Page 90 of Duke of Bronze
What changed between Anna and me?
The question plagued Colin as he sat in his study, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He had returned to Town the moment the last of his guests had departed the country estate, offering the appropriate farewells and ignoring the growing weight in his chest. There was only one place he wished to be. Only one person he was desperate to see.
And yet he had not gone to her.
He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. But each time he reached for his coat, made for the door, or simply pictured her face—those keen eyes, that maddening mouth—he hesitated. It was not pride that stayed his hand. Nor was it doubt. It was fear. That most detestable of emotions. Fear that Anna would meet his call with polite civility, that her warm glances had cooled to courtesy, that he had read meaning into moments she no longer held dear.
He cursed under his breath, but before he could rise, a sharp knock echoed at the door. Colin sighed and leaned back again. "Enter," he called.
The door opened and in stepped Fisher, his valet, as composed as ever.
"If you've brought me today's scandal sheets, you may as well cast them into the fire," Colin muttered. "I have no appetite for the whims of thetonthis morning."
"I bring no gossip, Your Grace. Merely an invitation."
Colin groaned. "Let me guess. A soiree hosted by some long-forgotten dowager seeking relevancy? Or worse—a matchmaking mother with daughters in tow?"
"I believe this particular invitation will interest you." Fisher stepped forward and placed a folded paper on the desk.
Colin raised a skeptical brow and reached for it. As his eyes traced the elegant script, something shifted in his expression.
His brow lifted. "The Mighty Stone's gathering?"
Fisher allowed the faintest hint of a smile. "Indeed, Your Grace. It is said to be one of his most ambitious games yet. A night of cards with stakes beyond the usual purse. And, perhaps, beyond mere coin."
Colin's gaze lingered on the parchment. The tension in his chest did not vanish, but it shifted. Distraction, if nothing else.
Colin's brow furrowed as he took another glance at the parchment in his hands. It was no invitation to a ball or supper party, but a ticket—plain, unadorned, and utterly unexpected. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"This is for the match," he said slowly, fingers tapping the corner of the card. "The Mighty Stone's next bout."
Fisher gave the faintest nod, an almost imperceptible lift of the chin, followed by the subtle adjustment of his waistcoat. "Indeed, Your Grace."
Colin looked up. "How did you acquire this?"
"I have my ways," Fisher replied, smugly but without being impolite, and with just enough pride to suggest the method had not been entirely conventional.
Colin leaned back, weighing the ticket in his fingers. "I do not know if I can go." The admission left him quieter than expected, as though simply speaking the words summoned the weight of everything else—of Anna, of failure, of too many things unsaid.
"You need not decide this moment," Fisher said with gentle practicality. "The bout is not until the day after tomorrow. I thought, perhaps, you might wish to know it was happening.Nothing more." He paused. "There is no obligation here, Your Grace."
Colin met his valet's gaze. "Is there not?"
Fisher's expression sobered, his posture firming as though he knew precisely where Colin's thoughts had turned. "You are not your father."
The words were simple. But they fell like a hammer—blunt and irrefutable.
And just as he had so many times before, Colin drew strength from them. It was strange, really, how often Fisher seemed to understand the things he himself had trouble admitting aloud.
He glanced once more at the ticket.
By the following evening, he had made his decision.
The crowd was electric, pulsing with the kind of energy one rarely found in drawing rooms or on manicured lawns. Colin moved through the edges of it with measured steps, the brim of his hat low, his coat collar turned slightly against the chill. He hadn't come for spectacle. Not truly. He had come because something restless clawed inside him, and watching Rod in that ring might—if only for an hour—quiet it.
He doubted Roderick would be pleased to see him. That was hardly a secret. Still, Colin had come. Part of him craved thedistraction. The other part—more honest—wished to offer a silent measure of support.
And there he was.
