Page 27 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

Henry’s glance was brief, yet attentive.

“I used to tell myself it was grief,” she continued. “That I was simply too raw after my father’s death. But it wasn’t grief. It was the weight. The way everything suddenly became mine to carry, but never mine to claim.”

Henry said nothing, though his hand hovered near hers, close, respectful, present.

“I kept the books. I soothed the tenants. I rationed coal. I stitched accounts back together with nothing but bluff and scraped coins,” she said. “And then Lord Stenton returned and declared it all his. As though I had merely been playing at stewardship.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Now he looks at me as if I have finally proven useful. Because you noticed me. Because you defended me. As if all I did before counted for nothing.”

Henry halted.

She did not realize it until she took another step forward and sensed the absence of him beside her. She turned back.

His expression held quiet fury, carefully reined. His jaw had tightened, and the muscle there flickered once before going still.

“He made you feel that?”

She nodded once. “He said I’d done well. That I’d made myself… valuable.”

For a long moment, Henry said nothing. A breeze stirred through the bare trees, catching at the hem of her cloak. He looked away briefly, toward the path they’d walked, then back at her with a steadiness that settled over her skin like heat.

Henry exhaled, slowly. “I ought to have done more than speak this morning.”

“No,” she said softly. “What you did was more than enough. More than anyone ever has.”

She stepped toward him, slowly, her skirts brushing over the gravel. The distance between them narrowed until she could feel the warmth of him, sense the way his breath shifted at her approach. “I only wished you to know I never intended for any of this to unfold as it has.”

“You mean you did not set out to drive me to distraction each time you enter a room?” he asked, his voice rougher now.

She blinked, surprised, then laughed, a short, breathless sound.

“I meant,” she said, smiling faintly, “that I did not wish to become anyone’s burden. Least of all yours.”

“You are not a burden,” he said at once, with more force than he perhaps intended. “Not to me. Not now. Not ever.”

She met his gaze fully then, a breath catching at the certainty in his voice.

“I came here today,” she said slowly, “not to escape the house, or Isaac, or the farewells. I came because I hoped you would find me.”

Henry’s breath left him in a slow, careful exhale. He did not reach for her. He did not speak at once. But his eyes moved over her face as though committing each detail to memory, and his hand, still at his side, curled just slightly.

And when he did speak, it was barely more than a murmur. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

The words lingered in the quiet, suspended between them like breath on cold air.

Anna lowered her gaze for a moment, then looked back up, something in her eyes shifting, not softer, but more exposed.

“He said I was close to… securing you. That I’d done well. That you bristled at my name like I was some… ”

She broke off, shaking her head.

“He made me feel like I’d manipulated you,” she said. “Like somehow I’d set a trap I didn’t know I was laying. And worse… like I was finally worth something because of it.”

Henry stopped walking. She turned to face him.

“I hated what he said,” she went on, her throat tight. “Truly. I’ve worked for everything I have. Everything I’ve kept together. And yet it only seems to matter now that someone like you notices.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“You’re not worth more because I see it,” he said quietly. “You’re worth more because you’ve done what others wouldn’t even dare.”

Her breath caught.

“I didn’t defend you to make a statement,” he added. “I did it because I cannot abide the way he speaks to you. Or about you. And if that puts me in someone’s debt, so be it.”

She swallowed, then nodded once. “Thank you.”

Henry’s tone gentled. “You don’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”

“It mattered to me,” she said, “So… thank you.”

Henry inclined his head slightly, not dismissing her thanks, but receiving it in full.

“I meant it,” he said. “Every word.”

She nodded once, almost to herself.

“It was never just about Isaac,” she said.

Henry turned slightly, his expression open.

She went on. “Even before he returned, I knew what I was meant to do. I’ve spent years holding things together, quietly, without much remark. For my mother. For Heather. For the tenants who needed someone to notice when the winter coal was late or the roof beams sagged.”

Henry didn’t interrupt. He only listened.

“And now,” she continued, “marriage is part of that duty too. Not because Isaac pushes. But because… it might be the last way I can protect them.”

“You’re speaking of Heather?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “He has plans for her. As though she’s livestock to be bargained. And my mother, she’s still grieving. If I could settle things, secure things, by making a match, I might do it.”

Henry’s brows knit slightly, but he waited.

“But not like this,” she said, quieter now. “Not because someone like Isaac thinks I’ve caught a duke. Not because I’m being… managed.”

Henry’s voice was low like a caress, “And if there were no pressure?”

Anna met his gaze, and for one breathless second, it felt like being kissed without his lips touching hers. “Then I’d want to choose. For myself. Freely.”

“I don’t speak of this often,” she said after a moment.

“I’m honored you would trust me with it.”

They walked a few paces more. Anna’s fingers brushed the edge of a rose bloom as they passed.

She glanced sideways. “You still make that face at Isaac when he talks too long?”

He gave her a sidelong smile. “On principle.”

She laughed quietly and he looked at her like it was the most natural sound in the world.

The garden path curved gently beneath their steps, bordered by low hedges and late-blooming roses.

“You must be weary of all this,” he said gently, “the endless farewells.”

She looked over, amused. “Is that your way of asking if I’ll miss you, Your Grace?”

His eyes glinted, but his voice remained soft. “I was hoping you’d tell me without needing to be asked.”

“I shall miss Yeats,” she said after a pause. “I shall miss you, that is, I have not known quite what to make of you, Your Grace. But I will miss you.”

He stepped just slightly closer, just enough to shield her from the sun that peeked through the trellis.

She felt it, that subtle change in the air, the warmth of his nearness more tangible than touch.

Her chest tightened within her, a kind of ache that settled between her ribs and all she wanted was for him to touch her. She stepped closer.

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you regret coming?”

“No,” she said at once, surprising even herself with the steadiness of it. “I do not.”

He looked at her then.

“I thought I was good at seeing people,” he said. “And yet it seems I knew nothing at all, until you looked back at me.”

Anna’s breath caught lightly, but she did not look away. Instead, she lifted her chin slightly, the corners of her mouth touched by the faintest curve. Her heart blossomed within her.

“I don’t pretend to be mysterious,” she said. “I’ve only been… careful.”

“And I have been too cautious.”

Their steps slowed beneath the last vine-covered arch.

She turned to face him. The roses behind her swayed gently in the breeze, the scent faint but unmistakable. A single petal detached and fell between them like punctuation. “You are not a careless man, Your Grace. But you have been kind.”