Page 95 of Corrupting his Duchess

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 startingto 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.