. “To your mother. To Heather. But never to yourself.”

Anna blinked, her lashes lowering to hide the sting that pricked behind her eyes.

She wanted to tell them Henry was not like Isaac. That he had spoken with care, listened with patience, looked at her as though she were not a duty or a debt, but herself. That he listened. That he saw her. But the words faltered before they could form.

“What if I’m wrong?” she whispered. “What if it’s all just… momentary? A kindness I mistook for something more?”

There was a pause before Gretchen spoke. “Then it’s only a mistake if you let it cost you more than you can afford to give. Attraction doesn’t guarantee safety, Anna. It doesn’t build a life.”

Anna looked up slowly.

Gretchen’s voice was calm but firm. “You think clearly when you are given the space to. That’s part of what makes you strong.

But this—this thing between you and the Duke—it has a pull to it.

We can all see it. That’s not a fault. But it is a force.

And when you’re caught in something that powerful, you owe it to yourself to pause.

Not to flee. Not even to decide. Just to pause long enough to be sure. ”

Anna’s breath shook as she exhaled.

Her voice, when it came, was scarcely above a whisper. “You believe I should turn away from him.”

There was a pause.

Then Gretchen spoke, firm but not unkind. “We believe you ought to avoid becoming entangled. At least for now. It is not the Duke we doubt, Anna, it is the moment.”

Anna said nothing, but in the stillness, she leaned back against the chaise, just enough to feel the quiet support surrounding her.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Anna drew in a breath, deep and steady, but the edges of her composure were fraying.

Her shoulders, once square, now drooped beneath invisible weight.

Natalie opened her mouth, then closed it again, until Julia leaned in with her trademark irreverence and cleared her throat.

“I know this will sound utterly inappropriate given your distress, but your cousin is a horse’s backside. ”

That pulled the faintest snort from Anna, which Julia seized like a triumph.

“Oh good, she’s still in there,” she declared, nudging Anna’s knee. “For a moment, I feared we’d lost you to tragic silence forever.”

“I’ve been silent before,” Anna murmured.

“Yes, but not with such drama,” Julia said. “It’s far too poetic. I half expect you to start reciting sad verses to the curtains.”

Anna laughed and it broke the weight in her chest.

“I’m serious,” Julia said, grinning. “Give me ten minutes and a decent quill and I’ll compose an ode to your misery. Something overwrought, about moonlight and betrayal and your cousin being trampled by metaphorical cattle.”

Gretchen gave her a long look. “Metaphorical?”

“I said what I said,” Julia replied airily.

Anna smiled, fuller this time. “I cannot believe I’m laughing.”

“That’s precisely why you must,” Gretchen said gently. “You’ve carried enough seriousness for three estates.”

“And your face can’t take more frowning,” Julia added. “You’ll wrinkle.”

“Julia,” Gretchen said, half-exasperated.

“I’m only saying what is true.”

Natalie gave a small, breathy giggle behind her hand.

“Remember when Julia tried to defend my honor with a spoon?” Anna murmured, laughing into her hands.

“He was terribly rude,” Julia sniffed. “And it was the only weapon I had at the breakfast table.”

Anna reached out and took her hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re not alone,” Gretchen said softly, placing her gloves beside her. “We are your allies. And your friends.”

“And your future biographers,” Julia said solemnly. “The world must know the tale of Anna Hessey and the Duke she kicked in the heart.”

Anna covered her face with her hands, still laughing. “Heavens.”

“If nothing else,” Julia said, rising with a grin, “you have the best gossip of the evening. And that, my dear, is worth its weight in diamonds.”

Gretchen rose next and smoothed Anna’s hair gently, like a sister might. “Get some rest. Don’t think beyond tonight.”

The corridor was silent, save for the soft creak of floorboards beneath his boots. Henry’s jaw was clenched tight, his breath short with restrained irritation as he stopped outside her door.

She hadn’t come.

He had waited in the garden, like a damned lovesick boy. The garden had smelled of wet soil and dying roses, the chill of the night had long since sunk through his coat, and still, he had lingered, half-expecting to hear her step around the hedge or her voice in the dark.

He’d paced the gravel path like a man waiting for a verdict. First patient. Then uncertain. Then angry at himself for hoping. But still, he’d waited, because a part of him, foolish or not, believed she would come.

But nothing.

And now here he stood, his raised hand curling into a fist before he knocked once. Firm. Too firm, perhaps. He didn’t care.

After a pause, the door creaked open.

Anna stood there, the lamplight behind her softening the edges of her profile. Her wrap loose over her shoulders and clutched at the collar. Her face was pale but not startled. Not quite guilty either. Just... guarded.

She looked as though she hadn’t slept, hair slightly looser than usual. There was a steel to her spine, but a tremble at her fingertips. Henry noticed both and in a way, that twisted something inside him.

“Your Grace,” she said, her lashes sweeping down to brush her cheeks.

“Don’t do that,” he said, stepping inside before she could close the door.

“Don't do what?”

“Don’t pretend we are strangers.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet,” he said, closing the door behind him with a soft click, “here I am.”

She turned from him, walking deeper into the room. “You shouldn’t have come.”

She turned from him, arms folding across her chest as she crossed the room. “This is highly improper.”

“So was asking you to meet me in the garden.”

“You’ve had your answer,” she said without turning.

“I’d like to hear it from you. You said nothing in the drawing room. Not a glance. Then you didn’t appear. I think I deserve to know why.”

Anna was still for a moment, then turned slowly. Her voice was careful, flat, almost. “I didn’t come because I was told I ought to. That I must.”

His brows drew together. “Who told you?”

She hesitated.

“Anna,” he said quietly, “if something is wrong…”

Anna turned slowly. Her voice was calm but taut. “I was told to make use of you.”

He blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked away, mouth parting, then closing again. Her fingers twisted in the edge of her sleeve. “It’s complicated,” she began.

Then she shook her head fiercely. “It was my cousin,” she said tightly. “Lord Stenton. He told me I ought to encourage you. That it would secure everything. The estate. My sister’s future. His own schemes.”

His jaw ticked. “And what did you tell him?”

“That I am not for sale,” she snapped.

Silence stretched between them.

Henry’s expression eased slightly. “That’s why you didn’t come.”

She nodded. “I didn’t want to come to you… only to find I no longer knew whether I was acting of my own will.”

She could have lied.

She could have come to him smiling, pretended nothing had shifted, played the part Isaac wanted and he might never have known the difference. Most would have. Many had.

But she didn’t.

She told him the truth, even when it cost her something. Even when it made her look guarded, uncertain, proud. She’d walked away from an opportunity most would have clung to. Not because she didn’t want him, but because she didn’t want to lose herself.