Page 92 of Duke of Bronze
Roderick met his gaze steadily. "You're persistent. I'll give you that. And perhaps… it is time."
The words settled between them like the final move in a long, quiet match.
It was not loud. It did not need to be.
A truce. A beginning.
Curious hope stirred in Colin's chest—tentative, but not unfamiliar.
He let the silence stretch a beat longer before asking, "And Lydia? How does she fare?"
Roderick's face changed—not dramatically, but enough. A slight tension about the eyes. A downward flick of his gaze.
"We pray to the heavens for the best," he said simply, then drank.
And Colin, who knew all too well the ache of helplessness, said nothing further. Not everything in life could be won—not even by the Mighty Stone.
Anna.
Colin had been thinking of her the entire way back into Town, her name sitting far too comfortably in the corner of his mind. And now, as his carriage rolled down Bond Street, he remembered he had yet to plan their final outing—the fifth of five. Perhaps he had delayed it because he didn't want it to end. Or because he feared that when it did, so would everything else.
His eyes caught on a window display—a dress in crimson silk and gold thread, bold and striking. Without thinking, he pictured Anna in it, her chin lifted in defiance, her eyes alight. She would be devastating in that dress. He rapped on the roof of the carriage without hesitation.
He gave a sharp knock on the carriage roof.
By the time he reached his study, he had discarded his coat, crossed to the desk, and was already scribbling instructions in quick, precise strokes. The letter was sealed by the time he rang for Fisher.
"I need you to make a trip to the modiste," he said, barely waiting for the door to finish opening.
Fisher, who had seen more eccentric orders than most officers in the king's army, still blinked. "The modiste, Your Grace?"
"Yes, the modiste," Colin repeated, thrusting the letter into his hands with a mixture of purpose and something dangerously close to excitement. "Take this. The details are clear. The dress is to be commissioned without deviation. Crimson silk. Gold embroidery. No lace. No frippery. And it must be delivered tomorrow."
Fisher accepted the letter with the practiced efficiency of a man who had long since ceased questioning his master's whims—at least aloud.
But then Colin handed him a second, smaller one.
"And this," he added, "is to go directly to Dr. Gibson. Immediately."
At that, Fisher hesitated. His expression—usually somewhere between unbothered and politely indifferent—tightened with concern.
"To Dr. Gibson, Your Grace?"
"Yes."
"Forgive me, but—are you unwell?"
Colin looked him squarely in the eye. "I am perfectly fine."
And he was. At least, in body. But there were other matters that were heavier than health. Promises he hadn't yet made.
CHAPTER 34
Anna sighed as she sat curled on the chaise lounge by the window, her knees drawn up slightly, a shawl draped over her shoulders despite the mild weather. She stared out at the ceaseless bustle of London below—carriages rattling over cobblestones, flower sellers weaving through the crowds—but saw none of it. Her gaze had long since glazed into that peculiar stillness that came not from idleness, but from thought.
Colin was back in Town.
Miss Watson, always too informed for a housekeeper, had heard it from the kitchen staff and passed it along without ceremony. And though Anna had said nothing in reply, she had later done what she swore she wouldn't—she'd looked.
