Page 77 of Corrupting his Duchess
Recognition dawned, and a half-smile smile tugged at his mouth. “Ah, yes. An uncharacteristically theatrical moment. It was a moment of regrettable honesty.”
“No,” she said, her voice warming. “It was perfect.”
“You laughed.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“I was rather proud,” he admitted. “He does go on.”
She tilted her head. “You do know he was still speaking to me?”
“Yes,” Henry said, tone dry. “I considered it a public service.”
Her laugh came easily this time, light and real.
When she glanced up, he was watching her.
His gaze lingered. Enough that she felt it. Enough that warmth rose up the back of her neck. Her heart beating rapidly.
Her smile faded into something quieter. “What?”
Henry blinked, then gave a small, deliberate shrug. “I was simply wondering whether I ought to pursue a career on the stage. Clearly, I’ve missed my calling.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re deflecting.”
“Shamelessly.”
A moment passed.
She turned toward him, adjusting her gloves with care. “Lord Stenton said something earlier. About you. About this morning.”
Henry’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
She studied his face. “I wasn’t there. I don’t know what was said, and I doubt I want the full version… but he looked unsettled.”
He gave a dry breath of agreement.
“I’ve seen Isaac smug, furious, and calculating,” she added. “But never rattled.” A faint line appeared between her brows. “He said you defended me.”
Henry met her gaze without hesitation. “I did.”
Anna looked down at her hands for a moment, then back up.
“I’m used to being the one who does the defending. Heather. The tenants. Myself. Even my father, at times.” Her voice didn’t falter, but it quieted. “It’s unfamiliar. Having someone step forward on my behalf.”
“I meant every word,” he said.
“I know,” she murmured. “That’s why I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
Henry’s brow lifted faintly, but he said nothing.
They walked again in silence, the rustling hedges tall on either side, the gravel crunching soft beneath their steps.
“I have been angry with him for some time,” Anna said, her tone steady though her hands were tightly clasped before her. “Lord Stenton.”
Henry’s glance was brief, yet attentive.
“I used to tell myself it was grief,” she continued. “That I was simply too raw after my father’s death. But it wasn’t grief. It was the weight. The way everything suddenly became mine to carry, but never mine to claim.”
