Anna offered a quiet smile. “Sometimes I wish I did. It would make things easier.”
“Perhaps. But less honest.”
Sophia looked away then, toward the darkened end of the corridor. “Lady Anna… I would never presume to offer counsel where none is sought. But I will say this—my brother is his own man. Whatever his thoughts or intentions, he keeps them close. Always has.”
Anna swallowed. “That I have discovered.”
“Then let that be enough,” Sophia said gently. “You owe no one any explanation for your thoughts. Least of all in a house full of opinions.”
Anna drew a breath. “Thank you, Lady Sophia. Truly.”
Sophia offered a mild, composed smile. “Goodnight, Lady Anna.”
“Goodnight.”
The candle on her writing desk flickered, its golden light playing across the empty page before her.
Anna sat in her robe, her hair unpinned and falling in soft waves over her shoulder, pins tugged loose by sun and wind, with one curl trailing along her cheek. She didn’t try to tame it.
The house had fallen silent, no more laughter from the drawing room, no clinking glasses, no rustling of gowns. All the guests had retired. All was still.
Except her thoughts.
She dipped the quill, hesitated, and began to write.
“Henry…”
She stared at the name. It felt far too intimate on paper. Too raw.
She exhaled sharply and drew a line through it.
“Your Grace…”
That felt worse.
She paused again, the words refusing to come. Her fingers tightened around the quill.
Why was she doing this? Why had she let her feet pace the length of the room for nearly an hour, circling between restraint and recklessness like a moth to flame?
Because of the way he looked at her.
Because of the way she looked at him, and hated that she couldn’t look away.
She tossed the quill aside and stood abruptly, walking to the hearth. The fire had burned low, but it still offered a soft glow. Shadows danced on the walls as she wrapped her arms around herself.
It wasn’t just desire. It wasn’t only defiance.
It was that she didn’t know who she was around him, or rather, she did, and it terrified her.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Nearly midnight.
She crossed the room and paused at the window, fingers curling slightly against the sill. The gardens below were dark, the moon catching on silver leaves and stone paths. Somewhere in the stillness, an owl called once.
This was mad.
She turned toward the bed, as if to climb in, as if the idea of sleep could possibly compete with the storm inside her.
But her feet didn’t carry her there.
