Henry’s expression cooled. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Matthew raised a brow. “What would you call it?”
Henry shrugged. “None of your business, for a start.”
“I’m just observing.” Matthew lifted his shoulders. “It’s not a crime, of course. She’s lovely. Earnest. That rare combination of clever and helpless that makes a man feel important.”
Matthew poured himself a drink without invitation.
He paused, as if remembering something. “You know, I was speaking with her not too long ago. You walked in on us, justas we were finishing. She looked rather pleased to see you, if I recall.”
He smiled faintly, swirling the liquid in the glass. “I mentioned at the time that I’d been calling. I thought it only fair you be aware of her… connections.”
Henry said nothing, but the memory surfaced. Matthew’s overly casual smile, the way he’d lingered, then made a point of saying how well he already knew Lady Anna.
Matthew went on, “I thought I’d made it clear then. Not that I had any claim on her…no, of course not, but I assumed a man like you would take the hint.” He shrugged. “But perhaps I misjudged your interest. Or hers.”
“You misjudge a great many things,” Henry said evenly. “I’ve learned not to take your assumptions seriously.”
“Mm. Careful, cousin,” Matthew said, swirling his drink. “Your temper’s starting to show. I’d hate for Lady Anna to think you have a bloody temper.”
He continued. “But I thought it worth reminding you, Isaac Stenton is many things, and patient is not one of them. He has plans, and I assure you, Lady Anna features in all of them. He won’t like you rearranging the pieces.”
Henry’s tone stayed level. “If he wants to discuss them, he knows where to find me.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does. But that’s not really the point, is it?” Matthew turned, folding his arms. “She’s made an impression. I see it. Anyone would.”
“The question is whether she knows it,” Matthew added. “Though I imagine she does. She’s not stupid.”
Henry’s jaw flexed. “No. She isn’t.”
“That wide-eyed honesty,” Matthew went on, “that sense of moral duty, always at the edge of exhaustion. It’s a particular kind of charm. The sort that convinces even sharp men they’re the only ones seeing clearly.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you imagine I’ve fallen for it.”
Matthew leaned against the mantel, watching Henry over the rim of his glass.
“What I mean is, I think she’s done exactly what she meant to.” Matthew’s voice softened. “The question is whether you see it, or whether you don’t want to.”
Then Henry said, “You think she’s a liar.”
“I think she’s practical. And desperate. Which, frankly, makes her dangerous.”
He paused, then added—quieter, with something darker behind the words.
“And let’s not pretend this is new for you. You haven’t had a heart since—well. Since her. We all know what she did. But let’s not rewrite history. You learned your lesson, didn’t you? Play the game, discard the piece. One girl or another—it’s all the same now.”
Henry’s mouth twitched—not in amusement, but restraint.
“Careful, Matthew,” he said softly. “You’re confusing cynicism with insight.”
“Oh, I don’t need insight,” Matthew replied. “I’ve watched you for years. Women orbit, you smile, they burn. And you move on, untouched. Don’t tell me Anna is different.”
“She is,” Henry said, so simply and so coldly it made Matthew pause.
Another beat of silence passed, and when Henry didn’t rise to the bait, Matthew pivoted lightly.
“But who am I to warn you?” he said. “You’re the Duke of Yeats. If anyone can afford a little ruin, it’s you.”
