Page 3 of Corrupting his Duchess

“The Dowager Duchess,” Isaac murmured under his breath.

Then, with a gracious tilt of her head and the faintest smile, the woman spoke.

“Lady Anna Hessey,” the Dowager Duchess said in a pleasant, measured tone. “And Lord Stenton. We’re pleased to receive you.”

Anna curtsied with practiced ease. “Your Grace,” she said, then turned and offered a more subtle nod to Sophia. “Lady Sophia Granhampton. It is a pleasure.”

Behind her, Eliza, her appointed maid stepped down from the coach as well, hands clasped before her as she made her way to the servants' quarters.

Isaac offered his greetings, his head snapping forward as a man walked into view.

Her breath caught.

He was tall, imposingly so, with light brown hair that was neatly combed but already tousled by the wind, as though the man didn’t care to fight it. It curled slightly above his collar. His nose was straight and patrician, cheekbones high and his mouth—well, his mouth was the sort most women dreamed of. His jaw was clean-shaven, his mouth unsmiling. His tailored coat strained just enough at the shoulders to suggest strength, and his gaze, icy green and unreadable ,rested squarely on Anna.

Not her cousin. Not the carriage. Her.

The Duke of Yeats.

“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.