She had been placed midway down, sitting beside Julia and Nathaniel who always wore an easy smile and a string of practiced charm that he seemed to distribute in even measures to every lady within reach. He was saying something clever, he always was, but Anna only caught fragments.
Her awareness was elsewhere.
She didn’t need to look to know he was watching. She could feel it. That subtle awareness that someone was watching her, not idly, but with intent. It threaded through her spine like a string drawn tight.
She could feel it, like warmth at the side of her face, a tether across the table too carefully maintained to be accidental.
Her fingers tightened just slightly on her fork. She kept her posture composed, her eyes on her plate, her expression the same calm one she wore in every drawing room, every dinner, every moment she wasn’t allowed to feel too much.
But then she glanced up. It kept pulling at the edge of her attention.
And there he was.
Henry.
His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady, and unmistakably fixed on her. It lasted only a second. Maybe two. But it struck her somewhere beneath the bone.
She looked away first.
The Duke of Frayton said something again, his voice a little louder this time. “Lady Anna, are you very fond of roast pheasant, or simply contemplating it as if it were a tragedy?”
She blinked, then offered a soft smile. “I’m quite undecided.”
It earned her a laugh from the table, which was a mercy.
She could still feel the weight of Henry’s gaze, less pressing now, but still there.
Anna kept her gaze on her plate, though her mind wandered. The conversation around her was pleasant enough, Nathaniel's wit was sharp and unthreatening, and the lady to her right, Miss Lyndell, had a soft way of laughing that made it easy to join in without thinking too much.
She adjusted the angle of her posture, her hand grazing the stem of her wine glass, and then, against her better judgment, she glanced up.
Henry was looking at her again.
Their eyes met across the table, only for a second, and then he looked down, as though he’d been caught.
So had she.
Nathaniel leaned slightly toward her, lowering his voice just enough to create a bubble of conversation between them.
“You’ve missed the end of my story,” he said with mock injury. “A crushing blow to any raconteur.”
Anna blinked, startled, then gave a small smile. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I was…”
“Somewhere far away,” he finished for her, gently. “Though I hope not entirely bored.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not bored. Just… distracted.”
“Don't worry, I was just getting to the best part.” He winked.
She smiled and turned toward him, but her thoughts didn’t follow. She nodded at the right moment, even let out a quietsound of amusement—but she couldn’t have repeated what he said if pressed.
Out of habit, or weakness, her gaze flicked back across the table.
Henry was still watching her.
She lifted her wine glass to hide the way her breath had gone uneven.
It didn’t help.
