Page 32 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 32

A nna delayed breakfast as long as decency would allow. She'd feigned interest in her correspondence. Rearranged her gloves. Stared at the same page of The Antiquities of Athens for the better part of half an hour. But at last, hunger had won, and she'd descended the stairs with all the enthusiasm of one walking to the gallows.

She paused just outside the breakfast room, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe. Perhaps—just perhaps—it would be empty this time.

It was not.

Fiona sat by the window, a silver spoon in one hand, and a steaming cup of chocolate in the other. Sunlight bathed her in a golden glow, catching the delicate cream lace of her morning dress. She was reading something—no, not reading. Poring. The thin sheet trembled ever so slightly as she turned a page with what could only be described as reverence.

A gossip rag. Of course.

Anna's fingers twitched against her skirts.

She inhaled through her nose, squared her shoulders, and entered the room with a practiced grace. She was the daughter of an earl. She had waltzed with princes and stood her ground against Parliament lords. She would not be undone by ink and paper.

"Good morning," Anna offered lightly as she approached the sideboard, forcing her voice into civility.

"Good morning," Fiona replied, looking up with a smile that seemed a shade too bright.

Anna took her time choosing between eggs and toast, pretending the sheet at Fiona's elbow did not exist. She filled her plate with careful deliberation and seated herself across the table, her expression composed, her spine painfully straight.

Pleasantries followed—mundane remarks about the weather, the state of the roses, the usual nattering expected of young ladies in a civilized household. Fiona's tone was as light as sugar spun air. Anna matched it. Barely.

But then the conversation dwindled. Silence settled between them like an unwelcome third guest.

Fiona did not return to her paper. She merely sipped her chocolate and watched.

Anna could feel it. That steady, knowing gaze—like a cat observing a mouse; not with malice, but with quiet, disarming amusement. It prickled at her composure.

"Do you require another cup?" Fiona asked, rising gracefully with her empty dish in hand.

"I—no, I am well, thank you," Anna replied, a beat too swiftly.

Fiona glided toward the sideboard, her back turned. The moment she did, Anna's treacherous eyes flicked to the paper. The dreadful thing lay innocently beside Fiona's plate, folded carelessly, as if it had not been wielded like a dagger moments ago.

Anna hesitated.

You shan't. You absolutely shall not.

Her hand moved of its own accord.

She slid the sheet toward her and unfolded it. Her eyes scanned the familiar column with a cynicism she'd cultivated over many seasons. And yet?—

There it was.

The Duke of Copperton and Lady Fiona Pierce made for a most striking pair upon the dance floor. The waltz they shared was nothing short of poetic, and Lady Fiona's laughter, light and musical, lent the evening an enchantment it sorely needed…

Anna stared. Her fingers tightened around the page until the edges crumpled slightly.

She knew. She knew it meant nothing. She knew Fiona had no designs upon Colin. And she certainly knew Colin was not the sort of man who lingered over a waltz unless it amused him.

And yet the words stung like lemon juice in an open wound.

"Anna," came Fiona's voice, calm and unflustered, "you should not have read that infernal paper."

Anna jerked her head up, caught like a child stealing jam.

"I merely glanced," she replied coolly, setting the sheet aside with exaggerated nonchalance. "What is so very stupid about it?"

Fiona's gaze was level now, stripped of all artifice. "Everything."

Anna lifted her chin. "They simply record what they see."

"They record what they imagine," Fiona corrected gently. "And what they imagine is frequently idiotic."

Anna let out a breath through her nose and folded her hands in her lap, forcing stillness into them.

Fiona's expression softened. "Colin and I spoke of horses. And dogs. And how dreadful the refreshments were." She arched a brow. "Hardly scandalous."

"No one said it was scandalous," Anna murmured, reaching for her tea, her hand only slightly unsteady.

"No," Fiona said, tilting her head. "But one might be forgiven for assuming you thought it so."

Anna's lips parted, words hovering on the edge—but nothing emerged. She stared down into her cup, heart drumming far too loudly for such a still morning.

Fiona returned to her chair with quiet grace, and though she said nothing more, her gaze did not waver.

Anna found she could not meet it.

Before she could summon a retort—or even a lie to save face—the door creaked open, and the quiet hush of the morning shattered. Someone else had arrived.

"Lovely morning, ladies."

Colin's voice rang out with far too much cheer for so early an hour.

Anna turned just in time to see the Duke of Copperton stroll into the room as though summoned by mischief itself. His coat was perfectly tailored, his cravat annoyingly precise, and his smile positively criminal.

"Good morning, Your Grace," Fiona greeted with blithe ease.

Anna mumbled something. Possibly a greeting. Possibly a curse. She could not be sure.

He heard her, though. Of that she was certain. His expression faltered for just a heartbeat. And then he looked at her—not his usual smirking regard, but something quieter, unreadable. As though he meant to say something, and for once, could not find the words.

Flustered, Anna folded the gossip sheet with deliberate calm and set it aside. She could not bear him seeing it. Let alone discussing it. Not now. Not after that wretched paragraph.

"Oh, these potato cakes are marvelous , I simply could not resist another helping," Fiona said brightly, a little too brightly. Her fork hovered mid-air, a cheerful prop in a private performance.

Anna knew precisely what she was doing. She could have kissed her for it.

"Ah, cook works magic with potatoes at any meal," Colin replied, easing into a chair with far too much confidence. "I daresay I would eat nothing else if she allowed it."

Then he turned to Anna. "I trust you find them just as pleasant, Lady Anna?"

Anna lifted her eyes to his, spine stiffening. "I am not as in love with potatoes as Fiona is."

The words escaped before she could smooth their edges.

A silence followed—only a breath's worth—but it felt far longer.

Then Fiona laughed, light and unbothered. "Well, I have never claimed to be sensible where potatoes are concerned."

If either of them noticed Anna's curtness, they made no remark. Instead, the conversation shifted to the cook's miraculous methods, recipes involving cream and nutmeg, and how the plum pudding from last Tuesday was nearly as good as the one at Giltford House.

Anna tried—truly—to participate. She nodded when required and offered faint smiles. But the words she wished to say were not about potatoes, and those she could say felt like pebbles in her mouth.

Her fork scraped across the plate with a noise far too shrill. Her tea had gone cold.

She set her napkin down and rose.

"My, you've barely touched your food, Anna," Fiona said gently.

"I am not hungry," Anna replied. Her voice was tight. Her throat, tighter still.

She turned without ceremony, leaving her plate, her tea, and her dignity behind.

And though she did not glance back, she could feel it.

His gaze. Steady. Warm. And entirely unwelcome.

After dinner that evening, Anna sat in the far corner, a book open in her lap—some treatise on Roman mosaics, though she could not have said which if pressed.

"My, those two made such a striking pair last night," Lady Agatha declared from across the room, her voice ripe with glee. "I would say the Duke should just make Lady Fiona his duchess already."

Anna did not move. She turned a page she had not read.

"I cannot agree more with the Chronicle , Agatha," Lady Blevins chimed in, nodding with all the fervor of someone deeply invested in someone else's future.

"My, Copperton seemed positively besotted," Agatha added, giggling like a schoolgirl.

Anna shut the book. Loudly.

Too loudly.

She stood.

Elizabeth, who had been seated beside her, looked up with mild surprise. "Where are you going?"

Anna rose from her seat with affected nonchalance.

"I believe I shall retire. I'm beginning to yawn like a bored watch guard," she said with a soft laugh, hoping humor might camouflage her retreat.

Elizabeth did not smile.

"Are you quite well, Anna?" she asked, her voice pitched low, threaded with concern.

Anna's resolve wavered for half a breath. But she could not— would not —unravel here, not when every word spoken about Colin and Fiona still echoed in her ears.

"We have a journey back to London on the morrow, Lizzy," she replied breezily, smoothing her skirts. "And I must be up bright and early. Sensible choices and all that."

Elizabeth regarded her in silence, clearly unconvinced, but nodded, nonetheless.

Anna did not wait for further questions. She turned on her heel, the gentle swish of her dress a comfortingly familiar sound in the quiet hallway.

She had barely rounded the corner when a hand closed around her wrist.

She startled, inhaling sharply?—

"Anna."

Colin's voice. Low. Urgent.

"I need to speak with you."

Her heart dropped like a stone.

"I see you've taken to sneaking about corners like a footpad," she said with forced levity, raising a brow. "One might think you delight in alarming unsuspecting ladies."

But he did not smile.

"I just need a moment. Please."

She glanced down at his hand still encircling her wrist.

"A moment has already passed with your fingers affixed to my person, Colin," she said pointedly.

He looked at his hand, as though just now registering the contact, but did not release her. His grip was firm, warm. Not painful. But disconcertingly intimate.

And far more devastating than she wished it to be.

A tremor passed through her—internal, invisible—but no less real.

"I may need more than a minute," he admitted. "I just—blast it, Anna, I need to speak with you."

There was an odd note in his voice—frustration, certainly. But also something rawer. An undercurrent of desperation that caught her off guard.

She could not speak. Not when her own heart had chosen that moment to begin pounding in her ears.

Why now? What could he possibly say that would change anything?

Before she could formulate an answer, footsteps echoed—hurried, deliberate. A moment later, Fiona rounded the corner, breath a touch uneven, her expression tight with concern.

Anna pulled her wrist free as Fiona came to a stop, one hand clutching the folds of her dress as her gaze flicked between them.

"Oh, there you are, Anna," she said, voice pitched with forced brightness. "I was hoping I might catch you before?—"

She trailed off. Her eyes landed on Colin, then dropped to where his hand had just been.

Surprise registered first.

Followed by something else.

Anna could not name it. But it made her stomach twist, nonetheless.

Colin stepped back then, as though remembering his manners belatedly. Anna did not look at him. She was too busy trying to steady her breathing.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting," Fiona said quickly, the pink blooming across her cheeks betraying her discomfort.

"You did not interrupt anything," Anna replied, sharper than intended. She smoothed her bodice unnecessarily. "I was merely on my way to bed."

Colin opened his mouth. "Anna?—"

"Have a good night," she cut in, the words rushed and brittle. She gave neither of them a backward glance as she swept past.

The following morning brought gray skies and a packing frenzy. Anna sat before the mirror as Miss Watson pinned up the last of her curls when the door opened without a knock.

Fiona entered.

She was still in her morning wrapper, a pale blue with ivory trim, but her posture was anything but relaxed.

Miss Watson, sensing something, curtsied quickly. "Shall I fetch tea, my lady?"

"No, thank you. Leave us, please," Anna murmured.

The door clicked shut.

Fiona remained standing.

"I thought I ought to clarify a few things before we return to London," she said. Her voice was composed, but there was a gravity in it that immediately set Anna on edge.

"There is nothing between me and Copperton. Truly. There never was."

Anna turned back to the mirror, willing her features into impassivity.

"You need not explain yourself to me," she said calmly. "You owe me no such gestures."

"Oh, but I must. I do, in this case," Fiona insisted. She stepped further into the room, clasping her hands before her. "It has been weighing on me."

Anna's eyes flicked to her reflection.

Fiona looked contrite. Earnestly so.

And Anna found herself irritated by that—by the very idea that Fiona, of all people, should feel the need to unburden herself.

"I do not understand why you feel you owe me anything regarding your friendship with Copperton," Anna said, attempting a laugh, though it came out dry. "I am hardly his keeper."

Fiona didn't smile. Her eyes, calm and clear, studied her with something perilously close to sympathy.

"Do you really not?" she asked softly.

Anna froze.

Fiona's gaze held hers in the mirror. "Oh, but I think you do understand, Anna."

The insinuation—so gently spoken—landed like a stone in a still pond.

Anna turned away from the glass, and the denial formed on her tongue. It never made it out. Because it was true, and she did understand.

She understood the ache in her chest whenever Colin smiled at someone else; the irrational fury that had bloomed inside her over a mere gossip column; why her hands had trembled after his fingers touched her wrist.

She had fallen in love with him.

And she had been too proud, too frightened, too determined to see it.

The realization swept over her like a bitter gust of wind—bracing and cruel.

Fiona stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Do not fight it, Anna. Not any more."

She reached forward and gently clasped both of Anna's hands in hers.

Her touch was warm, steady. The kind of gesture that should have soothed.

But Anna's throat tightened, and she had to swallow hard against the sudden lump that rose there.

She blinked rapidly, willing the tears back down. She would not cry. Not now.

It was done. She had lost.

Not in some petty rivalry—there had been none. Fiona had never competed. No one had.

Anna had simply lost to her own heart.

She had given it away before she had the sense to protect it. And now it lay somewhere at Colin's feet, unnoticed. Unwanted.

For how could he ever want her ?

Fiona was everything he ought to seek in a duchess—composed, lovely, perfectly bred and effortlessly graceful. Anna, in contrast, was a contradiction. Too opinionated. Too restless. Too unwilling to bend.

And yet it wasn't Fiona she resented. Not in the least.

Her fingers tightened in her friend's, and she gave a small, broken laugh.

"I am not angry with you," she whispered. "I'm only?—"

"Inadequate?" Fiona supplied softly. “You are not , Anna. Not to him. Not to anyone. You've simply convinced yourself otherwise."

Anna looked away, but not before a single tear betrayed her and slipped down her cheek.