Page 31 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

L ondon had never felt so loud. The city moved with its usual mechanical elegance, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices weaving through shopfronts and clubs, everything polished and postured for the Season, but to Henry, it all sounded like static.

He had returned three days earlier, greeted by a stack of correspondence and a slate of meetings lined up with military precision.

The weekend at Yeats Hall had been, by every external measure, a success.

Agreements signed. Interests aligned. Isaac Stenton appropriately humiliated in front of the right people.

On paper, everything was exactly as it should be.

But Henry hadn’t touched the letters on his desk this morning.

Instead, he sat in the third seat of the long boardroom table at his banker's office in Pall Mall, leather-backed and severe, staring past the polished windows while someone discussed dividend projections. And yet, for every success written in ink, there was a name he hadn’t said out loud in a week.

Anna.

He thought of her more than he meant to. Not just her mouth, or the way she laughed when she didn’t mean to

“– and the new agreement with the Redding partners should take us into the third quarter with a twenty-two percent rise in net profit,” the man across from him said.

Henry did not react.

There was a short, awkward pause. Then a cough.

“Your Grace?” Mr. Bristow prompted.

Henry blinked. “Yes.”

A beat.

“Yes to the profit,” he added, quieter this time. “That’s good.”

Bristow gave a stiff nod and resumed the report, but Henry wasn’t listening.

Anna’s voice was still echoing in his head.

I came because I hoped you would find me.

He hadn’t forgotten a word she said, how could he? When she haunted every sleep and every waking. He doubted he ever would.

He’d gone over it every night since she left, the garden path, her hand on his arm, the kiss, the ache. And the look in her eyes when he ended it. That final silence.

She hadn’t written. Not that she should have. Not after the way he’d pushed her away like it was mercy.

He shifted slightly in his chair, jaw tightening. The others at the table kept speaking about revenue, ships, rents, but he was somewhere else entirely.

He was back in the garden, and she was looking up at him like he was something worth keeping.

And he had let her go.

A silence followed in the room.

Someone shifted papers. Someone else cleared his throat. Henry murmured an apology, though he didn’t know what for, and rose to his feet.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, already reaching for his gloves. “You have everything you need.”

The men stood respectfully. He barely heard them.

A moment later, he was in the corridor again, the door closing behind him with a decisive click. The sound echoed down the paneled hallway like a gavel.

Outside, the fog was beginning to settle over Pall Mall. Henry took a long breath, but it didn’t help. His coat was buttoned. His cravat, pristine. But something inside him felt unsettled. Off-kilter.

He didn’t go back to his office.

He went home.

Nearly a week had passed.

And yet it hadn’t passed at all.

Henry stood in the center of his dressing room, unmoving.

The fire crackled low in the grate, casting long shadows across the floor.

The scent of leather and starch lingered faintly in the air though the familiar comforts in the room were starting to feel increasingly foreign.

His coat hung from a hook nearby, freshly brushed.

His waistcoat lay on the chair, a deep blue silk he’d never particularly liked but had chosen anyway. Out of obligation. Out of habit.

“Anna.”

The name left his lips like a breath punched from his lungs. He groaned softly like a man in pain.

He hadn't written. Couldn't write.

What would he even say?

Come back, so I can fail you again?

A quiet knock sounded at the door before it opened just enough for his valet to enter. The man’s steps were quiet, he’d served Henry long enough to recognize moods without needing to name them.

Henry didn’t greet him. He moved to the writing desk instead, pulled open the drawer.

The unfinished letter was still there.

Just her name. Written once in his hand, dark and steady, followed by a long line where the ink had bled into the paper. He hadn’t made it any further.

He stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. Then closed the drawer.

Behind him, the valet had begun laying out his attire with quiet efficiency.

“Your Grace,” he said after a pause, “shall I proceed with the cufflinks?”

Henry nodded once and stepped forward.

They said nothing while the man fastened the cuffs with care, silver links shaped like shields.

Henry adjusted the line of his coat, then studied his reflection in the mirror. Face impassive. Cravat perfect. Shoulders squared. He looked, outwardly, like every other man who would walk into that ballroom tonight.

But beneath the surface, he was nothing but edges with tight lines and raw corners. Every movement felt too sharp, every breath just slightly too shallow.

The valet stepped back. “Lady Vexley’s ball begins at eight, Your Grace. Shall I have the carriage brought ‘round at half past seven?”

Henry didn’t answer at once.

His gaze lingered on the mirror a moment longer. The glass was clean, the candlelight steady. His expression gave away nothing. Not the hollow ache behind his ribs. Not the constant pull of her name in the back of his mind.

He adjusted one sleeve with more force than necessary.

“Very good,” he said at last. “Half past seven.”

The valet hesitated. “Will you be attending alone, sir?”

Henry turned his head slightly. His eyes, when they met the valet’s, were unreadable.

“Yes.”

A pause. Then the faintest incline of the servant’s head.

“Very good, Your Grace.”

The man quietly exited, closing the door behind him with practiced softness.

Henry stood still.

He looked once more toward the drawer.

Then he turned away.

His steps carried him to the sideboard, where a decanter of brandy sat waiting beside two crystal tumblers. He poured a measure, the amber liquid sloshed high in the glass.

He stared at it for a second.

Then threw it.

The glass struck the edge of the fireplace with a sharp, splintering crack and shattered into a dozen pieces, the brandy hissing as it hit the coals.

Silence swallowed the room.

The scent of burnt sugar and scorched alcohol curled through the air, sharp and bitter.

Henry pressed a hand over his mouth, then dragged it slowly down his face.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the scorched hearth and the shattered glass at its base. The brandy still clung to the stone.

Eventually, he moved slowly, retrieving his coat from the stand, fastening each button with mechanical precision. The anger had drained, but it left something heavier in its place.

By the time his valet returned to announce the carriage, Henry was once again immaculate. The man said nothing about the faint scent of scorched liquor or the tension in his master’s jaw. Only handed him his gloves and stepped aside.

Henry didn’t speak. He walked down the stairs, out into the fog, and into the waiting carriage without hesitation.

The ride was short, just ten minutes from his townhouse, but it stretched long inside his head. Every clipped hoofbeat on the street seemed to echo his own thoughts.

She’ll be there. Or she won’t.

She’ll look at you. Or she won’t.

She’ll be spoken for.

Or she won’t.

He gripped the edge of his glove tighter.

He hadn’t meant to let it get this far. Hadn’t meant to feel it. But he did. He missed her. Desperately.

He missed her like a rhythm thrown off-beat.

He had been bracing himself for this all week, ever since the morning paper casually mentioned that Lady Anna had returned to Town, and had been seen in the company of Lord Vaun.

That had landed like a punch he hadn’t prepared for.

Henry closed his eyes. Let her be happy , he told himself. Even if it’s not with you.

But beneath it, the selfish part of him…the part he hated…whispered, Let her look at you one more time the way she used to.

The carriage turned the final corner. Lights from the Vexley townhouse glittered in the fog.

Henry exhaled once, quietly.

Then he stepped out into the night.

The ballroom at Lady Vexley’s townhouse glittered like something out of a fable, mirrors everywhere, chandeliers dripping in candlelight, making the room feel like it glittered even when no one moved. Unseen strings played something delicate but insistent.

He handed off his gloves and coat, murmured something to the butler he didn’t remember, and made his way up the stairs.

Lady Vexley met him halfway through the crowd.

“Yeats!” she said, fanning herself. “Good heavens, I was beginning to think we’d lost you to the country.”

“Just delayed,” Henry replied smoothly. “Nothing exciting.”

“Pity,” she said, eyes twinkling. “The gossip’s better when you’re in it.”

He gave her a brief smile and moved on, avoiding the dancers without weaving. His height and build helped. So did the way people stepped aside for him, even when pretending not to notice.

Voices rose and fell around him, laughter punctuating the flow of conversation like cymbals. Perfume and sweat hung together in the warm, crowded air.

Henry stood just inside the threshold, jaw set, scanning the room with precision.

He wouldn't look for her.

At least, that was the lie he’d told himself all day.

Now, standing here, heart rattling like glass in a carriage rut, he knew better.

She was here. He could feel it before he saw her.

A laugh to his right. A burst of color to his left. Too many women in too many pale gowns. And then–

He saw her.

Across the room. Near the far edge of the dance floor, beneath a gilded arch. She was standing beside a man in deep green evening wear, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.

Matthew.

Of course it was Matthew.

Henry’s stomach turned.

Anna tilted her head slightly, listening to something Vaun had said. She wore silver tonight, simple, elegant. A narrow band of silk around her waist, the sleeves just off the shoulder. Her hair was arranged more softly than usual, looser. She looked–

She looked breathtakingly beautiful.

And unreachable.

Matthew leaned in slightly. Said something. She smiled.

Henry’s fingers curled at his side. He wanted to cross the room. He wanted to pull her away. He wanted to rip that man's hand off her arm.

Someone brushed past him. He barely registered it.

She hadn’t seen him yet. Or maybe she had. Maybe she was pretending not to.

The quartet began a new set. Dancers spilled forward into the open space. A few people brushed past him. Someone greeted him by name. He didn’t reply.

Then, suddenly– she turned.

Their eyes met.

Everything slowed.

The sound in the room dulled. The music faded. For one breathless moment, it was just her– just Anna– staring back at him with something unreadable in her eyes.

Then she blinked.

And then… she looked away.

She didn’t flinch.

She simply turned her head back to Matthew and said something, then she was lost in the crush of the crowd.

Henry stood frozen.

His mouth was dry, his hands curled into fists at his sides, but he couldn’t feel anything except the slow, crushing weight in his chest.

His hands clenched at his sides.

She hadn’t hesitated. Not even for a second.

He’d told himself it was better this way. That he was protecting her. That he could live with the cost.

He couldn’t.

She was standing beside another man, one who didn’t deserve her, and Henry had no one to blame but himself. He’d let her go, thinking he was being noble and safe.

And now she was gone. He didn’t belong beside her anymore.

His chest tightened. His jaw locked.

And then, without meaning to, he said it under his breath…

“You bloody fool.”

No one heard him. No one needed to.

The words sat heavy in the back of his throat. He swallowed them and kept his face still.

A hand clapped lightly on his shoulder.

“Yeats,” said Lord Elsmore, cheerful and oblivious. “Damn good to see you in Town again. I’ve half a mind to alert the papers.”

Henry forced a smile. “I’m sure they’ve survived my absence.”

Elsmore chuckled. “Speaking of returns…” He nodded across the room. “That’s Lady Anna, isn’t it? Stenton’s cousin?”

Henry didn’t answer.

Elsmore followed his gaze anyway. “Vaun’s been glued to her all night. Word is he’s serious.”

Henry’s throat felt tight.

“Never would’ve guessed,” Elsmore went on. “Didn’t know he had the patience for earnest women.”

Henry said nothing.

The crowd shifted slightly. Anna and Matthew drifted closer to the edge of the floor, more visible now. Her hand was still on his arm. A single curl had slipped free near her temple.

“You danced with her at Yeats Hall, didn’t you?” Elsmore asked casually. “Seemed rather taken with you.”

Henry turned his head slowly. “I don’t recall.”

Elsmore blinked. “Right. Well. Forget I said anything.”

Henry didn’t reply.

A second later, someone else stepped near—Lady Bellamy, all rouge and raised eyebrows.

“Your Grace,” she said, too loudly. “You look positively grim. Don’t tell me your heart’s been stolen and dashed already.”

Henry smiled tightly. “Only my patience.”

She laughed, delighted. “He’s always so dry. I adore it.”

But he’d already stopped listening.

Across the room, Anna had laughed at something. It was polite, practiced, barely a curve of the mouth, but it still gutted him. That used to be his to earn.

He couldn’t stand here any longer.

“Excuse me,” he said, low, and stepped away before either of them could respond.

He didn’t stop to take his hat or coat. He just made his way through the side corridor and pushed open one of the tall garden doors.

The air outside hit him like a slap. Cool, sharp, quiet.

He exhaled hard.

Still the ache hadn't left.

She’d known he would be there.