Page 87 of Duke of Bronze
"My, those two made such a striking pair last night," Lady Agatha declared from across the room, her voice ripe with glee. "I would say the Duke should just make Lady Fiona his duchess already."
Anna did not move. She turned a page she had not read.
"I cannot agree more with theChronicle, Agatha," Lady Blevins chimed in, nodding with all the fervor of someone deeply invested in someone else's future.
"My, Copperton seemed positively besotted," Agatha added, giggling like a schoolgirl.
Anna shut the book. Loudly.
Too loudly.
She stood.
Elizabeth, who had been seated beside her, looked up with mild surprise. "Where are you going?"
Anna rose from her seat with affected nonchalance.
"I believe I shall retire. I'm beginning to yawn like a bored watch guard," she said with a soft laugh, hoping humor might camouflage her retreat.
Elizabeth did not smile.
"Are you quite well, Anna?" she asked, her voice pitched low, threaded with concern.
Anna's resolve wavered for half a breath. But she could not—would not—unravel here, not when every word spoken about Colin and Fiona still echoed in her ears.
"We have a journey back to London on the morrow, Lizzy," she replied breezily, smoothing her skirts. "And I must be up bright and early. Sensible choices and all that."
Elizabeth regarded her in silence, clearly unconvinced, but nodded, nonetheless.
Anna did not wait for further questions. She turned on her heel, the gentle swish of her dress a comfortingly familiar sound in the quiet hallway.
She had barely rounded the corner when a hand closed around her wrist.
She startled, inhaling sharply?—
"Anna."
Colin's voice. Low. Urgent.
"I need to speak with you."
Her heart dropped like a stone.
"I see you've taken to sneaking about corners like a footpad," she said with forced levity, raising a brow. "One might think you delight in alarming unsuspecting ladies."
But he did not smile.
"I just need a moment. Please."
She glanced down at his hand still encircling her wrist.
"A moment has already passed with your fingers affixed to my person, Colin," she said pointedly.
He looked at his hand, as though just now registering the contact, but did not release her. His grip was firm, warm. Not painful. But disconcertingly intimate.
And far more devastating than she wished it to be.
A tremor passed through her—internal, invisible—but no less real.
