Page 35 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Guests rose to circulate as servants appeared with trays of refreshments, and Annabelle gratefully accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman.

“Miss Lytton! How delightful to find you here,” came an enthusiastic male voice, and she turned to discover Lord Frederick approaching with eager strides.

The youngest son of the Earl of Clavering was scarcely one-and-twenty, with the golden good looks and earnest enthusiasm that characterized youth not yet tempered by disappointment.

“Lord Frederick,” she acknowledged with a polite smile. “I trust you found Lord Huntley’s composition illuminating?”

“Illuminating?” he repeated with a boyish grin that transformed his handsome features. “I should rather say ‘soporific.’ I counted no fewer than three gentlemen nodding off by the time poor Persephone had consumed her third pomegranate seed.”

Despite herself, Annabelle laughed. “You are wicked to say so,” she admonished without heat. “Though I confess, the comparison of Hades’ realm to ‘subterranean apartments bedecked with gems like crystallized midnight tears’ did stretch credulity somewhat.”

“Not to mention the ‘cavernous chambers where stalactites drip like the frozen lamentations of entombed nymphs,’” Lord Frederick added, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I was particularly moved by the extended metaphor comparing Demeter’s grief to a ‘maternal nightingale bereft of fledglings while autumn winds molest her empty nest.’”

Their shared laughter drew the attention of nearby guests, and Annabelle found herself genuinely enjoying the young lord’s unaffected humor. He possessed none of the calculated sophistication of older gentlemen, and there was something refreshing about his straightforward appreciation of the ridiculous.

“You have a remarkable memory for such prose, my lord,” she observed. “One might almost suspect you of harboring poetic ambitions yourself.”

“Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed with mock horror. “Though I confess, I have occasionally attempted a sonnet or two. None, I assure you, featuring references to ‘lachrymal effusions cascading like liquid moonbeams upon nocturnal flora.’”

As their conversation continued, Annabelle became aware of a subtle shift in Lord Frederick’s demeanor—a certain attentiveness, a tendency to stand perhaps closer than strictly necessary, and a warmth in his gaze that suggested more than casual interest. The realization that he might be flirting with her came as a genuine surprise, and she found herself responding with polite distance rather than encouragement.

“I understand you are quite the literary enthusiast, Miss Lytton,” he said, his tone warming. “Perhaps you might permit me to lend you a volume of Byron I recently acquired? I should value your opinion enormously.”

At that moment, a familiar deep voice interjected from behind her.

“Miss Lytton. Lady Oakley mentioned you might be in attendance today.”

The Duke of Marchwood had materialized at her elbow with the silent efficiency of a predator, his imposing presence immediately altering the atmosphere of their conversation.

Annabelle stifled the urge to arch her brow at his words, as if they had not been seatmates a while ago. She wondered why heeven bothered to seek her out like this since he had made his opinion of her very clear time and time again.

Lord Frederick straightened perceptibly, and his youthful confidence visibly diminished in the face of the Duke’s formidable attention.

“Your Grace,” the young man acknowledged with a bow that bordered on nervous. “We were just discussing Lord Huntley’s, er, remarkable composition.”

“Indeed,” the Duke replied in a tone that suggested he found the topic as compelling as a discussion of agricultural fertilization methods. “Though I wonder if perhaps Euripides might offer a more nuanced treatment of the Persephone myth, would you not agree? His exploration of the psychological implications of the feminine divine transitioning between maiden and queen provides considerably more substance than mere flowery descriptions of mythological landscapes.”

Lord Frederick blinked rapidly, clearly unprepared for this sudden scholarly challenge. “I…that is to say… I haven’t made a particular study of Euripides, Your Grace.”

“Pity,” the Duke observed with such perfect politeness that the dismissal in his tone was all the more devastating. “The Classics offer invaluable perspective on our modern understanding of narrative structure.”

“Yes, well,” the young lord mumbled while glancing around with the desperate air of a cornered animal seeking escape. “I believe Lady Carmichael is signaling for me. If you’ll excuse me?”

As Lord Frederick beat a hasty retreat, Annabelle turned to the Duke with a brow now finally arched in his direction. “Was that truly necessary? The poor boy was merely being agreeable.”

“He was flirting with you,” the Duke replied with unexpected directness. “Rather clumsily, at that.”

“And what business is that of yours?” Her eyes narrowed in irritation, even as her heart stuttered in her chest.

She did not know why she enjoyed the words as they came out of his mouth, as equally as she despised them.

Because those words could be translated to mean two different things—it was either that he spoke out of jealousy or that he spoke out of condescension, and Annabelle had the inclination that his words were to be taken to mean the latter.

“I was merely trying to save your dignity,” he said, and Annabelle’s brow nearly flew into her hairline. “A young man such as that, flirting with a?—”

“Awhat? He is scarcely more than a youth. So what if he tries to flirt with me? Surely, sensible people would realize that the boy is merely trying to gain confidence in talking to women. Or isthat the problem? Do you think I might influence that boy into doing terrible things?”

“Miss Lytton.” The Duke cut her short, and her brows drew down over her eyes.

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