And now here he was. Sitting alone, restless, staring into the fire as if it might burn the thought of her from his mind.
It didn’t.
Only because His Grace insists on being…inscrutable.
He smirked faintly. She’d thrown that line during the picnic. And he’d thought about it far too many times since.
“Inscrutable, indeed,” he muttered.
Still, it wasn’t untrue. He was deliberate. Guarded even. There were things he didn’t allow himself to feel, not fully. Not anymore.
He crossed the room to his writing desk and poured himself the last of the brandy from the decanter, but the glass barely held two fingers. He sighed, then reached for the bell pull and gave it a short tug.
“Brandy,” he said to the footman just outside his door. “And something to put out the damn fire.”
He rolled his neck, loosened the collar of his shirt, and leaned back against the edge of the desk, eyes flicking to the closed door. No doubt the footman would knock any moment with the tray, just as he’d requested.
So when the knocks came, he didn’t bother looking up.
“Finally,” he muttered, “Took you long enough, Reynolds.”
The door creaked open an inch, then stopped, enough for the warm light inside to spill across the hall.
He walked towards the door, his voice came, low and distracted. “Ah, thank you, I was starting to think you were slow. I’d-”
He stopped because it was not the footman with brandy.
It was Anna.
In a robe. Hair undone. Eyes too bright for the hour. He thought his mind was playing tricks and making a mockery of his thoughts.
For a moment, he could only stare.
The door opened further, and there she really was, framed by the flicker of candlelight from the corridor. Her hair was half-pinned, a few errant strands brushing her cheek. She wore a dressing gown over her nightclothes, the hem just brushing the tops of her slippers. Her lips parted slightly, as though even she hadn’t fully decided what she would say.
Their eyes locked. She looked every bit the tempest she always was, defiant and uncertain all at once.
Henry’s grip on the door tightened subtly. His expression shifted, shocked, yes, but something else too. Alert. Controlled, like a man very suddenly aware of a precipice underfoot.
“Lady Anna,” he said, slowly, as if naming a dream might cause it to vanish. “Forgive me. I was expecting brandy.”
Anna’s chin lifted half an inch. “May I come in?”
He blinked once. “I… yes. Of course.”
He stepped aside. She entered and he closed the door behind her, slowly. The latch clicked like thunder.
Anna turned to him.
“I came to say something.”
“Clearly,” he said, a touch wry now, though his voice was lower, his words cautious. “Though I admit, this wasn’t quite the encounter I imagined.”
“Nor I,” she replied.
Henry had always prided himself on restraint.
But this, Anna standing there in a robe and slippers, her eyes uncertain but burning, this was not something he’d prepared for. This was not a scenario for which he had ever rehearsed.
