He’d seen what happened to men who lost their heads over women. He’d sworn he never would.
And yet, here he was. Breath unsteady. Heart pounding like it had recognized her before his mind had caught up. His gaze swept over her face, lingered on the flush in her cheeks, the flicker of doubt in her eyes. She had come here afraid, and still come anyway.
She folded her hands before her. Unfolded them. She looked like she’d rehearsed a speech but now found it abandoned her completely.
And damn him—he wanted her for it. Not just her beauty, though God knew she was a vision that would haunt his sleep. No, it was the nerve of her. The boldness. The soul of a woman who would walk down a corridor after midnight just to say what needed to be said.
He could feel himself slipping.
Not into lust—he could name lust. He had made peace with it. But this? This was something else. Something more dangerous.
Something terrifying.
A second knock startled both of them.
Henry’s blood ran cold.
“Stay behind the door,” he said swiftly, pressing a finger to his lips. She obeyed without question, slipping into the shadows near the hearth as he stepped back into the light.
Reynolds entered with a silver tray. “Your brandy, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” Henry said, taking it with a nod, body angled to block the view of the room. “I won’t need anything further.”
Nothing the footman could give him.
The door closed with a soft click. Silence stretched.
CHAPTER 7
While Henry attended to the footman, Anna pressed a hand to her chest, willing it to still. What was she doing? Hiding in a man’s chambers like a reckless schoolgirl in a gothic novel? She could practically hear Julia’s voice,If you’re going to do something mad, darling, do it beautifully.
It wasn’t beautiful. It was disastrous. And foolish. And far, far too late to turn back.
“I won’t need anything further,” Henry said, his voice calm, smooth as ever. Did he feel this frantic thrum in his blood, this spark dancing in the room like a struck match? Did his hands shake slightly, the way hers now did beneath her gown’s wide sleeves?
Anna took a good look at the room. His room was warm and dark-wooded, a fire banked low in the hearth, casting gold across thick rugs and leather-bound books. A decanter sat half-empty on the table, beside a glass he had almost finished.
She turned and faced him. He looked tired, shirt slightly unbuttoned, waistcoat gone, hair mussed like he’d run his hand through it one too many times. The lighting was low, warm, and private. She shouldn’t be here. She knew that.
Henry exhaled as the door latched once more. He held the tray in one hand, but his gaze flicked back toward the hearth, where Anna lingered in the half-light.
“You may come out now,” he said quietly. “I believe the danger has passed.”
Anna stepped forward slowly, her hands clasped, eyes darting toward the door before settling on him again.
Henry set the tray on the sideboard, turned to face her, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
“I thought I planned this,” she said at last.
“I rather assumed you didn't.”
Her lips twitched into something too pained to be a smile. “I stood by my window for what felt like an hour. Told myself I was being foolish. I still may be.”
His brow lifted slightly. “And what conclusion did you reach?”
“That being foolish might be preferable to being silent.”
He folded his arms loosely, studying her. “You’ve never struck me as particularly silent.”
