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“There,” Phoebe said, closing the catalogue with an air of satisfaction. “That is settled, at least. Whatever else remains uncertain about this marriage, you shall look magnificent walking into it.”
“That is something, I suppose.” Anna managed a small smile, though it did not entirely banish the unease that had taken up residence in her chest since the conversation had turned, however briefly, to matters of love and children and the particular happiness Phoebe had found with Edward. “Thank you, Phoebe. Truly. I do not know how I would manage any of this without you.”
“You would manage perfectly well, because you are considerably more capable than you give yourself credit for. But I am glad to be spared the opportunity to find out.” Phoebe reached over and squeezed her hand, her expression turning serious for a moment. “Whatever happens with the duke, Anna, you are not alone in it. You have never been alone in anything, not since the day you were born, and you shall not be now.”
Anna nodded, throat tight, and said nothing at all, because she did not entirely trust her voice not to betray the tangle of feeling still lodged somewhere beneath her ribs — gratitude, and fear, and, underneath it all, that same stubborn, unwelcome warmth she could not quite banish, no matter how many times she told herself it meant nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
The gymnasium was quiet at this hour, save for the rhythmic thud of gloves against padding and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. Hudson usually came in a bid to exercise his body and mind, training his composure to work with him and not against him as he bested his opponents with ease.
A good sparring match never failed to help him regain clarity in his mind, but it seemed that composure was in shorter supply than usual that morning.
Hudson's fist connected with the padding rather harder than he had intended, and Owen staggered back a step, shaking out his hand with a low curse.
“Bloody hell, Hudson. I am on your side, remember. You needn't try to put me on the floor.”
“Then keep your guard up.” Hudson circled him, shoulders squared, jaw tight, every line of him wound with a tension that had nothing whatsoever to do with the exercise. “You are dropping your left again. I have told you a dozen times.”
“I have told you a dozen times that you are hitting harder than usual, and I would rather you tell me why than continue to use me as a substitute for whatever it is that has put you in such a foul temper.” Owen adjusted his stance, eyes narrowing with delight that clearly betrayed his intentions. “Is this about your first ever scandal, Your Grace? I confess I did not think I would live to see the day.”
Hudson's next punch landed square in Owen's ribs, hard enough to knock the wind from him properly this time, and Owen doubled over, wheezing out something between a laugh and a groan.
“That,” Owen managed, straightening slowly, “confirms it entirely.”
“It confirms nothing.”
“On the contrary, it confirms that I have struck a nerve, and that you would rather bruise my ribs than admit it.” Owen circled him now, grinning despite the ache clearly radiating through his side. “Come, Hudson. We have known each other since we were boys throwing punches at each other in considerably less controlled circumstances than this. You may as well tell me. What has Miss Danvers done to put you in such a state?”
“Nothing worth discussing.”
“So you say, and yet here you are, attempting to relocate my ribs a few days before your own wedding, over a woman who is apparently of no consequence to you whatsoever.” Owen shook his head, clearly relishing every moment of Hudson's obvious discomfort. “You forget, old friend, that I have known you long enough to recognize when something has actually rattled you. You do not lose your temper over trifles. You have never once lost your temper over trifles, not even when Lord Ashby cheated you at cards in front of half of London.”
“That was different. Ashby was a fool, and everyone knew it.”
“And Miss Danvers?”
Hudson said nothing for a long moment, focusing instead on the rhythm of his own footwork, the familiar discipline of it, anything to avoid answering. But Owen had always possessed an irritating talent for patience, and he simply waited, arms loose at his sides, until the silence grew heavy enough that Hudson finally exhaled and let his guard drop.
“I kissed her,” he admitted flatly, as though confessing to some minor crime.
Owen's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline, his expression one of mild disbelief. “Did you?’
“It was a mistake.”
“Was it dreadful, then? The kiss?”
“That is not the point,” Hudson groaned, though the faint, involuntary tightening of his jaw suggested the answer was rather more complicated than he wished to admit.
“It rather sounds as though it is precisely the point, given how thoroughly it has rattled you.” Owen leaned against the wall, arms crossed, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “You have never once, in all the years I have known you, come to this room in such a temper over a woman. Business, yes. Your brother's follies, certainly. But never a woman.”
“There has never before been reason to.”
“And now there is.”
Hudson said nothing, which Owen appeared to take as confirmation enough, his grin widening further still.
“The point,” Hudson snapped, “is that everything about that woman has gone entirely against how I conduct my affairs. I do not lose control. I have never lost control — not with business, not with my brother's affairs, not with anything, in the whole of my life. I plan. I execute. I do not deviate. And since the night I mistook her for Miss Gale, nothing has gone according to any plan I have made. Nothing.”
