Page 33 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Yes, it was an error in judgment he longed to take back.

It was simply that, in trying to resist the temptation those luscious lips had roused within him at that moment, he found his words and actions becoming far too cruel?—

Henry’s grip tightened around the crystal tumbler. “I merely spoke from a position of prudent judgment, not personal animosity, although I admit I did go overboard?—”

“Overboard?” Celia repeated with evident incredulity. “You have been persistently unpleasant to Miss Lytton from the moment you met her! And all she has done is address me as though my thoughts have value rather than treating me like some decorative ornament.”

“She encourages you to question established authority and social propriety,” Henry countered, his voice rising despite concentrated efforts at control. “She fills your mind with notions that will serve you poorly when you enter society.”

“Notions such as thinking independently?” Celia shot back, her blue-grey eyes blazing with inherited fire. “Heaven forbid I should develop personal opinions rather than merely echoing whatever my future husband deems appropriate.”

Henry felt his carefully maintained composure beginning to fray at the edges like worn fabric.

What could a child know about how the world worked?

“You are sixteen years of age,” he said through clenched teeth. “You possess neither the experience nor the wisdom necessary to comprehend the consequences of the path Miss Lytton advocates. I have witnessed what befalls women who prioritize independence above propriety?—”

“Women who refuse to be controlled, you mean?” Celia replied with devastating accuracy. “Like Miss Lytton herself? And how she chose to handle her life?”

“Precisely so,” he said with deliberate coldness. “And I absolutely will not permit you to follow a similar destructive path.”

“So instead, you would imprison me like some prized songbird,” Celia said as tears gathered in her eyes, though her voice maintained steady resolve. “Never permitted to sing my own melody, only to repeat the approved songs others deem suitable.”

“I wouldprotectyou,” Henry corrected with firm conviction, circling his desk to confront her directly, “from the pain and public humiliation that inevitably follows those who defy society’s fundamental expectations. From the isolation and scandal that pursues women who mistake rebellious defiance for genuine strength.”

“And what if I would rather risk potential pain than guarantee certain emptiness?” Celia’s voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more force than her earlier anger. “What if I would prefer to be ruined and authentic than preserved and utterly false?”

The question struck at the very core of Henry’s deepest terrors. The vision of his daughter as another noble lady cast aside…even though she was so brilliant yet so tragically alone…filled him with paralyzing dread.

“You will not speak such nonsense,” he said, his voice cracking like a military commander’s whip. “You are my daughter and will conduct yourself accordingly. I will not tolerate you discarding everything I have labored to secure for your future simply because some misguided spinster has filled your impressionable mind with romantic fantasies about independence.”

Celia’s face crumpled as though he had struck her physically. Tears spilled despite her obvious efforts at containment.

“I understand perfectly now,” she said quietly. “I am nothing more to you than another valuable possession to be managed and controlled with precision. How utterly foolish of me to imagine you might actually desire a living, breathing daughter rather than a perfectly trained ornament for your social mantelpiece.”

“Celia—” he began, extending his hand toward her, but she retreated as though his touch might inflict burns.

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head as tears streamed down her pale cheeks. “I understand completely now. You do not wish for me to experience happiness or fulfillment or even genuine vitality. You require me to remain safe and proper and utterly, completely yours until the moment you transfer ownership to my husband.”

With those devastating words, she whirled and fled from the chamber, leaving Henry standing solitary among his leather-bound volumes and crystal decanters, surrounded by all the material trappings of power and authority that suddenly felt as withered as autumn leaves.

He did want to protect her and had spent his life ensuring that.

So why did the remnants of this conversation taste so remarkably like ashes coating his tongue?

CHAPTER 11

“Apoetry reading at Ellsworth Gardens? How perfectly dreadful,” Lady Oakley declared, brandishing the embossed invitation between two fingers as though it were a particularly distasteful insect. “Lady Carmichael means well, but her literary tastes run to the decidedly maudlin. Last year’s affair featured no fewer than three odes to deceased lapdogs.”

Annabelle glanced up from her correspondence, attempting to conceal the immediate spark of interest that flickered to life at her grandmother’s pronouncement. “Is it to be a large gathering?”

“Mercifully not. A select assembly of thirty or so, according to her note,” Lady Oakley replied, studying her granddaughter with shrewd assessment. “You cannot possibly wish to attend such a tepid affair. The garden will be lovely, of course, but the poetry—” She shuddered delicately. “—will be positively dire.”

“On the contrary,” Annabelle countered, setting aside her letter with careful nonchalance, “I find myself quite in the mood for some diversion, however modest.”

Her grandmother’s eyebrow arched with elegant skepticism. “Indeed? And your sudden enthusiasm for dreadful poetry has nothing whatsoever to do with avoiding certain people who might call here for Celia’s lessons?”

Heat crept up Annabelle’s neck at the Dowager’s unerring perception. A full fortnight had elapsed since her last disastrous encounter with the Duke of Marchwood, during which his cruel words regarding her life choices had cut far deeper than she cared to acknowledge.

---