Page 37 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 37

" M iss Watson, I told you to leave me be," she called out when the sixth knock came, her voice muffled by the pillows. "I am not hungry."

Anna was uninterested in breakfast the following morning. She lay curled on her side, her gaze fixed on the window where the curtains fluttered with the softest morning breeze.

The door opened. "Well, I am," came a voice that was decidedly not Miss Watson's.

Anna blinked and sat up, just in time to see her father stride into the room bearing a large breakfast tray.

He looked entirely unbothered, which made her scowl deepen.

"I thought I was being perfectly clear," she said.

Sebastian said nothing. He simply carried the tray over to the ottoman, set it down, and perched on the edge of her bed like he had every right to do so.

The scent of warm bread, eggs, and coffee wafted up at once, and despite herself, Anna's stomach gave a most inconvenient growl.

"I can see that," her father said mildly, reaching for a slice of toast. "Or rather… hear."

Her cheeks flushed.

He offered her a plate with a flourish. "Would you like to join me, darling?"

"I said I'm not hungry," Anna muttered, though the edge of her resolve had begun to crumble.

"Mmm." Sebastian selected a scone and spread a bit of marmalade over it. "You are terrible at lying, dearest. You always have been."

Anna crossed her arms, sulking now. "Well, if I say it enough, perhaps I'll start to believe it."

"You do realize that makes no sense at all."

"Neither does my life at the moment," she snapped, and then promptly bit her lip.

Sebastian looked at her for a moment, then wordlessly placed a filled plate in her lap and handed her a glass of juice.

"Eat," he said simply.

Anna eyed the plate, sniffed slightly, and snatched up a sandwich with a huff. "You are an insufferable man, you know."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

She took a bite—and immediately regretted it.

Olives.

Her mind betrayed her at once, conjuring a vivid memory of their first date. Of Colin making her a sandwich, smug as could be, and grinning when she discovered the olives.

The bite lodged halfway down her throat.

She reached for the orange juice and took a gulp, hoping to banish the lump forming there. But her throat was too tight, and her eyes—blast them—they prickled.

"Easy now," Sebastian murmured, concern knitting his brow.

She didn't mean to cry.

She hadn't cried , not all night, not even when she lay awake thinking of his kiss, of how gently his hand had cradled her cheek, of how quietly he had stepped away.

But now, with her father beside her, handing her food and watching her like she was breakable, the tears slipped free.

"Oh, my darling," he said softly, setting her plate aside and pulling her into his arms.

Anna let herself be held. She buried her face in his shoulder and wept.

"Is this about the marriage business?" he asked.

But Anna could not even bring herself to ask what he meant. Confusion swirled with grief inside her, and her thoughts were an untidy, muddled thing. Her father continued to murmur gentle reassurances, his voice a steady balm against the storm in her chest.

"You do not have to marry, my dear girl," Sebastian said, brushing a hand over her hair. "If you do not wish it, then you shall not. I have loved you every day in your unmarried state, and I shall go on loving you still. Damn the marriage mart. Damn society and its absurd expectations."

He sounded so certain, so impassioned—and so entirely mistaken.

Because Anna knew now, with excruciating clarity, that she did want to marry. She wanted a life with Colin. A home. A future. But that dream was just that—a dream. And it would never be hers.

Her father's heartfelt declarations only broke her further, and the tears renewed with vigor. She could not tell him. Could not bring herself to say that her grief did not come from the pressure to wed, but rather from knowing she had found love—and could not have it.

The more she cried, the more tightly he held her, as though he could shield her from the very thing she refused to speak aloud.

A knock on the door at last forced her to still herself. She sniffled, pulling away and swiping quickly at her cheeks.

"Yes?" Sebastian called.

"It is the butler, sir. A letter for Miss Anna," came the reply.

Sebastian rose, casting one more look at his daughter before stepping over to collect the missive.

"Shall I place it on your escritoire to tend to later?" he asked gently, turning the letter over in his hand. "There is no rush if you are not yet feeling up to it."

Anna shook her head, drawing in a long breath to steady herself. "No. I should see to it now. It might be important."

She cleared her throat and reached for the letter with both hands, her sleeve dragging comically across her damp cheek as she wiped at it.

"Oh, gracious," she muttered, blinking down at the damp patch on her sleeve.

Sebastian raised a brow but said nothing, though the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

She managed a small laugh—wobbly and watery, but real.

With a sniff and one last pull at her composure, she broke the plain wax seal and unfolded the note.

The familiar slant of Roderick's hand greeted her.

Dearest Anna,

I hope this note finds you well. I wish to invite you to luncheon at our home two days hence, in honor of my new sponsorship.

The family and I are eager to see you again after your time in the country. The children, in particular, are nearly beside themselves with excitement at the prospect.

You must come. It would mean a great deal to all of us.

Yours with gratitude and esteem,

Roderick Millard

Her throat tightened. Anna sat with the letter resting lightly in her hands, her gaze fixed not on the words but somewhere just beyond them—as if the paper itself had summoned a storm she was not yet prepared to weather.

She did not know if she could bring herself to go.

The thought of entering the Millard household, of smiling and laughing and pretending at cheer, felt almost insurmountable. She had no appetite for society—not even for friends. Her heart was still tender, still raw.

And the luncheon, she reminded herself, was not merely a friendly gathering.

It was a celebration.

Of a sponsorship. From Colin.

Her heart gave a painful squeeze.

Colin's name had not been mentioned, but his presence lingered between every line of that letter. It was, after all, his generosity that had made this luncheon possible. His name was etched invisibly in the very fabric of this new chapter in the Millards' lives.

And the Millards were his family.

Anna swallowed hard, her fingers curling slightly around the edges of the letter.

She had every reason to attend. The children had asked for her. Roderick and Jane had opened their home once more. It was an important milestone, and she should have felt honored to be included.

But all she felt was a heavy ache in her chest.

To be there would mean walking straight into the heart of her grief. It would mean smiling while her soul mourned. It would mean facing, once again, the man who had come to mean everything—and who could never truly be hers.

The guilt twisted deeper.

She could not bear the thought of disappointing the children, their small eager faces flashing in her memory. She could hear Martha's lilting voice, see John's careful bow, feel Abraham's tiny fingers clutching hers.

They would wonder why she hadn't come.

And yet—how could she?

What if Colin were invited as well? What if he were already planning to attend?

The very idea sent a fresh wave of tightness through her chest, wrapping like a vise around her lungs.

She pressed a palm there, as if she could ease the ache with mere touch.

Would she ever learn to rejoice again?

The world seemed drained of color without him. The future, stripped of Colin's presence, stretched ahead like a garden in winter—bare, cold, and still.