Page 40 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 40

" I f you are unwell, you need not attend, Anna dear," Aunt Peggy said gently, her brows knitting with concern.

Anna, seated before her vanity while Miss Watson fussed over her hair, met her aunt's gaze in the mirror. Her eyes were tired, rimmed faintly in red, and her complexion was undeniably wan.

"I must go," she said, her voice low but firm. "I cannot disappoint the charity."

The soft rustle of silks accompanied her cousins as they stepped further into the room.

"You do not look at all well," Elizabeth murmured, worry plain in her voice.

"She is a little pale," Petunia agreed, reaching out to press a cool palm against Anna's brow. "You are not running a fever, but you are certainly not yourself."

Anna gave a light, practiced laugh as she gently pushed her aunt's hand away. "Oh, you three do like to dramatize," she said, the corners of her mouth lifting into something that might have resembled a smile if not for the hollowness behind it.

Miss Watson secured the final pin in her coiffure, and Anna rose.

"We must make haste. We are already running dreadfully late."

She swept past them with a grace that belied the tremble in her knees, leaving no room for further protest.

The ballroom was a blaze of color and light, and every inch of it bore the signature of their careful planning. From the garlands of roses to the delicate crystal chandeliers reflecting the soft glow of candlelight, it was a triumph. Anna forced herself to admire it.

And yet, as her gaze traveled across the grand room, her breath caught.

There he was. Colin stood near the far end of the ballroom, deep in conversation with a white-haired lord. Even from this distance, he cut a striking figure in formal evening dress.

Something in her sank. I cannot do this.

The walls closed in slightly, the laughter and conversation around her seeming to grow louder, more dissonant.

She turned abruptly, her satin skirts whispering around her ankles, intending—perhaps—to leave. Or to find air. Or simply to escape.

But before she could make it two steps, a gentleman approached with a bow and extended his hand.

"May I claim the honor of this waltz, Miss Caldwell?"

The opening strains of the orchestra floated through the air.

Anna paused only a heartbeat. "Yes," she replied.

She could not let herself be seen fleeing. Not tonight.

She allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor, accepting the gloved hand that guided her into motion. Her partner was handsome, confident, and entirely unknown to her.

"I must be among the luckiest of men this evening," he said, his smile charming and eager as they began to turn.

Anna responded with a polite tilt of her head, though her gaze—inevitably—strayed. Across the room, Colin looked up, and their eyes met.

Only for a moment, but it was enough. His expression shifted. The easy confidence vanished, replaced by a shadowed intensity she could not name but felt acutely.

Anna tilted her head, studying her dance partner with furrowed brows. "I beg your pardon?"

"The elusive spinster finally deigns to accept an offer from me this evening," the gentleman replied.

A quiet unease began to slither through her.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," she said more firmly, "but I do not believe I know what you are referring to."

"Oh, come now. You cannot be serious," he scoffed, his laugh short and humorless.

Anna's spine straightened.

What had she done to elicit such insolence?

"You cannot tell me that you do not even remember me," he bit out, his steps growing sharper as they turned in time with the music.

She blinked at him, wholly baffled.

"I am afraid I do not recall having made your acquaintance, sir."

His lips twisted into a sneer. "Viscount Preston," he ground out. "You rejected my suit last Season."

Ah.

Anna had rejected many proposals in the past few years—firmly, kindly, but unequivocally. She did not remember every name. Why should she? Especially those who had made no impression.

But now—now his tone was growing darker, his touch on her waist suddenly too firm, the smile on his face a mask that didn't reach his eyes.

She opened her mouth to offer a civil deflection, but before the words could form, he yanked her closer under the guise of a turn.

His breath was hot against her ear as he hissed, "Do you believe me to be lacking? That I am not man enough for you? Perhaps I ought to show you just how very much of a man I am once this dance concludes."

Revulsion surged within her. Her stomach twisted. His words were vulgar, vile, and dripping with a menace that no amount of candlelight or orchestral grace could soften.

She met his eyes again—and something shifted.

That voice. That sneer. That air of entitlement laced with scorn.

It struck her, all at once.

"You—"

"You thought you could hide behind a mask and that beast of a duke you cling to," he spat quietly. "But he's not here now, is he? He cannot save you this time."

A gasp broke from her lips, barely audible over the strains of the waltz.

"Those men… You were one of them," she breathed, her voice tremulous. " You held me that night at Vauxhall."

"Clever girl," he said with a sneer, his voice as slick and unwholesome as lamp oil.

Anna's heart beat so violently, she feared it might echo above the swell of the orchestra.

"Do you know what other prudent decision you might make?" he continued smoothly, still leading her through the dance with deceptive grace. "You might consider accompanying me quietly when this waltz concludes. Far wiser than compelling me to make a spectacle of you."

She stiffened in his arms, dread creeping through her limbs like ice.

He leaned closer, breath acrid against her cheek. "Just imagine what the ton would think if I claimed the wild spinster behaved indecorously with me— during a waltz."

Terror clutched at her throat.

Anna's gaze flitted over the crowd, desperately searching for Colin. But there was no sign of him amidst the sea of silks and brocade.

As the final notes of the waltz trembled through the air, Viscount Preston's grip shifted. His fingers clamped down upon her wrist with cruel familiarity—the same grasp from that dreadful night at Vauxhall. The pain was sharp, but it paled beside the panic.

No one noticed. Guests were lost in their chatter, partners changing, the room a blur of movement and color.

And she was being taken.

He steered her from the dance floor, weaving through clusters of oblivious guests. The exit loomed ever nearer. Her mind scrambled, thoughts tangled in terror and the threat of scandal.

To cry out would be to ruin herself—and her family.

To comply might be worse.

But just as her feet faltered and despair surged?—

A hand shot forward and seized Preston by the collar, halting him with jarring force.

"Unhand the lady," came a voice—quiet, cold, and laced with menace.

Colin.

He stood at Preston's back, his hand fixed like a vice upon the viscount's neck, his breath perilously close to the man's ear.

Anna's knees weakened beneath her.

"By—!" Preston began, but the oath was cut off as Colin's grip tightened, cutting both word and wind.

Anna pressed a trembling hand to her chest, her heart pounding with fear, disbelief, and overwhelming relief.

Preston sputtered incoherently, his face turning a most unbecoming shade of crimson. The sound drew the attention of nearby guests who had previously been too absorbed in their own revelries to notice.

One by one, heads turned.

Brows arched, fans stilled mid-wave, and curious glances swept toward the trio now standing in tense silence.

Preston finally released her wrist, and Colin, after a heartbeat longer, relinquished his hold on the viscount.

"Oh—all is well," Preston stammered, adjusting his collar and giving a laugh that fell utterly flat. "Merely a misunderstanding. Quite harmless, I assure you."

But his words, though breezy in tone, did little to mask the flush of humiliation nor the fury burning in his gaze. He bowed stiffly and turned on his heel, melting into the crowd as swiftly as decorum would allow.

Anna could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, though not from embarrassment. Her pulse pounded with a riot of emotions—anger, mortification, confusion—and she could not bear the weight of so many eyes upon her.

Without a word, she turned on her heel and swept from the ballroom, her slippers barely making a sound on the marble floors as she fled.

She did not stop until the noise of music and conversation had faded into a dull hum behind her. The rear gardens lay in hushed repose, the gentle rustling of leaves the only sound to greet her.

There, amid the shadowed hedges and moonlit blossoms, she finally halted.

Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed along the path, and then?—

"Anna," came Colin's voice, low and taut with worry. "Are you harmed?"

His hand reached for hers.

"How dare you?" she snapped, wrenching her hand from his grasp. The fury in her voice was as swift as it was searing.

Colin drew back, visibly stunned.

"Anna—"

"How dare you pretend to care?" she interrupted, her voice trembling. "How dare you swoop in and play the gallant when you have done nothing but make me feel as though I matter not at all?"

Her composure, so carefully stitched together these past weeks, unraveled with every syllable.

Tears sprang hot and unbidden to her eyes, tracking silently down her cheeks.

"How dare you save me?" she went on, her voice cracking. "How dare you show me affection when we both know you feel none of it?"

"Where are these accusations springing from? You are making no sense whatsoever, Anna," Colin said, his brow drawn in visible bewilderment.

Anna stared at him, her chest heaving, tears threatening again. He looked genuinely confused—an expression she had rarely seen upon him. But she could not allow herself to believe it. He had to be pretending. He must know what he'd done.

"I was living my life in peace, quite content in my spinsterhood," she said, voice tight with emotion. "How dare you waltz in and unravel everything?"

"Anna, please?—"

"No," she cut in sharply, her voice trembling with pain. "The very least you could do is keep your distance. Spare me your kindness, your gestures. Do not be near me, do not look at me with that same warmth I have come to crave. I need space, Colin. Space to forget you. Space to bury the hope you've so cruelly revived only to abandon."

The words spilled from her lips in a rush, sharp and aching. And then—they hung there, between them, like a blade suspended.

She had confessed. Unwittingly, but entirely.

Colin's features froze, his breath caught.

Then—

Something shifted. The confusion dissolved, replaced by something far more arresting: focus, certainty.

In one stride, he closed the distance between them. His hands came to rest gently, but unyieldingly, upon her shoulders.

"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice a whisper, taut with something she could not yet name.

Anna said nothing. She felt the sting of her own admission crashing down, felt the weight of his gaze pressing into hers.

"What did you say, Anna?" he repeated, softer now, more urgent.

Still she remained silent.

And then, with a breathless hush, he asked, "Do you love me?"

She lifted her chin with all the pride she had left. "I refuse to indulge your vanity, Your Grace," she said coldly. "You shall have no satisfaction from me."

A slow grin broke across his face. "I shall take that as a resounding yes."

And before she could protest, before her indignation could fully return—he kissed her.

His mouth found hers in a way that was neither tentative nor demanding, but resolute. And heaven help her, she kissed him back. Her fingers curled against his coat as the pain, the fury, the weeks of restrained emotion poured into the space between them.

But reality returned far too quickly.

She pulled away with a start, gasping, her eyes bright with tears once more.

"You have no right to do this," she whispered, stepping back. "You have no right to torment me, to touch me, to make me feel as though I am wanted when I know that I am not."

Colin stood frozen.

"You want the perfect duchess," Anna continued, her voice shaking with a prideful sort of finality. "And I am not—will never be—that woman."

"To the devil with perfection, Anna! You are everything I have ever longed for and more," Colin declared, his voice rough with feeling, his hands tightening gently upon her shoulders as if anchoring himself to the truth at last.

Anna could only gape at him, the breath stolen clean from her lungs. "What?"

"I love you," he said, the words fierce and unyielding. "Good God, Anna, can you not see it?"

"You do?" Her voice was barely a whisper. And with it came a fresh flood of tears, slipping silently down her cheeks.

"More than I care for breath," he said, with such unshakable conviction that she could scarcely believe he stood before her, saying those impossible, glorious words. "More than I have ever desired anything in my entire life."

It felt unreal, each word brighter and more brilliant than the last, like the sun had burst forth from a storm cloud directly into her heart.

"I have been the most pitiful coward," he went on, eyes searching hers. "But it has always been you, Anna. From the very beginning. I forced myself to hide it. To bury it. I thought I was honoring your wish for independence. And in doing so, I denied myself the one thing I wanted most."

He paused, his voice softer now. "You."

Anna gave a broken little laugh through her tears. "Well, you are not the only coward in this garden," she said, dabbing at her cheeks with trembling fingers. "I did want my independence, you are right. And you honored that. But I also wanted—more. I just never had the courage to ask."

He reached for her hands and held them in his. She did not pull away.

"I daresay we have both been fools," she said with a watery smile.

"Then let us be fools together," he murmured.

She laughed, a real laugh now, light and warm and wholly unburdened.

"Now do shut up and kiss me again," she said, tilting her face up to his. "Because I do love you, Colin. More than I ever thought myself capable of."

And at that, a grin broke across his face—wide and boyish and radiant.

He kissed her again, and this time, it was not desperate, not stolen, not riddled with doubt.

It was everything.

And in his arms, Anna finally felt whole.