Page 35 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 35

" I t is a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace," Dr. Gibson said warmly, bowing.

Colin inclined his head in greeting. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

They stood in the grand but quiet foyer of Copperton Manor, the hush of the old house a contrast to the tension threading through Colin's chest. Dr. Gibson had been the family physician for years—steadfast, discreet, and more importantly, trustworthy. Colin had summoned him not merely for his medical expertise, but because where they were going required both skill and character.

After a few polite exchanges and updates on mutual acquaintances—Dr. Gibson, it seemed, had no shortage of patients prone to melodrama—Colin gestured toward the door.

"Shall we?"

The doctor simply nodded, taking up his hat again without question.

An hour later, they stood before the Millard residence.

Colin tightened his grip on the satchel in his hand. It was a small thing, filled with toys and ribbons and sweets. A humble offering, but one he had selected himself. Something for the children. Something for Lydia.

He drew a breath, slow and steady, and raised his hand to knock.

No response.

He raised his hand again, but just before his knuckles struck the wood, a small peephole slid open. Mrs. Millard's sharp blue eyes peered out. For a brief instant, there was unmistakable surprise. Then, just as swiftly, it vanished beneath a familiar veil of cold disdain.

"My husband is not at home," she said crisply, already making to close the slit.

"I did not come for him," Colin said quickly.

Her gaze narrowed. "Then you've no business here. Come back when he is."

"I brought a doctor," Colin said, the words spilling out with more urgency than he intended. "To see Lydia."

She hesitated. Just barely. But it was enough for a flicker of hope to kindle in him.

"We have a doctor," she replied, her voice as cool as ever. "There is no need."

Colin steadied his breath, reining in his frustration. "It wouldn't hurt to have a second opinion. Dr. Gibson is highly respected. I assure you, his presence is only to assist."

Still she wavered, her eyes hard with suspicion. He could see the wall she held firm, see her weighing not just his words but his intentions.

He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Please. This is not about sentiment. Not yours, not mine. It's about helping Lydia."

The silence that followed stretched long. He held her gaze through the gap in the door, refusing to look away, refusing to be the first to yield.

And that did it.

There was a pause, and then the peephole slid shut. The click of a lock followed, then the clink of a chain, and at last, the door creaked open. Mrs. Millard stood in the threshold, her posture stiff, her expression impassive. She stepped aside without a word, permitting them entry with cautious reluctance.

Colin inclined his head in silent gratitude as he stepped inside. The air in the modest home was heavy; not stale exactly, but worn. Lived-in. He noted the second door just off the main corridor as they passed; soft mumbles could be heard beyond it—children, no doubt.

Mrs. Millard led them down the hall without ceremony, stopping at a door and opening it to reveal a chamber that made Colin's heart constrict. The room was as pitiful as he remembered—sparse and dim, the furnishings meagre and worn. And Lydia?—

God above! She looked worse. Far worse.

Pale, drawn, and motionless beneath her thin blanket, her breathing shallow. The sight of her, so small and fragile, cut straight through him.

Dr. Gibson, ever composed, moved into the room with quiet purpose. He bowed his head slightly toward Mrs. Millard. "May I?"

She gave a tight nod and stepped aside, arms folded across her chest as if bracing for bad news.

"What diagnosis was she first given?" the doctor asked gently, kneeling beside the bed.

"The physician said it was a chest inflammation—perhaps pleurisy. But then another suggested a wasting illness," Mrs. Millard replied.

"And her current regimen?"

She retrieved a small wooden box from the bedside table and opened it, revealing two worn bottles and a sachet of herbs.

Dr. Gibson examined each carefully before setting them aside. Then he began his own assessment, his movements meticulous and gentle as he touched Lydia's brow, checked her pulse, and listened to her breathing with quiet intensity.

Colin remained silent, unmoving, near the door, but every muscle in his body was taut.

At last, the doctor straightened.

"We must have hope," he said softly. "And we must believe."

Mrs. Millard looked at him then—not with suspicion, but something like cautious hope.

Dr. Gibson reached into his medical bag and removed three small bottles, each labelled in his neat, slanted script. "These are to begin immediately. Twice daily, and no more. She must be kept warm, her air clean, and her nourishment gentle but steady."

He handed them over, then added, "There is a fourth tincture I should like her to begin, but I do not have it with me. I was unaware of the severity of her condition. I shall have it sent over without delay."

Mrs. Millard took the bottles with both hands. "Thank you, Doctor. And your fees? My husband is not in, but when he returns?—"

“Oh, no, no," Dr. Gibson interjected, glancing briefly at Colin.

"That is between the doctor and myself," Colin said, stepping forward at last. "You need not concern yourself with it."

Mrs. Millard looked up at him slowly. Her eyes, always sharp, narrowed slightly. Her lips parted as if to protest—pride and principle fighting against the impulse to relent. But then, perhaps seeing something in his face, she simply nodded.

"Very well," she allowed. She was quiet. Not warm, not yet—but her voice lacked the earlier bite.

She led them from the room with a short word of thanks to the doctor. When they reached the hall, she finally turned to Colin.

"You're doing too much."

The words were blunt, but not unkind. There was still caution in her eyes, still a faint wall held up between them—but the frost was thawing. And gratitude, unmistakable and honest, had taken its place.

Before he could answer, the other door—the one he'd noticed earlier—creaked open.

A small figure stepped out.

A little girl, no more than six or seven, stood in the doorway. Her dress was faded, her hair in loose brown curls, and her face—wary but curious—tilted as she took them in.

Perfect.

Colin reached for the satchel he'd been carrying since they arrived and stepped forward, crouching slightly.

"May I know your name, little princess?"

She stared at him with the same measured caution her mother bore, her small hands gripping the edge of the doorway as though it might shield her. Her wide eyes flicked between Colin and the unfamiliar satchel in his hands.

"Well," Colin said gently, crouching further so he was nearer her height, "perhaps I might earn that honor after this."

He reached into the satchel and withdrew one of the toys—a wooden castle, delicately painted in shades of pink and lilac, with tiny turret windows and golden spires.

"Would the little princess like her very own magical castle?" he asked, offering the toy in his palm with a warm smile.

Her eyes widened, wonder breaking across her face like sunlight, though she made no move to approach. It was clear she wanted to. Desperately. But her feet remained planted, her body poised in hesitance.

Colin watched her throw a glance toward her mother.

Mrs. Millard's face gave little away, but after a moment's pause, she gave the barest nod.

That was all it took.

The girl darted forward, her small arms wrapping around the castle as she pressed it to her chest.

Colin chuckled, the sound soft and genuine, as he patted her head. "And what is the name of this most noble princess?"

"I am Martha," she said proudly. "And my brothers are John and Abraham." She glanced back toward the other room with a conspiratorial grin. "They like knights and pirates."

"Do they now?" Colin said, rising as her voice rang out, calling for her brothers with all the urgency of one who had just discovered treasure.

Within seconds, two boys came bounding through the door, their eyes alight with curiosity.

Colin greeted them with a slight bow. "I believe I have something for brave gentlemen as well."

He handed one a wooden knight atop a painted horse, its shield bearing a crest. To the other, a miniature ship with tiny sails and a makeshift pirate banner.

The boys gasped in delight, clutching their gifts with the reverence only children possessed.

Colin watched them with an unexpected warmth swelling in his chest. Their joy was unfiltered, honest, and entirely contagious.

Dr. Gibson, standing beside him, chuckled softly. "You may have missed your true calling, Your Grace."

Colin smiled. "I daresay this might be more rewarding than half the duties that come with my title."

Mrs. Millard stood at a distance, saying nothing, but her expression had shifted. She remained unreadable, yes—but thoughtful. Contemplative. And the steeliness in her gaze had softened, if only slightly.

"Thank you, sir," the children chorused as Colin rose fully.

The boys offered neat, practiced bows, while little Martha dropped into a clumsy but earnest curtsy.

Dr. Gibson let out another chuckle. "Well-mannered little ones."

Colin nodded, impressed. Despite the modest home and their circumstances, the children had been raised with care. With dignity.

He gave each of them a final tousle of the hair, allowing himself one last smile.

Then, slowly, he turned and made his way to the door.

At the threshold, just as Colin reached for the door, her voice stopped him.

"You shouldn't have done all this," Mrs. Millard said quietly.

He turned to find her standing a few paces back, hands clasped before her, her expression no longer cold or guarded, but softened by a gentler light. There was no disdain in her eyes now, no challenge. Only quiet emotion.

Her voice lacked its usual edge. It was tentative. Honest.

Colin offered her a small nod; nothing grand, nothing rehearsed.

"It's what family does," he said simply.

He didn't wait for a reply. Didn't need one. The look in her eyes—wide, stunned, and unmistakably moved—was enough.

With that, he turned on his heel and stepped into the street, the cool afternoon breeze brushing across his face like a balm.

And for the first time in far too long, he felt peace settle in his chest.

Anna had never looked—nor felt—quite so beautiful.

She caught her reflection again in the mirror hanging in the vestibule and nearly startled at the vision staring back. The crimson and gold gown shimmered with each breath she drew, the embroidery catching the candlelight in elegant threads of fire and light. Her matching reticule hung delicately from her wrist, and in her gloved hand, she clutched the golden mask.

Her heart beat an unfamiliar rhythm beneath the fine boning of her bodice.

Colin was coming for her. Their final outing. Their last date.

And she was utterly, absurdly nervous.

The door opened before she could summon another calming breath, and there he was—tall, composed, infuriatingly handsome in his formal attire.

"I knew you would bring life to the garment," he said at once, his voice low, steady.

Anna blinked. "Is that a compliment I hear?" she asked, trying for lightness but hearing the stiffness in her own voice. Where was her fire? Her confidence? She felt like a debutante at her first assembly, awkward and uncertain.

He arched a brow, ever the picture of composure. "I am merely saying that I possess excellent taste in attire."

"My, if I remember correctly, you just said I brought the gown to life—not the other way round," she returned, managing a chuckle.

"Well played," he laughed then, properly and freely.

The air shifted, and the tension in her shoulders eased. He offered his arm, and she took it, allowing him to lead her to the waiting carriage.

Once they were seated within, the familiar clatter of wheels beginning beneath them, she ventured, "I promised myself I would not ask where we're going tonight."

Colin gave her a sidelong glance, amused. "Can you be any less obvious?"

"Why?" she returned with a feigned innocence. "I am merely curious. And besides, were I not to ask, it would imply I had finally grasped the concept of surprise. And where, I ask you, is the fun in that?"

"No fun at all," he agreed, laughing again.

Their laughter laced the space between them—warm, familiar. It felt like the old rhythm they had shared once, before feelings had complicated things. But for Anna, each soft laugh was a bittersweet chord. Because she knew. She knew what it all meant now. What he meant to her.

And what she could never have.

Still, she schooled her expression, composed her heart. This was their last night. And she would not let sorrow tarnish it before it even began.

The carriage slowed. She leaned forward, catching glimpses of lanterns flickering through trees, the hum of music in the air.

Vauxhall Gardens.

He stepped out first and turned to help her down, his gloved hand firm beneath hers.

"Time to become anonymous," he said, producing her mask and gently adjusting it when her fingers fumbled.

As he secured the ribbon at the back of her head, she caught sight of a figure across the crowd—half-shrouded by shadows—watching her.

But before she could truly register him, the mask slipped and obscured her view.

When Anna looked again, he was gone.