Page 8 of Corrupting his Duchess

“Ah, don’t mind her, Your Grace. Anna collects strange notions the way some ladies collect ribbons. Always has something in her head—ideas, questions. Quite impossible to predict what she’ll say next.”

He chuckled again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Makes for interesting company. At times.”

Anna felt the heat rise to her cheeks before she could stop it. She kept her gaze on her soup, lifting her spoon with careful precision, biting back the retort that had surged to the tip of her tongue.

Across the table, the Duke’s gaze lingered. And this time, when he looked at her, the frown remained—but it had shifted. Less irritation. More like… consideration.

She dipped her spoon into her consommé, but the taste barely registered.

Amber candlelight pooled over polished mahogany and the lingering scent of the earlier meal and brandy hung in the air. Shadows flickered along the walls, cast by a dozen low-burning sconces and the lively hearth at the far end. The ladies had returned after a brief respite, gowns now subtly adjusted, cheeks flushed from wine or laughter, or, in Anna’s case, from biting back opinions all through the meal.

The gentlemen joined them shortly after. Henry entered last, as if summoned reluctantly, and made no effort to hide his disinterest in idle chatter.

He took a spot by the fire, glass in hand, one shoulder resting against the mantle. His coat remained perfectly tailored, and his expression perfectly unreadable.

Anna sat across the room in a small cluster of chairs arranged near a tea table, her gown of deep plum catching the firelight each time she shifted. Julia lounged beside her, one slipper peeking beneath her hem as she swirled wine in her glass and Gretchen sat with perfect posture on her other side. Both were engaged in light conversation with Nathaniel, who recounted some half-true tale involving a rainstorm, a collapsing bridge, and an outraged nobleman’s goat.

Anna wasn’t listening.

Her attention, traitorously, kept sliding toward the fire.

More specifically, toward the Duke leaning beside it.

He hadn’t said more than two sentences to her during dinner, and yet every word he had spoken had managed to land squarely on her nerves. Dismissive. Sardonic. Utterly self-assured. The kind of man she made every effort to avoid.

He caught her gaze just then, of course, and raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, as though he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.

She narrowed her eyes, just slightly.

“Does he ever blink?” she muttered.

“Would you, if you had that jawline?” Julia replied, glancing dreamily at him.

“I find it fascinating,” Henry said aloud, turning his attention toward the group, “how a dinner table can reveal so much with so little.”

“Oh?” Nathaniel replied, pouring himself another drink. “Do share, Your Grace. You know how little of your insights we get.”

Henry ignored the jab. “For instance, Lady Anna has already formed no less than five opinions of me this evening, and I’m quite certain none of them are favorable.”

All heads turned.

Anna raised her glass slowly, schooling her expression into polite interest. “You’re mistaken, Your Grace. I formed six.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

Henry’s brows lifted. “Six? My, you’re efficient.”

“Well, you made it terribly easy,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hard to resist forming opinions when you volunteer so much material, Your Grace.”

Nathaniel let out a low whistle. Julia covered her grin with her fan.

Henry stepped away from the hearth, taking a slow sip of his drink. “And here I thought I was being admirably restrained.”

“You certainly restrained yourself from manners,” she replied. “Though I suppose that takes talent.”

His smile turned sharp, but not unpleasant. “You wound me, Lady Anna.”

“I do hope not, Your Grace,” she said, voice calm. “I have not even begun.”