Page 29 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“I am neither contemplating murder nor in need of—” Henry stopped abruptly, his denial dying on his lips as unwelcome memories flooded his consciousness.

The scent of lavender and determination. Blue eyes blazing with challenge. The way Miss Lytton had leaned toward him in the stable yard, her lips parted, her breathing quick and shallow?—

“Ah,” Everett said quietly, his tone carrying the satisfaction of a man who had just solved a particularly complex puzzle. “So, it is the latter, then.”

Henry drained his brandy in one harsh swallow, welcoming the burn that momentarily distracted him from more uncomfortable sensations.

“You presume too much.”

“Do I? When was the last time you visited your usual establishments? It’s been months, hasn’t it?” Everett’s voice carried no judgment, merely the concern of a friend who had known him long enough to recognize the signs. “I believe that opera singer you favored, Signora Castellano, has returned from her continental tour.”

“I am well aware. But I am not some schoolboy ruled by base impulses,” Henry snapped. He rose from his chair with sharp, controlled movements. “I cannot afford to be distracted now, of all times.”

His daughter was his number one priority. She has been for years, but more so now.

“Distraction? It takes but a few hours of time to satisfy those desires. Minutes, if you’re being frugal with your time.”

Henry’s lips curled down at the edges. Everett had a talent for making the truth sound like such irritating drivel whenever he said it.

Because Henry knew he spoke the truth. He knew how easily Signora Castellano could sate this sudden roar of desire within him. But…ever since that afternoon at Oakley Hall, when he had found himself mere inches from claiming Miss Lytton’s mouth with his own, he found that he did not quite fancy the idea of another pair of lips servicing his?—

“Bloody hell.” He bit the curse out like it was gravel between his teeth. “I doubt a few minutes will suffice.”

Not with how long she’d plagued him in his dreams these past week. Oh, the things he did to her in his dreams, the things he made her do; mere minutes would not suffice at all.

Everett laughed heartily, genuinely amused by Henry’s statement.

But…

“I should avoid her,” he said suddenly. The words escaped before he could cage them within the realm of his thoughts where they belonged.

“Her?” Everett’s eyebrows rose with evident interest. “Are we speaking of someone specific now? Not merely theoretical feminine companionship?”

Henry cursed inwardly, realizing he had revealed far more than he intended. And to Everett, for that matter. The man was perceptive at the worst of times, and Henry had a feeling that this was one of those times. Henry was in no mood to let the conversation venture into territory far too dangerous for his peace of mind—if he could still say he had peace of mind at all.

He drained his second glass of brandy and rose to his feet. “I should return home. See what Celia is up to.”

“Ah.” Everett’s brows rose on his forehead, but he did not stand with the Duke. “I had hoped we would have more conversation. Maybe play a game or two after.”

Henry smiled wanly. “I’m afraid we must adjourn.” He turned. “No need to see me off. Enjoy your brandy.”

Henry had only made it halfway to the door when Everett’s voice reached him.

“Marchwood.” His tone was uncharacteristically serious. “Have you considered the possibility that this lady bothers you so, because you truly want her?”

He’d hoped to flee this conversation. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said finally, his voice carrying the flat certainty of a man who’d made his decision. “Some desires are too dangerous to indulge.”

Especially his own. Especially the kind Miss Lytton was awakening within him.

“Are they?” Everett challenged, sipping his brandy with a cultured nonchalance. “Or are you simply afraid of losing control?”

And with that, Henry turned and walked out of the room, heading towards the doors.

There was no doubt that his friend did not know what kind of ravenous, chaotic beast lay beneath his armor of civility. Henry must do all within his power to keep himself from spiraling out of control.

Not only for his sake or that of his daughter…but for Miss Lytton’s sake, as well.

“Oh, my stars, Lady Egerton, you simply must cease this theatrical clutching of pearls whenever passion enters our discourse,” Lady Witherspoon declared with pointed exasperation as she adjusted her spectacles to regard the flustered woman across the elegantly appointed drawing room. “We are examining the work of Jane Austen, not some salacious continental novel.”

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