Page 86 of Duke of Bronze
"No," Fiona said, tilting her head. "But one might be forgiven for assuming you thought it so."
Anna's lips parted, words hovering on the edge—but nothing emerged. She stared down into her cup, heart drumming far too loudly for such a still morning.
Fiona returned to her chair with quiet grace, and though she said nothing more, her gaze did not waver.
Anna found she could not meet it.
Before she could summon a retort—or even a lie to save face—the door creaked open, and the quiet hush of the morning shattered. Someone else had arrived.
"Lovely morning, ladies."
Colin's voice rang out with far too much cheer for so early an hour.
Anna turned just in time to see the Duke of Copperton stroll into the room as though summoned by mischief itself. His coat was perfectly tailored, his cravat annoyingly precise, and his smile positively criminal.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Fiona greeted with blithe ease.
Anna mumbled something. Possibly a greeting. Possibly a curse. She could not be sure.
He heard her, though. Of that she was certain. His expression faltered for just a heartbeat. And then he looked at her—not his usual smirking regard, but something quieter, unreadable. As though he meant to say something, and for once, could not find the words.
Flustered, Anna folded the gossip sheet with deliberate calm and set it aside. She could not bear him seeing it. Let alone discussing it. Not now. Not after that wretched paragraph.
"Oh, these potato cakes aremarvelous, I simply could not resist another helping," Fiona said brightly, a little too brightly. Her fork hovered mid-air, a cheerful prop in a private performance.
Anna knew precisely what she was doing. She could have kissed her for it.
"Ah, cook works magic with potatoes at any meal," Colin replied, easing into a chair with far too much confidence. "I daresay I would eat nothing else if she allowed it."
Then he turned to Anna. "I trust you find them just as pleasant, Lady Anna?"
Anna lifted her eyes to his, spine stiffening. "I am not as in love with potatoes as Fiona is."
The words escaped before she could smooth their edges.
A silence followed—only a breath's worth—but it felt far longer.
Then Fiona laughed, light and unbothered. "Well, I have never claimed to be sensible where potatoes are concerned."
If either of them noticed Anna's curtness, they made no remark. Instead, the conversation shifted to the cook's miraculous methods, recipes involving cream and nutmeg, and how the plum pudding from last Tuesday was nearly as good as the one at Giltford House.
Anna tried—truly—to participate. She nodded when required and offered faint smiles. But the words she wished to say were not about potatoes, and those shecouldsay felt like pebbles in her mouth.
Her fork scraped across the plate with a noise far too shrill. Her tea had gone cold.
She set her napkin down and rose.
"My, you've barely touched your food, Anna," Fiona said gently.
"I am not hungry," Anna replied. Her voice was tight. Her throat, tighter still.
She turned without ceremony, leaving her plate, her tea, and her dignity behind.
And though she did not glance back, she could feel it.
His gaze. Steady. Warm. And entirely unwelcome.
After dinner that evening, Anna sat in the far corner, a book open in her lap—some treatise on Roman mosaics, though she could not have said which if pressed.
