Page 38 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“The Duke appears particularly attentive today,” Lady Oakley remarked, missing nothing as usual. “I daresay he finds London society less tedious than anticipated.”

“He merely watches over his daughter,” Annabelle replied, reaching for her teacup to conceal the betraying flutter of her pulse.

The delicate porcelain trembled slightly in her grasp, an external manifestation of the inexplicable loss of composure that had plagued her since that moment in Lady Carmichael’s garden.

“Indeed?” Her grandmother’s tone carried delicate skepticism that told her that the woman simply did not believe her. “Then one wonders why his gaze seems more frequently directed toward you than Lady Celia.”

The Dowager Countess of Harborough approached them then, saving Annabelle any attempts to defend herself with lies she had no doubt her grandmother would see right through.

“Lady Oakley, your protégée is absolutely charming,” she declared with aristocratic authority. “Such refined conversation, one would never suspect she was raised without maternal guidance.”

“The Duke has been most conscientious,” Lady Oakley replied diplomatically.

“Yes, well, a father can only do so much,” the Countess said, her gaze drifting toward where Henry stood. “Though I must say, His Grace has surprised us all. After the tragic circumstances of his wife’s passing, many expected him to remarry immediately for the child’s sake. His devotion to raising the girl himself speaks well of his character.”

Annabelle’s heart beat hard and fast in her chest as she considered these words. She had been so fixated on the Duke’s rigidity and obsession with control that she had scarcely considered the challenges he must have faced as a widowed father.

To lose one’s spouse and then undertake the raising of a daughter alone…it could not have been easy, particularly for a man of his position and temperament.

Especially for one of his temperament, she thought.

“I understand the Duchess of Marchwood’s death was quite sudden,” Lady Oakley remarked with careful neutrality, though Annabelle detected the subtle inflection that indicated her grandmother’s curiosity had been piqued.

“Dreadful business,” the Countess confirmed, lowering her voice to the particular register employed by society ladies when exchanging delicate information. “A carriage accident on her return from visiting family, I believe. It was said to be a robbery. The child was scarcely two years old.”

Annabelle found her gaze drawn once more to the Duke. She saw him with fresh eyes. Had his rigid control and insistence on propriety emerged from that crucible of loss? Was his fierce protection of Celia motivated not merely by patriarchal authority, like she’d thought, but by the desperate fear of failing the only family remaining to him?

As though conjured by her thoughts, the Duke approached their small circle with his daughter at his side.

“Lady Harborough,” he acknowledged with a precise bow. “I must express my gratitude for including my daughter in today’s gathering. It has proven most educational.”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” the Countess replied with evident pleasure. “Lady Celia has been a delightful addition. Her manners do you credit.”

“The credit belongs primarily to Lady Oakley’s instruction,” he said, his gaze flickering briefly to Annabelle before continuing,“and Miss Lytton’s careful attention has not gone unnoticed.” Then he returned his eyes to the Dowager Viscountess. “Her guidance has proven invaluable.”

“You are too generous, Your Grace,” Lady Oakley replied with a modest inclination of her head. “Lady Celia has been a most receptive pupil.”

As the conversation continued along these conventional lines, Annabelle observed the subtle interplay between father and daughter—the quiet pride in his eyes as Celia demonstrated her newly polished social graces, the girl’s occasional glance toward him seeking approval.

But she also noticed the tension between them, as though they’d had a fight of some sort and had yet to see eye to eye on it.

Knowing the Duke’s personality, that was certainly a possibility. And yet, there was genuine affection in his eyes when he looked at his daughter, beneath the formal exterior he presented to the world. It softened something within Annabelle’s perception of him, rounding the sharp edges of her previous judgment.

And it made the sizzling yearning she hid deeply within easier to bear.

CHAPTER 13

“Keep your chin parallel to the ground, Lady Celia,” Lady Oakley instructed as they strolled through Hyde Park the following afternoon. “A proper lady neither looks down in uncertainty nor up in arrogance. The world meets her gaze directly.”

“Yes, Lady Oakley,” Celia replied while adjusting her posture with an ease that came with surviving countless lessons at the Dowager Viscountess’ hands.

The park bloomed with late summer splendor. Well-dressed couples and families traversed the carefully maintained paths while children sailed miniature boats upon the Serpentine.

London’s fashionable set had thinned considerably with the Season’s conclusion, yet enough remained to provide an appreciative audience for Lady Celia’s public debut.

“Your steps should be measured and even,” Lady Oakley continued, demonstrating the perfect gliding motion that had been the envy of debutantes during her own youth. “Neither too hasty, which suggests unbecoming eagerness, nor too languid, which implies indolence.”

Celia mimicked the movement with remarkable precision. The gentle sway of her skirts created a vision of effortless grace. “Like this, Lady Oakley?”

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