Page 96 of Corrupting his Duchess

Henry didn’t greet him. He moved to the writing desk instead, pulled open the drawer.

The unfinished letter was still there.

Just her name. Written once in his hand, dark and steady, followed by a long line where the ink had bled into the paper. He hadn’t made it any further.

He stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. Then closed the drawer.

Behind him, the valet had begun laying out his attire with quiet efficiency.

“Your Grace,” he said after a pause, “shall I proceed with the cufflinks?”

Henry nodded once and stepped forward.

They said nothing while the man fastened the cuffs with care, silver links shaped like shields.

Henry adjusted the line of his coat, then studied his reflection in the mirror. Face impassive. Cravat perfect. Shoulders squared. He looked, outwardly, like every other man who would walk into that ballroom tonight.

But beneath the surface, he was nothing but edges with tight lines and raw corners. Every movement felt too sharp, every breath just slightly too shallow.

The valet stepped back. “Lady Vexley’s ball begins at eight, Your Grace. Shall I have the carriage brought ‘round at half past seven?”

Henry didn’t answer at once.

His gaze lingered on the mirror a moment longer. The glass was clean, the candlelight steady. His expression gave away nothing. Not the hollow ache behind his ribs. Not the constant pull of her name in the back of his mind.

He adjusted one sleeve with more force than necessary.

“Very good,” he said at last. “Half past seven.”

The valet hesitated. “Will you be attending alone, sir?”

Henry turned his head slightly. His eyes, when they met the valet’s, were unreadable.

“Yes.”

A pause. Then the faintest incline of the servant’s head.

“Very good, Your Grace.”

The man quietly exited, closing the door behind him with practiced softness.

Henry stood still.

He looked once more toward the drawer.

Then he turned away.

His steps carried him to the sideboard, where a decanter of brandy sat waiting beside two crystal tumblers. He poured a measure, the amber liquid sloshed high in the glass.

He stared at it for a second.

Then threw it.

The glass struck the edge of the fireplace with a sharp, splintering crack and shattered into a dozen pieces, the brandy hissing as it hit the coals.

Silence swallowed the room.

The scent of burnt sugar and scorched alcohol curled through the air, sharp and bitter.