Page 87 of Corrupting his Duchess
“Stop.”
“I will,” he said. “Soon. But I want you to understand something before I do.”
He stepped close enough that she could smell the starch on his cravat.
“I will wait.”
She blinked.
“And when you’re ready,” Matthew said, softer now, “when you’ve worn out the fantasy, I’ll still be here. You’ll need someone to clean up the pieces. And when you do, you'll find me. You’ll have no one else, Anna. Not with Stenton waiting to barter you off like livestock. Not with your mother wringing her hands and your sister asking why the pantry’s empty again.”
Her chest was tight now. Too tight.
“I’ll wait,” he said again. “And you’ll come to me. Not because you want to. But because you’ll have to.”
She stared at him, her face expressionless, because if she let it crack, she might not be able to put it back together.
“I’m the only one who sees clearly,” he said. “The only one who doesn’t lie to you with pretty words and promises he can’t keep.”
“You’re wrong,” she said finally.
“I’m patient,” he murmured. “And that’s more dangerous than being right.”
He stepped back, as if nothing had happened at all. As if the air weren’t thick with something unspoken and cruel.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay,” he said, smiling as though it were a joke between old friends. “I suspect your next house party will feel rather different.”
She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Only watched him go, her fingers still pressed white against the edge of the book.
She stood motionless for a moment, fingers curled so tightly around the edge of the book they ached, then she slammed the book on the table with a snap that echoed in the silence.
The house had settled into silence. Only the occasional creak of a cooling floorboard or the groan of a closing door broke the stillness. Anna had slipped out of her room, her hand trembling slightly as she held the candle aloft. Anna moved carefully, her shawl wrapped tight across her shoulders. Somewhere downstairs, the last of the staff had finished locking up. A door creaked. A gust of wind slipped through the cracks of the old walls.
She should have gone to bed.
Instead, she found herself padding softly through the side corridor, barefoot, her heart doing something panicked and uneven in her chest.
She wasn’t sure what she would say to him. And worse– Henry didn’t know. She needed to tell him. She needed... something.
She found him in the library.
She only knew that after Matthew’s words…after that conversation that still echoed in the corners of her mind…she needed to see Henry. Just once. Just long enough to breathe.
Matthew’s words were still crawling across her skin like something she couldn’t scrub off.
She found him in the library. Alone. The fire had been left to burn low, casting long shadows across the shelves. The door was already ajar. He was standing near the window, coat still on, one hand braced against the glass. She paused at the threshold, watching him for a moment.
He was standing at the window, coat still on, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing for something.
She cleared her throat gently. “Henry? Your Grace.”
He turned. For a moment, just a moment, his face softened.
But then it hardened again.
His eyes met hers again, and something unreadable flickered there. Not surprise. Not welcome. Something taut.
Still, she stepped inside. Closed the door behind her. Her hands trembled slightly as she lowered the candle to the side table.
