Page 72 of Corrupting his Duchess
“I threaten you,” Henry said, “because she cannot. But I can. And I will.”
The silence was thunderous.
Nathaniel said mildly, “I believe that concludes the meeting.”
Henry didn’t look away from Isaac. “Do not speak to her again unless she speaks to you first. Do not speak of her at all in my presence. And if I discover you’ve used her name to negotiate influence with anyone, Fenwick, the board, your tailor, I will not stop with words.”
Isaac’s throat moved. “Is that a promise?”
Henry’s mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. Something colder.
“It’s a guarantee.”
Isaac didn’t speak.
Not immediately.
But Henry saw it, flickering behind the man’s eyes. Not just shock. Not just the sting of having been put in his place, and publicly at that. No, there was something worse beneath it. Hope.
Because Henry had betrayed himself.
The moment he’d risen. The moment his voice had cut like tempered steel. The moment he’d spoken of Anna not with distance, but with heat.
Isaac had heard it.
And Henry could see the calculation forming already behind the man’s mask of civility. The shift of posture. The faint tick at the edge of his jaw as he weighed it all like a gambler eyeing new odds.
He was offended, yes, but not deterred.
That was the danger.
He might now believe Henry’s affection could be used. That Anna could be used, again. With subtler means. Through a new strategy.
Henry felt his stomach twist.
He had defended her, yes, but in doing so, he may have armed the very man who’d spent years diminishing her.
He hated himself for it. And he hated Isaac more than he had ten minutes ago, which he hadn’t thought possible.
Nathaniel’s chair creaked as he stood, brushing his coat sleeve. “I do love a productive morning,” he murmured.
Henry didn’t move.
He kept his eyes on Isaac, watching the flicker die, watching him mask it, watching the whole bloody act reset itself like a merchant smoothing his ledgers.
The door shut behind Isaac with a click too soft to satisfy.
Henry remained standing, his hands flexing once at his sides. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe properly for a long moment.
Nathaniel said nothing.
Henry’s jaw locked, and he turned back toward the fire, though he felt no warmth from it.
God, he hated that man.
He hated the oily calm in his voice, the way he wrapped cruelty in silk and called it care. He hated the way he watched Anna, not with concern, not even with resentment, but with ownership. As if she were a resource. Something inherited.
But more than all of that, he hated knowing, truly knowing, how long she had borne it.
