Page 35 of Corrupting his Duchess

Instead, she went to the wardrobe. Her hand brushed over the silk of her nightgown, then hesitated over her dressing robe, simple but elegant, pale blue trimmed with lace. Her lamp cast a warm glow over the room, brushing golden light against the embroidered bodice of her nightgown.

If I go, I’ll regret it. If I don’t, I’ll always wonder.

She reached for the robe.

Slipping it on, she cinched the sash tight, her breath caught halfway between defiance and dread.

She paused at the door.

There was no point pretending this wasn’t impulsive.

Anna pressed her lips together, then turned.

Then she turned back, grabbed the note she had begun, crumpled it, and tossed it into the fire.

The paper curled and blackened.

She stepped into the corridor.

The air felt cooler outside her room. She kept her steps slow, alert to every creak, every breath of wind through the old house. She moved quietly, slippers silent against the woodenfloorboards as she slipped into the hall. She passed the guest chambers slowly, her breath shallow, her ears straining for any sound behind the other doors. Nothing. The gentle murmur of wind. The faint creak of a shutter.

Now she walked it, candle in hand, heart pounding.

The house was quiet now, thick with that peculiar hush that came after long summer days of company and conversation. Somewhere in the east wing, a clock ticked soft and steady.

Down the stairs, around the bend.

The east wing was quieter still. Warmer, somehow older wood, less draft. A hall lit dimly by wall sconces led her toward a series of dark oak doors.

She paused at the third one.

Her hand hovered just above the surface of it, heart hammering.

She wasn’t sure if she’d knock. She wasn’t even sure if she could. She wasn’t sure if this was a terrible idea, only that it was already far too late to turn back.

And then, light movement behind the door.

Footsteps. A shadow shifting past the gap under it.

Anna swallowed, raised her hand.

And knocked softly. Twice.

Henry leaned back in the armchair by the hearth, one leg crossed lazily over the other, a half-finished glass of brandy in hand. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the bookshelves and paneled walls. He hadn't lit all the candles. Only a few glowed, enough to read, enough to think, not enough to make the room welcoming. He didn’t particularly want company.

The house was quiet. Most of the guests had retired after the picnic and supper. He should have been tired too, but instead, he was restless. Instead of quiet, his thoughts had turned louder.

Anna.

Anna Hessey had the singular ability to take up space in his mind with very little effort.

He had spent the day trying not to look at her too much, trying not to listen too closely when she spoke. Her wit was impossible to ignore, but it was her silences that had undone him, those little pauses where she seemed to choose which part of herself to reveal. And then that banter. God, that banter. She gave as good as she got, with a glint in her eye that both infuriated and fascinated him.

He didn’t trust himself around her, and worse, he didn’t trust what he wanted.

Since he’d met her, she’d been sharp. Bold. Too quick for her own good. But today, today had left an ache in him he couldn’t name. A taste of something he wasn’t supposed to want.

That one moment when the wind had caught her hair and she’d caught him watching. The way her smile had faltered just slightly before she turned away. He wasn’t sure what that had meant, but he’d felt it like a thread tugged tight between them.