Page 85 of Duke of Bronze
Anna's fingers twitched against her skirts.
She inhaled through her nose, squared her shoulders, and entered the room with a practiced grace. She was the daughter of an earl. She had waltzed with princes and stood her ground against Parliament lords. She would not be undone by ink and paper.
"Good morning," Anna offered lightly as she approached the sideboard, forcing her voice into civility.
"Good morning," Fiona replied, looking up with a smile that seemed a shade too bright.
Anna took her time choosing between eggs and toast, pretending the sheet at Fiona's elbow did not exist. She filled her plate with careful deliberation and seated herself across the table, her expression composed, her spine painfully straight.
Pleasantries followed—mundane remarks about the weather, the state of the roses, the usual nattering expected of young ladies in a civilized household. Fiona's tone was as light as sugar spun air. Anna matched it. Barely.
But then the conversation dwindled. Silence settled between them like an unwelcome third guest.
Fiona did not return to her paper. She merely sipped her chocolate and watched.
Anna could feel it. That steady, knowing gaze—like a cat observing a mouse; not with malice, but with quiet, disarming amusement. It prickled at her composure.
"Do you require another cup?" Fiona asked, rising gracefully with her empty dish in hand.
"I—no, I am well, thank you," Anna replied, a beat too swiftly.
Fiona glided toward the sideboard, her back turned. The moment she did, Anna's treacherous eyes flicked to the paper. The dreadful thing lay innocently beside Fiona's plate, folded carelessly, as if it had not been wielded like a dagger moments ago.
Anna hesitated.
You shan't. You absolutely shall not.
Her hand moved of its own accord.
She slid the sheet toward her and unfolded it. Her eyes scanned the familiar column with a cynicism she'd cultivated over many seasons. And yet?—
There it was.
The Duke of Copperton and Lady Fiona Pierce made for a most striking pair upon the dance floor. The waltz they shared was nothing short of poetic, and Lady Fiona's laughter, light and musical, lent the evening an enchantment it sorely needed…
Anna stared. Her fingers tightened around the page until the edges crumpled slightly.
She knew. She knew it meant nothing. She knew Fiona had no designs upon Colin. And she certainly knew Colin was not the sort of man who lingered over a waltz unless it amused him.
And yet the words stung like lemon juice in an open wound.
"Anna," came Fiona's voice, calm and unflustered, "you should not have read that infernal paper."
Anna jerked her head up, caught like a child stealing jam.
"I merely glanced," she replied coolly, setting the sheet aside with exaggerated nonchalance. "What is so very stupid about it?"
Fiona's gaze was level now, stripped of all artifice. "Everything."
Anna lifted her chin. "They simply record what they see."
"They record what they imagine," Fiona corrected gently. "And what they imagine is frequently idiotic."
Anna let out a breath through her nose and folded her hands in her lap, forcing stillness into them.
Fiona's expression softened. "Colin and I spoke of horses. And dogs. And how dreadful the refreshments were." She arched a brow. "Hardly scandalous."
"No one said it was scandalous," Anna murmured, reaching for her tea, her hand only slightly unsteady.
