Page 51 of Corrupting his Duchess
And Henry, the Duke of Yeats didn’t make emotional investments. Not anymore.
Henry moved toward the window, done with the conversation. Isaac lingered, clearly still hoping to press the matter, when a quiet knock interrupted the tension.
A footman stepped into the library, bowing with practiced ease.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” he said respectfully. “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, requests a moment of your time. She’s in the west garden.”
Isaac straightened, clearly caught off guard.
Henry didn’t miss the way the man’s brow twitched at his mother's title. He turned to the footman. “Tell her I’ll be along shortly.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” The footman bowed again and withdrew.
Henry didn’t bother to look at Isaac as he crossed the room. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said curtly. “Some matters are more pressing than business.”
CHAPTER 10
The guests had begun to assemble in the blue drawing room ahead of dinner, voices murmuring over the clink of glass and the soft rustle of silk. Velvet drapes framed the tall windows, filtering in the last of the afternoon light, while candles flickered to life in polished sconces, catching the gilding along the cornices and wainscoting.
Footmen moved discreetly through the space, offering sherry and light conversation. The air held that familiar tension between civility and appetite, the low thrum of elegance rehearsed.
Near the hearth, the pianoforte sat closed, its lacquered surface gleaming. The Dowager Duchess had already claimed her customary seat by the fire, her embroidery untouched in her lap, offering a gentle nod here and there to arriving guests.
Anna stepped into the drawing room with Julia and Gretchen at her sides, their laughter still clinging from something said on the stairs.
“I swear if one more man tells me the weather has been charming, I shall marry a cloud and be done with it,” Julia said under her breath.
Gretchen gave her a sidelong look. “If you do, I hope it’s the cool, disapproving kind. It would suit you.”
Anna smiled faintly, nodding as if following the conversation, but her eyes were already scanning the room.
She didn’t mean to look for him. Truly, she didn’t. But it was like gravity. Her gaze pulled past the clusters of guests, the flickering candlelight, the gilded mirrors. And then…there he was.
Henry.
Their eyes met across the drawing room.
And for one suspended breathless moment, nothing else existed. No voices, no footsteps, no candlelight, only that shared stillness between them.
She felt his searing gaze everywhere, at her throat, down her spine, across every inch of skin hidden beneath silk and stays.
He looked devastating in black. The crisp lines of his coat, the white at his collar, the way the candlelight caught at the edge of his jaw. One hand rested lightly on the glass in his fingers, but his posture wasn’t idle, it was coiled. As though he’d rather be moving than standing perfectly still.
She didn't breathe, everything vanished except the man across the room.
Then…
“If you please, my lords and ladies, dinner is served.”
The butler bowed, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the hum of conversation. His voice rang with the quiet dignity expected of a house like Yeats.
There was a rustle of skirts and silk gloves, the murmuring hush of movement as the guests began their procession toward the dining room. The table was already aglow, lined with silver, crystal, and an unbroken line of candles flickering in polished candelabra. Tall arrangements of white roses and lavender graced the center, carefully placed so as not to obstruct conversation.
Henry, as host, offered his arm to the Dowager Duchess and escorted her to the head of the table, taking his place beside her as the others found their seats in the arrangement dictated by rank, age, and favor.
Anna had been placed midway down the long table, just beside Nathaniel. She offered her thanks to him as he adjusted her chair, smoothing her napkin across her lap with a grace that seemed almost instinctive.
The dining room at Yeats was already familiar after several evenings, yet it never failed to impress. Its high ceilings, polished paneling, and long candlelit table had the kind of grandeur that made one conscious of posture, of voice, of every delicate gesture. Candlelight reflected in cut glass and polished silver, and a long table that gleamed beneath its weight of linen and crystal. Everything in perfect symmetry. Even the seating had been arranged with a precision that left no room for accidents.
