Page 36 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

It was not enough that he continued to insult her, but now he thought he could control?—

“I wish to apologize,” he said abruptly in a tone that was lower than before.

And Annabelle blinked. Well. Those words surprised her entirely. “I beg your pardon?”

The Duke sucked in a breath. “During our last encounter, I was unconscionably cruel and my words entirely unwarranted. You are an intelligent, articulate woman whose challenges I find unsettling because they so often contain merit.”

Annabelle blinked, momentarily robbed of speech by this unexpected capitulation. “You find me unsettling because I’m occasionally right?” she managed finally, struggling to maintain her composure in the face of his directness.

She thought the corners of his eyes softened a fraction of a second before he spoke again.

“I find you unsettling because you consistently provoke reactions in me that I cannot seem to control,” he admitted, hisvoice carrying a reluctant honesty that struck her more forcefully because of who he was.

This time, she scoffed. “Oh of course. Naturally, I should be blamed for the fact that you, a grown Duke with agency, insists on throwing such perplexing tantrums, correct?” she retorted, though her tone lacked its usual sharp edge.

She expected him to take offense at her words, but to her utter astonishment, a brief, genuine laugh escaped him. It was a warm, rich sound that transformed his severe features and sent an unwelcome flutter through her midsection.

“No,” he conceded finally when he stopped laughing, even though his lips remained curved. “That particular failing is entirely my own. You are correct. They are tantrums because…” He paused then, and his eyes darkened with an emotion that set her heart thumping in her chest.

He ran a hand through his hair then, and Annabelle noticed the blush that was starting to spread across his cheeks.

“Because…” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper as his words escaped on an exhale so soft that she almost missed them. “Because I cannot seem to control myself when I am around you.”

CHAPTER 12

“You appear particularly distracted this morning, my dear,” Lady Oakley observed as she eyed her granddaughter over the rim of her teacup while they broke their fast in the morning room. “I daresay you’ve stirred that tea so thoroughly it might seek justice for mistreatment.”

Annabelle glanced down, startled to find herself still absently circling her spoon in the now-tepid liquid.

“Forgive me, Grandmama. I was merely… contemplating.”

“Contemplating what precisely?” Lady Oakley inquired as she set down her cup and cast a keen glance at Annabelle. “Or should I rather ask whom? Since you have the affectations of a young maiden on the cusp of a crush.”

Heat crept up Annabelle’s neck at her grandmother’s unerring perception.

“Grandmama! I was merely thinking about…the weather!” She gestured vaguely toward the window where summer sunshine bathed the gardens in gold. “It appears particularly favorable today.”

“Indeed. Almost as favorable as the Duke of Marchwood appeared yesterday at Lady Carmichael’s gathering,” Lady Oakley remarked with deceptive casualness while buttering a slice of toast.

“How—” Annabelle started to say, but her grandmother cut her short in the next second.

“I understand that his attention to you was most marked.”

“Marked?” Annabelle scoffed, though her heart quickened traitorously at the memory of his lowered voice and the intensity of his gaze as he had made his unexpected confession. “We exchanged perhaps a dozen civil words. Hardly the stuff of drawing-room gossip.”

“Civil words?” The Dowager’s eyebrow arched with elegant skepticism. “How novel. I had begun to think you two incapable of communication that didn’t involve verbal sparring.”

Annabelle sent a tight-lipped smile back to her grandmother, but before she could reply, the butler entered with a silver salver bearing a sealed letter.

The morning light caught the insignia pressed into the wax—a falcon with outstretched wings, the Blakesley family crest.

“From Marchwood Hall, my lady,” he announced, with a deferential bow.

Annabelle’s pulse skipped at the mention of the Duke’s residence, though she maintained a carefully neutral expression as her grandmother broke the seal and perused the contents.

“Well,” Lady Oakley declared after a moment while folding the letter, “it appears our plans must shift somewhat. The Duke writes that he has pressing business in London and must forgo Celia’s lesson tomorrow.”

“How unfortunate,” Annabelle murmured, ignoring the curious mixture of disappointment and relief that washed through her.

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