Page 37 of My Demanding Duke

Connection to something real, something tangible.

Someone, he corrected himself. Someone living and not a ghost that haunted the darkness and shadows of the past.

Throughout the rest of the meal, he watched Anna surreptitiously, startled by the feeling of tenderness she evoked in him. Desire he understood—it was straightforward, uncomplicated, easily sated. But this gentle warmth spreading through his chest as she spoke was something altogether different—it felt almost dangerous.

When the last course had ended, he suggested they retreat to the parlour room—for, despite his apprehension of his own feelings, he did not want the warmth of the evening to fade.

The parlour was not a room Hugh frequented often. He was a little surprised to find it warm and cosy when they entered, a fire crackling gently in the hearth. The servants had evidently anticipated that it might get more use, now that the house had a mistress. A number of decanters sat untouched on the sideboard. Hugh poured two glasses—brandy for himself, a sherry for Anna—and handed hers over without a word.

She accepted it, the edge of her sleeve grazing his fingers. She wandered toward the pianoforte, trailing her hand along the back of a velvet chair as she passed.

"Do you play?" he asked, suddenly aware of how little he knew of her accomplishments. How little he knew of her, if he was honest.

"My mother taught me," Anna replied, her fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "She adored music. I am glad that she did not live to see the painoforte at Mosley Hall sold.”

Hugh leaned against the mantelpiece, watching how the firelight caught the gold undertones in her hair. She looked wistful, her gaze not truly on the painoforte, but staring back into the past.

"When did she pass?" he questioned, guessing that her mother’s passing had marked an end to any stability in Anna’s life.

"She died when I was fifteen," Anna said simply, finally pressing a key that rang out clearly in the quiet room. "Consumption. Father never quite recovered from her loss; he had always gambled, but he lost himself to it after we lost her."

Hugh nodded, understanding all too well how grief could drive a man to self-destruction. He had nearly followed that path himself.

"Would you play something?" he asked, suddenly aching to hear her play.

She nodded, settling onto the bench with an easy grace. Her fingers moved over the keys, tentative at first, then with growing confidence. The melody was sweet and wistful, not the showy piece a debutante might perform to attract suitors, but something nostalgic.

Hugh closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him.

"Is this meant to be you?" Anna's voice broke through his reverie. The music had stopped, and she had risen to examine a portrait that hung in the shadows near the window.

Hugh's heart clenched in his chest. He had forgotten it was there, hidden in the corner of a room he rarely entered. The portrait showed a young man with Hugh's same dark hair and strong jaw, but with laughing eyes that held none of Hugh's guardedness.

"It is not a good likeness," she commented, studying the painting. "Something is off ..."

Something lodged in Hugh's throat; he should correct her, should tell her that she was looking at Jack, not him. He wanted to tell her that his brother had been the charming one, the one with an easy laugh and a ready smile. He wanted to tell her how much he paled in comparison to the big brother he had lost.

But the words wouldn't come. He had banished Jack’s ghost earlier, he did not have the strength to resurrect him so soon.

"It was painted some time ago," Hugh said instead, his voice rougher than he had intended.

Anna tilted her head, studying first the portrait and then Hugh's face. Something in her expression suggested she sensed the lie, but she didn't press.

Hugh met her gaze, struck by the gentle understanding in her eyes. He had the unsettling sensation that she could see straight through his carefully constructed facade to the lost, angry boy beneath—the one who had raged at Jack for leaving him alone, for taking the easy way out and saddling him with a title he'd never wanted and responsibilities he'd never sought.

"More sherry?" he offered abruptly, desperate to break the moment of unexpected intimacy.

"No, thank you," she said, returning to the pianoforte. "I should retire soon. Tomorrow, I would like to begin making inquiries of my own about my father. And we have the Lavery’s ball; your mother sent a missive to remind me."

Hugh nodded, watching as her fingers found the keys again, resuming the gentle melody. The tenderness he had felt at dinner returned, stronger now, mingled with a fierce protectiveness that surprised him with its intensity. He wanted this always; this soft, gentle, easy company—this feeling of togetherness, that made him realise just how alone he had been until now.

Once he had finished his brandy, she stopped playing, declaring herself ready for bed. Yesterday, Hugh might have made an innuendo, or a bawdy comment, about following her upstairs, but tonight he did not wish to sully their evening.

Instead, he stood and grabbed Anna’s hand before she left, placing a kiss on the back of it.

“Sleep well,” he bid, unable to put into words all that he wanted to say.

If she was startled by the intensity of his voice, she did not show it. She merely inclined her head graciously and bid him his own restful night.

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