Page 89 of Duke of Bronze
And Anna found herself irritated by that—by the very idea that Fiona, of all people, should feel the need to unburden herself.
"I do not understand why you feel you owe me anything regarding your friendship with Copperton," Anna said, attempting a laugh, though it came out dry. "I am hardly his keeper."
Fiona didn't smile. Her eyes, calm and clear, studied her with something perilously close to sympathy.
"Do you really not?" she asked softly.
Anna froze.
Fiona's gaze held hers in the mirror. "Oh, but I think youdounderstand, Anna."
The insinuation—so gently spoken—landed like a stone in a still pond.
Anna turned away from the glass, and the denial formed on her tongue. It never made it out. Because it was true, and shedidunderstand.
She understood the ache in her chest whenever Colin smiled at someone else; the irrational fury that had bloomed inside her over a mere gossip column; why her hands had trembled after his fingers touched her wrist.
She had fallen in love with him.
And she had been too proud, too frightened, too determined to see it.
The realization swept over her like a bitter gust of wind—bracing and cruel.
Fiona stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Do not fight it, Anna. Not any more."
She reached forward and gently clasped both of Anna's hands in hers.
Her touch was warm, steady. The kind of gesture that should have soothed.
But Anna's throat tightened, and she had to swallow hard against the sudden lump that rose there.
She blinked rapidly, willing the tears back down. She would not cry. Not now.
It was done. She had lost.
Not in some petty rivalry—there had been none. Fiona had never competed. No one had.
Anna had simply lost to her own heart.
She had given it away before she had the sense to protect it. And now it lay somewhere at Colin's feet, unnoticed. Unwanted.
For how could he ever wanther?
Fiona was everything he ought to seek in a duchess—composed, lovely, perfectly bred and effortlessly graceful. Anna, in contrast, was a contradiction. Too opinionated. Too restless. Too unwilling to bend.
And yet it wasn't Fiona she resented. Not in the least.
Her fingers tightened in her friend's, and she gave a small, broken laugh.
"I am not angry with you," she whispered. "I'm only?—"
"Inadequate?" Fiona supplied softly. “You arenot, Anna. Not to him. Not to anyone. You've simply convinced yourself otherwise."
Anna looked away, but not before a single tear betrayed her and slipped down her cheek.
CHAPTER 33
