Page 33 of Corrupting his Duchess (A Duke’s Undoing #1)

H enry said nothing. The garden was still. Not silent but still. A bird shifted somewhere in the hedges. Distant music swelled from the ballroom.

And Anna stood there with her back half-turned to him, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, as though she was trying to hold something inside from breaking.

He could have walked away.

She had given him the out. A clear one.

But he didn’t take it.

Instead, he took a breath and said, very quietly, “You think I came out here to soothe my conscience?”

She didn’t reply.

“I didn’t.”

Still nothing.

He tried again. “I came because you are the only person I have ever known who makes me wish I were better than I am.”

Her shoulders stiffened– but she didn’t turn around.

That was something.

That was something.

“I do not want to make excuses,” he said. “Nor do I expect forgiveness. But if I could do one thing right– it would be this. To come back. To say it. All of it.”

Now she turned.

Not fully. But enough to face him.

“What changed?” she asked.

“Because I was a coward.”

The answer came too fast, too raw.

He steadied himself.

“I do not pretend I can mend what was broken,” he said after a moment. “I do not think I can,” he said. “But again, I should like to at least make it right.”

She said nothing.

“You once told me I made you feel safe,” he continued quietly. “Then permit me to do what I ought to have done long before now. Allow me the honor of being your defender– your ally– when you cannot be your own.”

She didn’t respond.

He continued anyway. “Let me take responsibility for what I broke. Let me be the one who stands in front of you when you can’t fight, the one who– ”

“I am not in need of a defender,” she replied, too swiftly. “Not now.”

“No,” he nodded. “But I am in need of doing so.”

She looked up at him then, cautious, uncertain.

“I need to know you are protected,” he said. “That when the world turns cruel…and it will…I will be the man who speaks when you are silenced. Who sees you when others choose not to.”

“I failed you,” he said at last. “And still… you are all I think of.”

Anna’s arms were crossed now. Not defensive, just keeping herself upright.

“Why now?” she asked. “Why only after all this?”

“Because I was afraid,” he said. “Because I have learnt all my life that to care is to be weak. That caring is a risk. That to let someone in is to surrender control. And I thought if I kept you at a distance, you would be safe.” A pause. “But you weren’t.”

He took a breath. “And neither was I.”

Her voice was quieter now. “You said affection was a weakness.”

“I was wrong.”

“You walked away from me,” she whispered. “You made me feel like I imagined it all.”

“I know,” he said. “And I hate myself every day for it.”

She looked at him like she wanted to believe him, but didn’t dare.

“I thought wanting you made me vulnerable. But not wanting you was worse.”

She turned her head. Something trembled at the corner of her mouth.

“I am not a liability,” she said.

“No,” he said. “You’re a force. You are fire and loyalty and every kind of good thing. And I was a fool to think I could let you go. Not because you need me but I need you.”

Still, she hesitated. “You don’t have to say these things.”

“I do,” he said.

And then, finally, he stepped forward.

“I love you.”

She flinched at the word.

He saw it. He stepped forward. Slowly. “Yes. I said it.”

She froze.

“I love you,” he repeated, lower now. “And if that makes me a fool then let me be one.”

She stared at him. A long breath passed between them.

“I ought not believe you,” she whispered. “Not after everything.”

“I know.”

“And yet– ”

He reached for her hand. “Anna.”

She didn’t move.

“I love you.” he said, voice quieter now. “And I do not care if it makes me foolish. I do not care if it makes me weak. Because when my own cousin cornered you and I wasn’t there– I would have done anything to undo it.”

She stared at him. “You– ”

Her voice trembled. “You said loving someone was dangerous.”

“It is,” he said. “And I’ve never been braver.”

He hesitated.

“I know I have little right to ask anything of you,” he said. “But if I may, if you can find it in yourself to believe me, then I must ask you this.”

Her breath caught.

“Anna,” he said, steady now. “Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

She stared at him.

Her lips parted. She blinked once.

“Anna.”

“Marry me,” he said.

The words struck like a match and her heart caught in her chest.

She stared at him.

There was no jest in his eyes. No teasing, no careful deflection.

Just Henry asking for something that terrified them both.

A thousand thoughts flew through her mind, the ruin he’d left her in, the silence, the awful ache of waiting.

But also the way he had looked at her when she was in danger.

The way his voice had broken when he said he loved her.

The way her name sounded in his mouth like promises of a lifetime.

She ought to have asked for time.

Instead, she reached for him.

And kissed him.

It was hungry, every breath she’d swallowed these past weeks pouring out of her, every word she hadn’t said pressed into the way her mouth claimed his.

He responded instantly, a sound low in his throat, and then his arms were around her, firm and possessive, dragging her closer like he meant never to let go again.

She gasped softly against his lips, and he took it, deepened the kiss, his mouth slanting over hers with something that felt like both reverence and desperation.

Anna’s hands slid up his chest, gripping the lapels of his coat to anchor herself. She could feel the heat of him even through layers of cloth, and the hard line of his body as he pulled her flush against him.

His hand rose to cradle the side of her face, his thumb sweeping gently beneath her jaw while his other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her fast. When he angled his head, she parted her lips for him without thinking.

He kissed her like a man making up for lost time.

Her knees went soft. She clutched tighter. He murmured her name against her mouth like it was something sacred, something fragile.

And God help her– she was already his.

She broke away only to breathe, and even then he didn’t let go. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling in the cold.

“Say yes,” he whispered.

Her pulse pounded.

She looked up at him– lips swollen, breath unsteady, heart thundering.

And then she whispered, “Yes.”

She barely finished the word before he kissed her again.

This time it was slower, deep, aching, almost reverent but there was a different heat behind it now. One that curled low in her belly and stole the breath from her lungs.

His hands moved. One slid up the curve of her back, the other resting dangerously low at her waist. She felt the tremble in his fingers as he held her, barely restrained.

He broke the kiss just enough to speak, voice rough. “If you don’t stop me– ”

“I won’t,” she breathed.

He exhaled hard, like he’d been punched. “Anna– ”

She pulled him back down. Their mouths met again, urgent, hungry, their bodies pressed together as though they'd never get close enough.

And then she felt it, his hips against hers. Hard. Unapologetic.

He tried to step back. “We’re in the garden.”

“I know.”

His forehead dropped to hers. “If we do this now…”

“It won’t be enough,” she whispered. “But I want it anyway.”

He groaned into her mouth, kissed her again, kissed her like he couldn’t bear not to.

“I’ve imagined this,” he said against her skin. “Too many times.”

She smiled. “So have I.”

His hands found her waist again. “We can’t do this out here.”

“Then take me somewhere,” she said. “Quickly.”

He looked at her, stunned for half a second. “You’re sure?”

She nodded once. “Yes.”

That was all he needed.

They moved fast, ducking into the shadows at the edge of the terrace.

The corridor just off the servants’ stairs was quiet.

They slipped through a half-open door and found themselves in a linen passage, dim, warm, hushed.

The only sound was their breathing, ragged now, and the distant hum of the ball still echoing from the grand rooms below.

He pulled her into an alcove, kissed her again.

“You are going to ruin me,” he whispered.

She laughed, but her voice caught. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be ruined by. So ruin me properly.”

He kissed her like he meant to prove it.

Their hands tangled, her fingers slipping inside the edges of his coat. His mouth moved to her jaw, down to the column of her neck. She gasped, her head tipping back.

“We need a room,” he said, voice tight. “Now.”

She nodded.

He pulled her by the hand, past the quiet stretch of corridor, the marble giving way to stone and the wallpaper thinning to whitewash.

Past the grand rooms and drawing halls, into a less-used wing of the house until they reached an unmarked door with worn handle.

A guest room, likely. He turned the handle slowly; it gave.

He stepped in first, pulled her inside, and shut the door with a soft click.

Still holding her hand.

Still watching her like she was some impossible dream.

“Anna…”

She stepped forward, drew her fingers across the line of his cravat. “Say it again.”

His brow furrowed, gently. “What?”

“What you said in the garden.”

He swallowed hard. “I love you.”

She kissed him.

The room was small and spare with the ceiling low enough to press the air close.

Faint light slipped through a slatted window, casting pale bands across a plain chair, a narrow bed, and a cold hearth.

But they barely noticed. The room could have been anything.

Henry turned to face her, and for the first time in all their weeks of circling, avoiding and aching since they left Yeats Hall, he looked at her without restraint.

“You are sure,” he said, as though one more confirmation might steady him.