Page 30 of Corrupting his Duchess
“Darling,” Julia said with mock-sincerity, “I am gifted with three things: a keen eye, an unfortunate lack of restraint, and the ability to spot mutual desire from even across a ballroom.”
After a beat, Anna pressed her lips together, then whispered, “I have to marry.”
“Yes.” Gretchen placed a gentle arm on Anna, “I see the way you behave with him, Anna, even if you pretend not to. But you still have a duty. We both do. I just... I want you to be happy, even inside the lines we’ve been drawn into.”
Julia watched her friend closely. “Well for me, just because you’re supposed to marry doesn’t mean you have to abandon the part of you that… burns. You think I don’t see it? You thrive on wit and challenge and people who don’t bow and scrape and call you ladylike. He sees it too.”
Anna blinked.
“And if it’s nothing,” Julia added, now dangerously serious, “then you’d best tell him. Before your names ends up linked in every drawing room in London.”
The silence that followed was short-lived. Julia smoothed her skirts, and added brightly, “Or just go to his room and kiss him like a villainess in a lurid French novel. Honestly, I support either option.”
“Julia!” Anna couldn't believe her ears and Gretchen’s cheeks went red.
Silence again. The wind stirred the hem of their dresses.
“I should say something to him,” Anna muttered.
Gretchen smiled faintly. “Then do.”
The sun had begun its slow descent by the time they returned from the picnic, golden light brushing over the windows of the country estate. A tray had been set out in the smaller drawing room reserved for the ladies of the party with no footmen loitering, no gentlemen interrupting. Bonnets were tugged off, gloves discarded, cheeks still pink from the sun.
Inside the drawing room, the ladies were scattered across chaises and armchairs, cooled by the open windows and murmurs of conversation, sipping cordial and pretending not to listen too closely to one another.
Anna sank into a settee beside Gretchen, willing herself not to replay the banter with Henry. Not to remember the way his mouth quirked when she teased him, or how her heart had stumbled when he shifted closer.
Lady Daphne fanned herself lazily. “Did you see the way Lord Weston tripped over his own boots at the croquet lawn? I daresay the mallet posed a formidable threat to his dignity.”
Lady Penelope, curled like a cat on the chaise, gave a sly smile. “Worse still, Miss Haverton rushed to help him up—as though they’d been secretly engaged for years.”
A round of genteel laughter followed, muffled behind fans and teacups.
Gretchen arched a brow. “Miss Haverton has been rushing rather ardently of late. First Lord Falmouth, now Lord Weston. Perhaps she’s merely in training for a husband.”
Laughter rippled gently through the room.
“I imagine Lord Weston's dignity is quite used to being threatened,” murmured Lady Penelope, her tone sugar-sweet.
Anna smiled faintly but did not comment.
Francesca, one of the ladies, perched like a songbird on the edge of her chair, sipped her cordial. “The day was full of little excitements. Or large ones, depending on one's vantage.” She tilted her head. “The Duke of Yeats, for instance, was in rare form.”
There it was.
Lady Daphne perked up. “Oh yes, quite spirited, wasn’t he? I heard Lady Anna managed to keep up with him admirably.”
Of course, the room wasn’t about to let her forget.
“Did you see the way he looked at her?” Lady Daphne a few seats away fanned herself slowly, more for drama than heat. “Honestly, I thought he was going to devour her right there beside the fruit tarts.”
Anna’s spine stiffened. Her fingers laced tightly in her lap, the skin at her knuckles pale.
Gretchen tipped her head toward Anna, who sat rigidly, “But you didn't really see, did you? You were far away from us.”
Lady Daphne sniffed. “One doesn’t need to be close when the tension was practically vibrating across the lawn.”
“That was quite a display,” drawled Miss Clarissa Lonsdale from the opposite chaise. She was all lemon yellow and saccharine smiles, sweet on the surface, bitter underneath. “I do hope you’re not encouraging him, Anna.”
