Page 38 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 38

C olin could recall every detail of his kiss with Anna.

The kiss they had shared haunted him—each breath, each heartbeat echoing the memory of her lips against his. He had kissed her with everything he had, and still, it had not been enough. When they parted in that carriage, it had felt… final. Yet, he wanted her.

He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. That much he could admit to himself now. But she had made her position unmistakably clear, had she not? On the terrace that night at the house party—Anna had spoken of freedom, of a future unshackled by title or obligation. Of a life that did not require a man like him.

She did not want to be anyone's duchess. Especially his .

The thought sat in his chest like a stone.

A voice in the back of his mind—cooler, more dutiful—reminded him that there was a life to be lived beyond the shadow of one woman. There was expectation. There was legacy. There was, whether he liked it or not, the matter of marriage.

And so, he called upon Lady Fiona.

The townhouse was elegant and efficient, much like its mistress. Colin was shown to the drawing room, where he stood by the hearth, one hand resting on the mantel as he composed himself. It felt, oddly, like preparing for a duel.

Fiona swept in moments later, her smile bright and effortless.

"What a lovely surprise," she declared, her eyes alight.

"I simply thought to see how you fared after the journey back to Town," Colin replied, managing a smile. "I trust all is well?"

"Well enough that I could pack up again and return to the country this instant," she said with a laugh.

He chuckled politely. "You sound like you miss it."

"How could I not? Do you not miss the peace and simplicity?" she asked as the tea was brought in. She began preparing it with a graceful ease, the silver tongs and delicate china moving under her fingers like instruments in a practiced sonata.

"I daresay I miss it most of all," he replied, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips.

Fiona's hands paused, just briefly. She glanced up, her gaze studying him with a keenness that unsettled him.

"You look like you're longing," she said, softly, almost speculatively.

Colin laughed, though it came out slightly forced. "Now, I do not know whether to take that as a compliment or a slight."

"Oh, only a compliment," she assured him with a light laugh of her own. "An encouragement, too, perhaps. Maybe you ought not have returned to Town so soon. A bit more country air might have done you good."

"I shall keep it in mind," he said, accepting the cup she handed him.

The tea had a rich, fragrant complexity that surprised him.

"This is excellent," he remarked. "What is it?"

"Oh! It's an Oolong from China," she said with evident delight. "I enjoy experimenting with blends. This one is steeped with chrysanthemum. I do adore chrysanthemum," she added, her cheeks flushing with enthusiasm.

Her passion was endearing, and he offered her another compliment, which seemed to ignite a fire in her. She launched into a lively explanation of steeping techniques, brewing temperatures, the virtues of floral undertones in black teas—her words tumbling with excitement.

But even as he nodded and smiled, Colin found his thoughts drifting.

To Anna.

To what kind of tea she might prefer. Something delicate and floral, perhaps? Or bold, like her spirit?

Blast it all.

He could not keep his mind on the conversation. Could not keep his heart from wandering where it ought not go.

He was sitting in a well-appointed drawing room, sipping fine tea, listening to a lovely woman speak passionately about her interests—and all he wanted was the one woman who had made it clear she would never be his.

And so he sat, the picture of polite attentiveness, while his thoughts remained wholly elsewhere.

A light chuckle broke through Colin's wandering thoughts.

He blinked, dragging his gaze back from the windows, only to find Fiona watching him with barely concealed amusement.

"For a moment," she said, the corners of her mouth twitching, "I thought you had quite literally drifted back to the countryside."

He gave her a polite smile, masking the irritation that flickered in his chest.

"You were far away, you see," she added with a second, lilting laugh.

Colin resisted the urge to shift in his seat. He did not like being caught adrift in thought—especially when those thoughts were so embarrassingly obvious. He liked even less that she had pointed it out, and twice no less. But his features remained placid, composed, the perfect facade of gentlemanly interest.

"I assure you, I am entirely present," he replied mildly.

"You needn't do this," Fiona said suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You needn't call upon me out of obligation, Your Grace," she said, her eyes keen. "Follow your heart instead. Because it is plain it lies elsewhere."

Colin's lips parted, but no words came out.

She had struck the truth with the elegance of a rapier, and it left him momentarily disarmed. He knew, without needing to ask, what she meant. His heart had left him the moment Anna did. It resided with her still, even if she would never return the sentiment. He had fallen. Deeply. Irrevocably.

And now he knew what it was. Love.

He loved Anna.

And the knowledge of it—sharp and sudden as a blade—brought with it no triumph, only ache. Because she had made her wishes clear. She did not want marriage. She did not want him .

Fiona watched him quietly, then offered a small, cryptic smile, as though she could see the storm now gathering behind his carefully arranged mask.

"Do not make hasty judgments," she said. "Not before you've truly listened to your heart and understood what it is trying to say."

He could not summon a reply.

She rose then and gave a graceful nod. "Thank you for calling, Your Grace. And good luck."

He bowed. But he did not feel very fortunate.

By the time he returned home, his spirits had sunk deeper than when he had left. The house felt too still, too hollow. He did not pause to remove his gloves or coat but went straight to the study, where he poured himself a generous measure of whiskey.

The decanter was still in his hand when footsteps sounded, and a voice announced:

"Mr. Morgan, Your Grace."

A familiar, irreverent voice followed the introduction.

"Oh, splendid. A party. I've arrived just in time, I see."

Colin looked up to find Morgan entering the room, grinning at the sight of the decanter in one hand and the tumbler in the other.

Without a word, Colin placed the decanter on the desk and retrieved another glass, sliding it across to him.

"Help yourself," he grumbled.

"Why does it appear as though you are not enjoying your own party?" Morgan asked, eyeing him with mild exasperation as he lifted his glass.

Colin did not respond at once. He stared into his own drink, the amber liquid catching the light like a storm held in crystal.

"Perhaps it's my intrusion upon your preferred solitude?" Morgan offered with a smirk.

"Perhaps not," Colin muttered into his glass.

Morgan studied him over the rim of his tumbler before helping himself to another generous pour.

"What did you do to Anna this time?" he asked, as casually as one might ask about the weather.

Colin's brow arched. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh come now," Morgan scoffed. "Don't look so affronted. Only two things reduce a man to the sulking heap you currently resemble: financial ruin, or a woman. And since I've seen your ledgers, I am quite certain you haven't gambled away the estate."

Colin offered no retort.

"So that leaves a woman," Morgan went on. "And not just any woman. Why else would I mention Anna?"

Colin gave a quiet sigh and leaned back in his chair.

"Because," Morgan said, voice softening just a fraction, "even a blind man could see that you are thoroughly, wretchedly in love with her."

Colin's grip tightened slightly around his glass.

"I've known you a long time, Copperton. I've seen you charm, flirt, court, and toss aside more than a few hearts. But I have never seen you this… undone."

Colin said nothing. Because there was nothing to refute.

Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So, what's stopping you?"

Colin shook his head once. "She does not want me."

"Says who?"

"Says her ," he replied dryly. "Or at least, it's what she implied. At the house party. On the terrace. She said she didn't want marriage. She said?—"

"She said a great many things, I'm sure," Morgan cut in. "But have you actually asked her how she feels about you ?"

Colin opened his mouth, then shut it.

Morgan grinned knowingly. "There it is."

"I cannot simply chase after a woman who has made her wishes clear."

"Oh, but you can ," Morgan said. "Damn the ‘shoulds' and the ‘coulds.' Follow your heart. That's what it's for."

Colin snorted. "Curious. You are the second person to give me that exact counsel today."

"Well, whoever the first was clearly puts their mind to better use than you do," Morgan said, not missing a beat.

Colin narrowed his gaze. "Are you implying that I've misplaced my wits?"

"No, not misplaced. Just temporarily surrendered," Morgan replied easily. "You love her? Then go to her. Say what needs to be said. Do not sit here brooding like some Byronic hero. And for heaven's sake, do not leave the door open for regret."

Colin stared at him.

Was there truly hope for him?