CHAPTER 212: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND TWELVE

Knock...

knock...

knock.

The first thing Philip registered was the sound. A series of sharp, insistent knocks on his bedroom door, a sound as aggressive as a blacksmith’s hammer inside his head and unwelcome as a bucket of cold water. The second thing was the light. A brilliant, unforgiving spear of sunlight had pierced through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, striking his face with brutal intensity.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound of protest, and rolled over, burying his face in the soft pillows. His head was pounding with a dull, rhythmic ache that promised a miserable day. His dark hair was a tangled mess, and his mouth felt as dry as desert sand. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, looking around the luxurious room with a sense of profound unfamiliarity, as if he were a stranger in his own home.

A half-empty decanter of brandy and two glasses sat on the table near the fireplace. His clothes from the previous day were draped carelessly over a chair. He ran a hand over his face, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He reached for the gold pocket watch on the bedside table, his fingers fumbling with the clasp. He finally managed to open it, squinting at the face.

The hour hand had struck two.

"It’s noon already?" he said aloud, his own voice a rough, scratchy sound. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and held his head in his hands, the headache intensifying with the movement. "How long did I sleep? What happened last night?" he murmured to himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to chase the elusive memories.

The last thing he could clearly recall was sitting in his drawing room. The fire was burning low. He was having a drink with Anne. He remembered the soft, amber glow of the brandy in his glass, the sound of her light, pleasant laughter. And then... nothing. A complete, unnerving blank.

"Anne... Anne Ellington." he said, the name bringing a jolt of clarity, but no answers.

He looked at the vast, empty space on the bed beside him. It was occupied by only his presence, the sheets cool and undisturbed.

The knock sounded again, sharper this time, followed by the muffled, formal voice of his butler. "Your Grace? I have a letter from Ellington Manor. It is labeled urgent."

Philip’s brow furrowed. Ellington Manor? "Why is the Baroness sending me a letter now?" he wondered, the question adding another layer to his confusion. The Ellingtons were in the middle of a power struggle. An urgent letter could mean anything.

Before he could push himself off the bed to answer the door, another door, the one leading to his private washroom, opened with a soft click.

Anne emerged, looking as fresh and composed as if she had just woken from a perfect night’s sleep, a cloud of warm, rose-scented steam following her. She was wearing one of his own white silk shirts. It was far too large for her, hanging off one shoulder, ending mid-thigh and sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a blatant and intimate claim.

"I guess it’s for me," she said, flashing him a bright, confident smile.

Philip stared at her, his hungover mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Anne Ellington, in his bedroom, wearing his clothes. The blank space in his memory suddenly felt less like a simple lapse and more like a dangerous, gaping hole. What is she doing here? he asked himself, a cold dread beginning to mix with the dull ache in his head.

She walked past his bed with an easy confidence, as if she belonged there. She opened the heavy bedroom door just enough to take the letter from the waiting butler, who maintained a perfectly neutral expression, though his eyes flickered for a fraction of a second. She closed the door again, shutting them back into their private, compromised world.

Philip finally found his voice. It was hard and rough. "What happened last night?"

Anne turned from the door, the sealed letter in her hand. She gave him another one of her pretty, coy smiles. "We happened last night, Your Grace."

The answer was a slap. Philip’s confused look hardened into one of anger. He took his cane that was leaning beside the armchair close to him and stood up from the bed, grabbing his silk robe from the footboard and pulling it on, his movements sharp and agitated. "We? What do you mean by ’we’?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. He is the Duke of Kaulder, a man whose reputation was everything. He was sure they did not ’happen’ by accident.

Anne, however, ignored his rising anger. Her attention was now completely on the letter. She broke the wax seal with her thumb and unfolded the single sheet of paper, reading it silently.

Philip watched her, his own concerns momentarily forgotten as he saw the change in her expression. Her confident, playful smile faded instantly. Her brows drew together in a worried frown. Her lips, which had been curved in a self-satisfied smile, pressed into a thin, anxious line. The easy confidence she had worn just moments before vanished, replaced by a genuine and visible unease.

The letter was short, the handwriting a frantic scrawl she recognized as her mother’s.

Anne,

Forget the Duke. Come home now. There’s trouble. The special council meeting was a failure.

She didn’t need to see the signature to know it was from her mother. And from the desperate tone of the letter, she knew the trouble was serious. The victory her mother had been so certain of, the plan they had worked on for so long, had clearly collapsed. The game she was playing here with Philip suddenly seemed trivial, a foolish distraction from a much more dangerous reality.

She looked up from the letter, her mind still reeling from her mother’s words. The fear and worry from the letter now clouded her mind. The situation, in a matter of seconds, had spiraled completely out of her control.