Page 34 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 34

A nna sighed as she sat curled on the chaise lounge by the window, her knees drawn up slightly, a shawl draped over her shoulders despite the mild weather. She stared out at the ceaseless bustle of London below—carriages rattling over cobblestones, flower sellers weaving through the crowds—but saw none of it. Her gaze had long since glazed into that peculiar stillness that came not from idleness, but from thought.

Colin was back in Town.

Miss Watson, always too informed for a housekeeper, had heard it from the kitchen staff and passed it along without ceremony. And though Anna had said nothing in reply, she had later done what she swore she wouldn't—she'd looked.

Just a peek. Just a glance at the latest column.

And there it was.

Colin. The Duke of Copperton. Tracked, as always, by the gossips. But no longer alone.

His new favorite acquisition , the paper had claimed. A striking pair , they gushed. London's latest diamond.

Fiona.

Anna's stomach had dropped at the name, though she'd feigned indifference even in her solitude.

Could it be true? Had all those quiet moments, the stolen glances, the maddening banter—all meant nothing? Had he returned to Town only to forget her entirely, to turn his attentions elsewhere without so much as a by-your-leave?

A week. He had been back a week, and not a single word. No note. No visit. No sign.

It was foolish to feel wounded. She knew that. And yet the ache bloomed just the same, lodged tight in her chest, immovable.

She exhaled sharply, only to realize she had sighed aloud.

"Oh, do quit sighing like a bored old woman," a voice called out, bright and irrepressible. "And come take a look at this magnificent surprise."

Anna startled slightly and turned toward the doorway. "Aunt Petunia! When did you arrive?"

"I might ask the same of you, my dear," her aunt said as she swept into the drawing room with a rustle of lavender skirts. "You were so lost in thought, you missed my entrance entirely. I could've been a footman in full armor and you'd not have blinked."

Anna rose, chagrined. "Forgive me. I did not hear the door."

"I arrived just in time, as it so happens," Aunt Petunia declared, her eyes dancing. "To intercept this. "

She gestured with dramatic flourish to a parcel, delicately wrapped in pale pink paper and adorned with a ribbon that looked far too elegant for anything mundane.

Anna frowned. "Did you say that's for me?"

"So the butler insists," Petunia said, clearly delighted to be the bearer of mystery. She stepped aside, hands clasped before her like an actress awaiting applause.

Anna approached the table slowly, the faintest flicker of curiosity tugging at her composure. The box was exquisite, and unfamiliar.

What on earth could be inside? And, more pressingly— who had sent it?

"Oh, I should have known it was from Copperton! Who else could it possibly have been from?"

Anna blinked as her aunt read the attached note over her shoulder, a flagrant invasion of privacy if ever there was one. But Aunt Petunia was already too engrossed, her eyes darting across the page, mouth agape in a dramatic little gasp.

Anna's fingers trembled slightly as she peeled back the final fold of silk paper, revealing a gown so magnificent it momentarily stole her breath. The deep crimson fabric shimmered even in the afternoon light, catching along the gold-threaded embroidery that swept like fire across the bodice and hem. Nestled beside it were matching gloves, delicate gold accessories, and—tucked into the corner—a golden mask, elegant and sharp-edged, meant to veil and intrigue in equal measure.

"Oh my word," Anna whispered, her fingers brushing the fabric with reverence. It felt too fine. Too beautiful. Too thoughtful.

Colin was taking her to a masquerade. For their final date.

The idea should have made her scoff—it was excessive, theatrical, wholly extravagant.

Instead, her heart stuttered.

"I am going to have a marvelous time preparing you for this one," Petunia declared with glee, clapping her hands like a child at a fair.

Anna tried to speak, tried to rein her in. "What difference shall it make when my face shall be concealed beneath a mask, Auntie?"

"Nonsense," Petunia huffed. "If anything, it demands more effort! The mystery must be irresistible, and mystery, my dear girl, begins at the chin and works its way up."

Anna could not help the half-laugh that escaped her then. But it was short-lived. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the box.

Colin. After nearly a week of silence, after leaving her in that awful state of uncertainty, he had sent this .

A gown. A mask. An invitation disguised as a challenge.

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deep.

She ought not go. She knew that. Not with her heart laid bare, now fully aware of what she felt for him—and what she feared he did not return.

But… she wanted to see him. Ached to see him. Even if it was only one last time.

"My, if this is truly your final engagement with him, then all the more reason to ensure you leave him haunted by your departure," Petunia mused, already lifting the box to her arms. "Mask or no mask, we shall make art of you, darling. A vision."

Before Anna could argue—or confess the maelstrom inside her—the butler appeared in the doorway.

"Lady Nancy Gallagher and Lady Hester Jensen have called upon you, my lady."

"Of course they have," Petunia said, already sailing toward the exit. "I shall take these up to your chambers. Do not dawdle."

She disappeared in a rustle of lavender silk, leaving Anna just enough time to compose herself before Nancy and Hester entered.

She rose quickly. "Goodness, I wasn't expecting you both—where's Fiona?"

"Something came up, unfortunately," Nancy said, though her glance was brief.

"Yes, she sends her regrets," Hester added. "She was quite disappointed."

Anna nodded slowly, masking the disappointment that curled low in her stomach. Had Fiona truly been detained—or was she simply avoiding her? Their last conversation had peeled open truths too raw to ignore.

But she smiled, nonetheless. "Well, I'm glad you both could come. What are we discussing today?"

"The charity ball, of course," Nancy said as she settled onto the settee. "It seems it shall be far larger than any of us anticipated. Now that it's to close the Season, expectations have grown quite… dramatically."

Anna sank into her seat, willing herself to focus. Dresses, masquerades, charity balls—they were all distractions. But sometimes, distractions were all a person had.

"This shall be more work than we initially imagined," Hester announced, her fingers already fluttering in mid-air as if she were plucking names from the ether. "I say we begin the guest list at once, so we may leave ample time for the more dreadful matters, such as seating and menu cards."

Anna offered a polite nod, but her mind lagged several paces behind.

"Let's see… Lady Sefton, naturally. And Lord Trevelyan, though he mustn't be seated near the card tables. And of course—" Hester paused with dramatic flair, "—Copperton must be there too."

At the sound of his name, Anna's breath caught before she could school her features. Her spine remained straight, her chin delicately tilted, but her heart had dropped like a stone in her chest.

Colin.

Again.

As if summoned by thought alone, he hovered in the back of her mind, unrelenting. Her excitement over the masquerade—the gown, the mystery, the sheer romance of it—was slowly giving way to something heavier. Dread. That unmistakable ache that came when one knew precisely how a story ended and was still powerless to stop the final page from turning.

She had deceived herself far too long. Believed she could dance with him, laugh with him, even fall a little in love with him—and not pay the price. But now she knew better.

She would see him, yes. Once more. And after that, she would have to live with the knowing.

"We'll have to tell Fiona about all the changes, naturally," someone said, though the voice felt oddly distant—as though muffled by water or layered behind her thoughts.

"Do you think that will do, Anna?"

The question broke through the haze, pulling Anna's attention back with a jolt.

She blinked. Hester and Nancy were both staring at her, expressions poised somewhere between confusion and concern.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, struggling to recover her place in the conversation.

"You've not heard a single word I've said, have you?" Hester asked, her brow knitting with concern.

"You're distracted," Nancy said plainly, though her gaze was anything but unkind. "Quite thoroughly, I might add."

Anna opened her mouth, then closed it. She smoothed her skirts, looked down at her gloves, and gave a faint smile. "I'm simply tired. That is all."

"Anna," Nancy said softly, reaching across the small tea table to take her hand. "Whatever it is, we are here. That is what friends are for. What purpose would we serve if we could not shoulder your burdens with you?"

"Indeed," Hester said gently, adding her hand atop Nancy's and giving Anna's fingers a reassuring squeeze. "Do talk to us, Anna dear."

And in that moment, surrounded by their care, Anna felt the first crack appear in the composure she'd fought so hard to maintain.

Anna forced a smile and blinked back the sting behind her eyes, willing herself not to betray the truth beneath her carefully held poise. "I am quite alright," she said lightly. "As well as anyone might be, I should think."

Nancy's hand still rested warmly atop hers, and so Anna patted it with quiet reassurance. "It's nothing more than a trifling headache. One that saw fit to rob me of sleep last night, that is all. I daresay the lack of rest is catching up with me now." She let out a faint chuckle, though even to her own ears it sounded too thin.

"Not so trifling if it kept you awake," Hester said, frowning.

"My, you should have said something sooner," Nancy added. "We'd have not stormed in with talk of linen colors and orchestra selections had we known."

"Indeed not," Hester agreed, already reaching for her reticule. "We shall leave you now, so you may get some proper rest."

"Oh, truly, you needn't—" Anna began, rising slightly from her seat.

But Nancy was already on her feet, smoothing her skirts with that air of finality only a woman determined to mother could summon. "We insist. Rest, Anna. And if there is anything— anything —you must promise to write to us at once."

Anna nodded gently, offering a grateful smile. "Thank you. Both of you. I shall."

She saw them to the door, exchanged the expected pleasantries, and watched until the sound of their carriage faded from the street. Only then did she allow herself to breathe.

And though she would never say it aloud—especially not to them—she was grateful for the solitude.

How she longed for the Season to end. To escape the ceaseless expectations, the endless noise, and most of all, the memories that now seemed to haunt every corner of London.

Colin.

Everything about this city reminded her of him. Of stolen glances and shared laughter. Of a closeness she now knew had been far more dangerous than she'd ever allowed herself to believe. And when the Season closed, she would leave. She would retire to the country and rusticate like an old spinster if she must. And perhaps—in time—she would forget him.

Though at present, she had very little faith in that hope.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft knock of the butler at her door. He entered with a silver tray, a single envelope resting atop it.

"A letter for you, my lady. Just arrived."

She took it with mild surprise, noting the lack of seal. Roderick. She opened it, eyes scanning the familiar hand.

Dearest Anna,

You shall never believe it unless I commit it to ink—so here I am, writing to tell you what you've long encouraged and I've long resisted. I've accepted Copperton's offer. Entirely, wholeheartedly. And I daresay it feels rather like shedding a weight I didn't know I was still carrying.

I don't know how you managed it, Anna, but I know this much: without you, I'd never have trusted the idea. Or him. I owe this new chapter to you.

Thank you.

—R.

For the first time in days, a genuine smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He had accepted Colin's sponsorship. At last. And he sounded— happy . In truth, she had never read words from him that rang with such satisfaction.

But then her eyes drifted once more to the name within the letter.

Copperton . With it came the pang. That same dull ache she had begun to know far too well.