Page 33 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 33

W hat changed between Anna and me ?

The question plagued Colin as he sat in his study, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He had returned to Town the moment the last of his guests had departed the country estate, offering the appropriate farewells and ignoring the growing weight in his chest. There was only one place he wished to be. Only one person he was desperate to se e.

And yet he had not gone to he r.

He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. But each time he reached for his coat, made for the door, or simply pictured her face—those keen eyes, that maddening mouth—he hesitated. It was not pride that stayed his hand. Nor was it doubt. It was fear. That most detestable of emotions. Fear that Anna would meet his call with polite civility, that her warm glances had cooled to courtesy, that he had read meaning into moments she no longer held dea r.

He cursed under his breath, but before he could rise, a sharp knock echoed at the door. Colin sighed and leaned back again. "Enter," he called.

The door opened and in stepped Fisher, his valet, as composed as ever.

"If you've brought me today's scandal sheets, you may as well cast them into the fire," Colin muttered. "I have no appetite for the whims of the ton this morning."

"I bring no gossip, Your Grace. Merely an invitation."

Colin groaned. "Let me guess. A soiree hosted by some long-forgotten dowager seeking relevancy? Or worse—a matchmaking mother with daughters in tow?"

"I believe this particular invitation will interest you." Fisher stepped forward and placed a folded paper on the desk.

Colin raised a skeptical brow and reached for it. As his eyes traced the elegant script, something shifted in his expression.

His brow lifted. "The Mighty Stone's gathering?"

Fisher allowed the faintest hint of a smile. "Indeed, Your Grace. It is said to be one of his most ambitious games yet. A night of cards with stakes beyond the usual purse. And, perhaps, beyond mere coin."

Colin's gaze lingered on the parchment. The tension in his chest did not vanish, but it shifted. Distraction, if nothing else.

Colin's brow furrowed as he took another glance at the parchment in his hands. It was no invitation to a ball or supper party, but a ticket—plain, unadorned, and utterly unexpected. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"This is for the match," he said slowly, fingers tapping the corner of the card. "The Mighty Stone's next bout."

Fisher gave the faintest nod, an almost imperceptible lift of the chin, followed by the subtle adjustment of his waistcoat. "Indeed, Your Grace."

Colin looked up. "How did you acquire this?"

"I have my ways," Fisher replied, smugly but without being impolite, and with just enough pride to suggest the method had not been entirely conventional.

Colin leaned back, weighing the ticket in his fingers. "I do not know if I can go." The admission left him quieter than expected, as though simply speaking the words summoned the weight of everything else—of Anna, of failure, of too many things unsaid.

"You need not decide this moment," Fisher said with gentle practicality. "The bout is not until the day after tomorrow. I thought, perhaps, you might wish to know it was happening. Nothing more." He paused. "There is no obligation here, Your Grace."

Colin met his valet's gaze. "Is there not?"

Fisher's expression sobered, his posture firming as though he knew precisely where Colin's thoughts had turned. "You are not your father."

The words were simple. But they fell like a hammer—blunt and irrefutable.

And just as he had so many times before, Colin drew strength from them. It was strange, really, how often Fisher seemed to understand the things he himself had trouble admitting aloud.

He glanced once more at the ticket.

By the following evening, he had made his decision.

The crowd was electric, pulsing with the kind of energy one rarely found in drawing rooms or on manicured lawns. Colin moved through the edges of it with measured steps, the brim of his hat low, his coat collar turned slightly against the chill. He hadn't come for spectacle. Not truly. He had come because something restless clawed inside him, and watching Rod in that ring might—if only for an hour—quiet it.

He doubted Roderick would be pleased to see him. That was hardly a secret. Still, Colin had come. Part of him craved the distraction. The other part—more honest—wished to offer a silent measure of support.

And there he was.

The moment Roderick stepped into the ring, Colin could feel it. The shift in atmosphere. The crowd's roar dulled around him as his focus narrowed. The man was a beast—controlled, calculated, devastatingly efficient.

Each strike was deliberate, each movement a whisper of years spent refining strength into precision. His footwork was fast, fluid. His awareness almost unnervingly sharp. The opponent barely had time to react before another blow landed.

It was artistry through force, strategy cloaked in muscle and sweat.

No wonder he was undefeated.

Colin found himself standing by the final round, heart beating faster than the fight warranted. And when the referee called the match—unnecessary though the declaration was—he couldn't help the grin that stole across his face. It wasn't simply the thrill of victory. It was the satisfaction of witnessing excellence. Of seeing a man conquer what he was born to master.

The Mighty Stone had triumphed again.

The crowd erupted into a chorus of cheers, voices raised in raucous celebration as the Mighty Stone lifted his fists in silent triumph. Roderick moved with ease among his admirers, accepting congratulations with nods and the occasional crooked smile. He had always thrived in the swell of public admiration—comfortable in a space that made most men shrink.

Colin remained near the edge, arms loosely crossed, his expression composed though far from unreadable. And then, as if sensing it, Roderick's gaze found him.

The change was immediate.

The smile that had just graced his features faltered. His shoulders stiffened. He paused in the middle of a handshake, blinking as though unsure whether he had seen correctly.

Then he moved.

He wove through the crowd, purposeful and silent. For a brief moment, Colin braced himself. He'd expected, if not outright hostility, then certainly resistance. Roderick was not a man who welcomed intrusions—especially not from dukes with well-pressed coats and motives layered beneath polished smiles.

But when Roderick reached him, his voice held nothing of what Colin had anticipated.

"What whim has you journeying all the way here?"

Colin arched a brow. "Suffice it to say, I felt like being impressed."

"And?" Roderick's brow lifted, one corner of his mouth twitching.

"I am still contemplating," Colin replied.

That earned him a full, rare smile.

"Fancy a drink?" Roderick asked, as though it were the most natural offer in the world.

"Do lead the way."

They crossed to a door off the main hall, and Colin soon found himself inside a modest room that bore the unmistakable marks of familiarity. A jug and basin sat atop a small table near a mirror, and as Roderick removed his gloves and splashed water onto his face, Colin took quiet note of the space. This was no guest chamber. This was his.

Roderick returned with two glasses and poured generously.

"To many more victories," Colin said as he accepted his drink.

"To many more," Roderick echoed, and they drank in companionable silence.

"So," Roderick began after a moment, "what brings you all the way to my world? I doubt you ventured out for the love of sport."

"Perhaps I did," Colin replied with a shrug. "Though, now that I have seen your performance for myself, I must admit—my previous offer of sponsorship bears more weight than ever."

He watched carefully for the expected scoff or rebuff.

It never came.

Instead, Roderick was quiet for a moment, then said, "Very well."

Colin blinked. "You'll accept?"

Roderick met his gaze steadily. "You're persistent. I'll give you that. And perhaps… it is time."

The words settled between them like the final move in a long, quiet match.

It was not loud. It did not need to be.

A truce. A beginning.

Curious hope stirred in Colin's chest—tentative, but not unfamiliar.

He let the silence stretch a beat longer before asking, "And Lydia? How does she fare?"

Roderick's face changed—not dramatically, but enough. A slight tension about the eyes. A downward flick of his gaze.

"We pray to the heavens for the best," he said simply, then drank.

And Colin, who knew all too well the ache of helplessness, said nothing further. Not everything in life could be won—not even by the Mighty Stone.

Anna.

Colin had been thinking of her the entire way back into Town, her name sitting far too comfortably in the corner of his mind. And now, as his carriage rolled down Bond Street, he remembered he had yet to plan their final outing—the fifth of five. Perhaps he had delayed it because he didn't want it to end. Or because he feared that when it did, so would everything else.

His eyes caught on a window display—a dress in crimson silk and gold thread, bold and striking. Without thinking, he pictured Anna in it, her chin lifted in defiance, her eyes alight. She would be devastating in that dress. He rapped on the roof of the carriage without hesitation.

He gave a sharp knock on the carriage roof.

By the time he reached his study, he had discarded his coat, crossed to the desk, and was already scribbling instructions in quick, precise strokes. The letter was sealed by the time he rang for Fisher.

"I need you to make a trip to the modiste," he said, barely waiting for the door to finish opening.

Fisher, who had seen more eccentric orders than most officers in the king's army, still blinked. "The modiste, Your Grace?"

"Yes, the modiste," Colin repeated, thrusting the letter into his hands with a mixture of purpose and something dangerously close to excitement. "Take this. The details are clear. The dress is to be commissioned without deviation. Crimson silk. Gold embroidery. No lace. No frippery. And it must be delivered tomorrow."

Fisher accepted the letter with the practiced efficiency of a man who had long since ceased questioning his master's whims—at least aloud.

But then Colin handed him a second, smaller one.

"And this," he added, "is to go directly to Dr. Gibson. Immediately."

At that, Fisher hesitated. His expression—usually somewhere between unbothered and politely indifferent—tightened with concern.

"To Dr. Gibson, Your Grace?"

"Yes."

"Forgive me, but—are you unwell?"

Colin looked him squarely in the eye. "I am perfectly fine."

And he was. At least, in body. But there were other matters that were heavier than health. Promises he hadn't yet made.