Page 26 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 26

" Y ou will not believe this, Anna!"

Peggy's breathless exclamation shattered the quiet of the morning room, the following day, pulling Anna from her thoughts. She had deliberately chosen a later breakfast hour, hoping to have the morning room to herself, but fate—and Peggy—clearly had other plans.

Her cousin sat at the table, coffee cup in one hand, a thin sheet of newsprint in the other, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

"What is it now, Peggy?" Anna sighed, the sound one of weary resignation.

Peggy practically bounced in her chair. "A published column! Here, in the country! And it is writing about the house party."

Anna blinked, unimpressed. "Good gossip for the country folk, then," she murmured, reaching for her teacup.

"Oh, I doubt you will say that again once you have read it." With an air of great importance, Peggy thrust the sheet toward her.

"That is some rapid publishing," she added, almost to herself. "It must have gone to press last night."

Anna unfolded the paper and immediately noticed its poor quality. The ink was blotched in places, the type uneven. Hardly the refined prints of London. But as her gaze traveled over the words, her indifference vanished.

Word reaches us, dear readers, of the most splendid gathering at Copperton Hall, where guests are entertained with the greatest of care under the watchful eye of our most eligible host, His Grace, the Duke of Copperton. But what is a grand affair without a whisper of intrigue?

Much has been speculated about the Duke's attentions toward a certain spinster of sharp wit and keen tongue. Could a match be in the making at last? Some matrons, ever eager to see a title settled, have already placed their wagers on the likelihood of wedding bells before the season's end.

Anna's fingers tightened around the paper. Predictable nonsense. But as she continued reading, her breath hitched.

Yet, dear readers, might we be so bold as to propose another wager? For it seems Copperton's affections may not be so singular after all. Enter the Diamond of the Season—Lady Fiona Pierce. A beauty, an accomplished musician, and a most suitable prospect indeed. Only last evening, the Duke himself was seen favoring the fair lady at a game of cards, his attentions most obliging, his company most enjoyed.

The question remains: which lady shall triumph? Will His Grace remain true to his previous inclinations, or has the Diamond set her sights upon his heart? The wagers grow ever more thrilling, dear readers, and we, for one, cannot wait to see how this delightful contest shall unfold. Until then, we eagerly anticipate more charming outings with the spinster… and perhaps another hand of cards with the Diamond.

Anna let out a sharp, incredulous snort and tossed the paper onto the table. "They are quick. I shall give them credit for that."

"Do you suppose one of the guests is supplying the columnists with tidbits about the party?" Peggy mused, tapping a thoughtful finger against her chin.

Anna pressed her lips together, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. "For all we know, the writer could very well be a guest." But truly, the matter did not concern her. Not when the contents of the column itself still lingered unpleasantly in her mind.

The speculations. The comparisons. The notion that she and Fiona were now reduced to mere wagers in the eyes of the ton .

It left a bitter taste in her mouth.

A rustle at the doorway pulled her from her thoughts. Margaret entered, offering Peggy a conspiratorial smile before turning to Anna.

"I am sorry, dearest, but I must abandon you," Margaret said ruefully. "It seems I am needed elsewhere."

Anna waved off the apology with a slight smile. "Think nothing of it."

In truth, she welcomed the solitude. She had sought it from the beginning, and now, at last, she would have it.

Or so she thought.

She had barely lifted her coffee to her lips when another figure entered the room. She sighed inwardly, but as soon as she saw who it was, her tension eased.

Roderick. Her lips curved into a smile.

At least he would not mention the infernal gossip columns. He had no interest in the idle scandals of the aristocracy, nor did he waste his time following such nonsense.

"I find you again," he observed as he helped himself to the sideboard before settling opposite her.

Anna arched a brow. "And here I thought I might finally enjoy a moment's solitude."

Roderick chuckled as he unfolded his napkin. "I do seem to have a talent for disrupting your peace."

"Indeed. And I do hope you will not make a habit of it." Anna lifted her chin in mock severity. "Or else."

Roderick's grin deepened. "Or else what?" he prompted, feigning concern. "Shall I be cast out into the cold?"

She had just opened her mouth to respond when a shadow fell over the table. Colin.

His steps slowed, his gaze sweeping over her and Roderick with a fleeting look of surprise. For a brief moment, an unreadable emotion flashed across his face—curiosity, perhaps, or something else she could not name. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, replaced by his usual composure.

"I did not realize you two were well acquainted," Colin remarked.

Across from her, Roderick tensed ever so slightly. The shift was subtle, but Anna noticed it, nonetheless. A stiffening of his shoulders, a tightening of his jaw. Yet, beyond that, he gave no response; no polite explanation or casual remark to ease the moment. His demeanor turned reserved—cold, even—and Anna could not help but recall the strange unease that had lingered between him and Colin the previous evening after the announcement at dinner.

Something was amiss.

Anna forced a lightness into her tone as she set down her cup. "A lovely morning for a hearty breakfast and some laughter, do you not agree, Your Grace?"

Colin did not respond immediately. His gaze remained locked with hers, unreadable, searching. The silence stretched just long enough for her to feel its weight. And when he finally spoke, his words came clipped, his manner a shade too terse.

Anna's fingers tightened around her spoon. A sudden, unwelcome image of Fiona surged through her mind, and though she willed it away, it left behind an unmistakable sting before vanishing. Is that why he looks displeased?

She inhaled softly, straightening in her chair. Perhaps his affections have shifted elsewhere. The thought settled uneasily within her, and she could not quite tell why it left her feeling so hollow.

But Colin, unaware of her thoughts, had taken his seat. The earlier ease in the room had all but dissolved. The warmth of laughter now felt like a distant memory, as though it had never existed at all. Anna found herself making a conscious effort just to swallow her food.

Colin, for his part, appeared equally disinclined toward conversation, his movements a touch too rigid as he cut into his meal. If he was displeased, he gave no clear reason for it. And that, perhaps, was what unsettled her most.

Anna was baffled. This inexplicable shift between them, this tension that had not been present mere moments ago—it all felt as though it had come from nowhere.

But she was wrong.

It had come from everywhere at once.

After a most unpleasant breakfast, Colin retreated to his study, a scowl settling deep into his features. He had no patience for company, no appetite for distraction. Yet no matter how he willed himself to focus, his mind persisted in replaying the sound of Anna's laughter—warm, unguarded, utterly effortless.

With Roderick .

Colin had never known the fighter capable of such mirth, and the realization sat ill with him. Anna had been too informal for comfort, her manner far too easy in his presence. The familiarity between them confirmed Fisher's report. She was well acquainted with Roderick.

But how well?

The question lodged itself firmly in his mind, a bitter weight pressing against his thoughts. His jaw clenched as he leaned back in his chair, fingers tightening against the arms of his seat. What was the true nature of their relationship?

He could ask her, of course. But would she even indulge his curiosity? The memory of her airy dismissal in the breakfast room resurfaced, grating against his already frayed composure. No, Anna would not be forthcoming. And he—he had no right to demand answers. The realization only soured his mood further.

Irritated, he dipped his quill into the inkwell and turned his attention back to the ledgers before him. Numbers were logical, dependable. Numbers did not evade him with cryptic smiles and unreadable gazes.

Yet as he attempted to enter the first set of figures, his grip on the quill tightened, and ink splattered across the page, a large blot staining the careful columns where a simple five should have been.

Colin cursed aloud, his temper snapping as he tossed the offending quill back into the pot with far more force than necessary.

A knock sounded at the door just as he exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to hurl the ledger clear across the room.

Before he could call for them to enter, Giltford and Sterlin strolled in, utterly at ease as they took in the scene before them.

"What has that poor quill done to deserve such violence?" Sterlin drawled, leaning casually against a nearby chair.

Colin shot him a dark look. "It has ruined my perfectly ordered accounts, that is what," he bit out, more curtly than he had intended.

Giltford raised a brow as he and Sterlin made themselves comfortable. "You are in an abominable mood," he observed dryly. "All the more reason you require an outing."

Sterlin nodded in agreement. "Yes, a fine suggestion. A change of scenery might do you some good."

Colin barely heard them. His mind had drifted elsewhere, tugged back to that morning's conversation, to the easy way Anna had spoken with Roderick, the way she had smiled— laughed .

Giltford cleared his throat, drawing Colin back to the present. "The outing to the village—do you recall that it is this afternoon?"

Colin's eyes widened in surprise. "That is today?"

Sterlin let out a low chuckle. "Never say you forgot."

"So lost in his own ill humor that he has forgotten he is hosting a house party," Giltford remarked, exchanging an amused glance with Sterlin.

Sterlin nodded sagely. "A most grievous offense, indeed. One might almost suspect that some matter of great import weighs upon his mind."

Colin gave them both a tight-lipped smile, one meant to be dismissive but which, judging by their unimpressed expressions, was woefully ineffective. "What, pray, could possibly be amiss beyond a wretched quill blotting my ledgers and setting me back in my accounts?" he countered, stretching his lips into a deliberately wide, unconcerned grin.

Neither man looked convinced.

And for good reason.

Colin had no intention of discussing what was wrong—chiefly because he did not fully understand it himself. How could he explain the tangled knot in his chest, the irritation, the absurdity of the jealousy clawing at him? He had no rational claim over Anna, no reason to feel as if something had been wrenched from his grasp. And yet, the image of her laughing so easily with Roderick gnawed at him, an unwelcome thought that refused to be reasoned away.

Best to leave it alone.

"I am certain the carriages are being readied as we speak," he said instead, rising to his feet and steering his friends toward the door before they could press him further. If they wished to linger and dissect his mood, they would have to do so while keeping pace.

The moment they stepped outside, however, Colin caught the identical looks of incredulity Giltford and Sterlin shared behind his back. Clearly, they were not so easily deterred.

Well, let them speculate. He had no inclination to give voice to his frustrations.

As they joined the gathered guests, Colin's gaze swept the throng instinctively, searching without realizing he was searching. Where was she?

The answer did not present itself. And with it, his spirits took a slow but perceptible descent.

Would she not be joining them? The thought settled unpleasantly within him. The idea of playing the affable host without Anna's presence struck him as distinctly unappealing , and he could not, for the life of him, understand why.

Tamping down the unwelcome sensation, he turned his attention to Lady Fiona, who stood alone near one of the carriages. He made his way toward her, adopting his usual charm with ease.

"Surely, we are not to depart without the others?" he inquired, glancing about as if her companions might materialize at any moment.

Fiona gave a soft chuckle, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "I am afraid I tend to be an early bird more often than not."

"Or perhaps your friends are of the opinion that lateness is a mark of distinction." Colin countered, his gaze moving once more over the gathered company.

"Nancy and Hester, perhaps," Fiona mused, amusement dancing in her eyes. "But Anna would not take kindly to having her punctuality questioned."

"She must keep her own clock, then, entirely independent of ours," Colin replied with a chuckle.

"I daresay she would be equally displeased to be accused of tardiness, Your Grace," Fiona laughed, mirth lacing her words just as the ladies in question approached.

"Oh, here they are," she announced.

Colin turned, his gaze instinctively seeking one face in particular. And there she was—Anna, flanked by her friends, her expression lively as she conversed with Lady Hester. But then her gaze landed on him.

And something changed.

The light in her eyes dimmed, ever so slightly, yet noticeably enough to twist something inside him. Her step, once so assured, seemed to falter for a breath of a second before she righted herself.

He nearly frowned.

Was it him ? Had he done something to sour her mood further? The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

"Were you speaking of us, perhaps?" Lady Nancy inquired lightly, looking from Colin to Fiona with a gleam in her eyes.

"Merely remarking on your sense of timing, dear Nancy," Fiona answered breezily.

"As prompt as you were, I do not see you in possession of the finest worm, Fiona," Lady Hester teased, earning a chorus of laughter from their small gathering.

Colin found himself joining in—at least, outwardly. His focus, however, remained on Anna, whose laughter did not quite reach her eyes. A small smile graced her lips, polite but lacking the animation he so enjoyed seeing.

That did not sit well with him.

She was being distant again. Reserved.

He wanted the Anna who challenged him; who met his wit with sharpness of her own, who eavesdropped at doors and feigned innocence when caught.

More than that—he wanted to be the reason for her laughter. For the liveliness that set her apart from every other woman here. He wanted to reach across the space between them, shake off whatever veil of detachment had settled over her, and remind her of who she was when she looked at him .

The desire was sudden, sharp, and entirely unwise.

I should not be feeling this way.