Page 32 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Aware they were creating a scene, and with Celia watching wide-eyed, the Duke’s arrogance pushed her beyond polite bounds.

“This ismyhome! And I was recommending the work of a poet who dared challenge the world! If you find such reading objectionable, perhaps the fault lies not in my suggestions but in your own sensibilities?—”

“That isenough.”

The words cut through her protest like a slap, and suddenly he was moving toward her and positioning himself between her and Celia.

This close, she could see the storm brewing behind his carefully controlled expression and detect the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather that clung to his skin. The proximity sent her pulseracing in a manner that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the awareness that had been building between them since their first encounter.

But she refused to step back. Annabelle was too unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower.

“Celia, collect your belongings. We are departing immediately.”

“But I haven’t finished the lesson—” the girl began with evident disappointment.

“It is finished now.” His tone brooked no argument, though Annabelle caught the flash of genuine hurt that crossed Celia’s features before she masked it behind dutiful compliance.

The injustice of it—the casual cruelty with which he dismissed his daughter’s intellectual hunger—pushed Annabelle beyond the bounds of prudence.

“Your daughter possesses one of the finest intellects I have encountered, yet you seem determined to stifle her natural curiosity at every opportunity. What precisely do you fear will occur if she reads Byron?”

He advanced until only inches separated them, and his towering presence overwhelmed her senses.

“I fear,” he said with a quietness that was somehow more menacing than any shout, “that she will develop the same casualdisregard for propriety and convention that has characterized your own life choices.”

His words pierced her precisely as he obviously intended, finding the tender place where her old wounds still ached.

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, and she felt the familiar rush of shame and pain that always accompanied any reference to her scandalous past.

There was something in his expression—perhaps regret—that suggested his cruelty had cost him as well.

“You overstep, Your Grace.” She snapped, unable to contain her anger. “I think I have had quite enough of you speaking about my life as though you have any say in how I have lived it. For a man who touts propriety, you obviously have no problem behaving like a rude vagrant.”

His eyes flared at her insult, but she also knew that he knew she was right. He had overstepped. He was the one in the wrong here. For one breathless moment, she thought she saw something shift in his storm-grey eyes, a crack in the armor of his rigid control that revealed the man beneath the Duke.

“Annabelle,” her grandmother interjected, “perhaps you might attend to the arrangements for tea service.”

The moment shattered like glass against stone. Without uttering another syllable, Annabelle turned and fled the chamber. Her silk skirts rustled with the velocity of her retreat.

“That demonstration was unnecessarily cruel,” she heard her grandmother say with mild reproach, though her tone carried unmistakable censure.

But she did not want to hear anymore.

And despite herself, she could feel his gaze following her and burning into her back like a brand, but she did not trust herself to look back.

Not when every instinct screamed that the Duke of Marchwood was far more dangerous to her peace of mind than she had ever dared imagine.

“Why do you despise her with such vehemence?”

The question struck Henry like a thorough slap as he entered his study to discover Celia positioned before his mahogany desk. Her youthful features were set in lines of defiant inquiry that reminded him painfully of his own obstinate nature.

“I beg your pardon?” he said with careful modulation before moving to pour himself a measure of brandy despite the afternoon hour.

“Miss Lytton,” Celia clarified, her voice gaining strength as she warmed to her subject. “Every time she speaks, you regard her as though she has committed some personal affront. Today, you were positively barbarous to her, and her only transgression was recommending Lord Byron.”

Henry was well aware that he had overstepped his bounds this time. He had not meant to say what he had, and he knew he should apologize for it. The Dowager Viscountess had already torn into him for disrespecting her granddaughter in her presence.

“I will not stand for it one more time. This is your last warning, Your Grace.”

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