Page 41 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

It was all for Celia. All for the quiet duty of overseeing her education and upbringing.

Invitations to London’s finest balls and dinners were declined without hesitation if they conflicted with her lessons or well-being. Even matters of estate management were occasionally delegated to trusted stewards so he might devote himself to preparing her for society. The society that would judge her harshly without the shelter of a mother’s care.

And though such devotion earned whispers of reclusiveness and excessive protection, Henry welcomed the solitude, knowing it was a small price to pay. Anything to ensure that Celia would never lack guidance or security.

He hesitated before replying to the dowager, “It is good to hear her laugh like that.”

Lady Oakley smiled gently. “Do not be so hard on yourself, Your Grace. You’ve given her a solid foundation despite lacking a mother’s guidance. She will do quite well.”

Henry merely nodded, his gaze drawn back to the subtle way Miss Lytton supported his daughter with a gentle touch to her elbow and a twinkle in her eye.

Unbidden, his mind conjured an entirely different image of those delicate hands. In his thoughts, Miss Lytton’s hands rested against his skin, and her lips were curved in a more… private pleasure.

Henry clenched his teeth.

His improper dreams about Miss Lytton only seemed to be growing in frequency since their fragile truce. Still, he found that even now, with her grandmother walking beside him, he had to fend off thoughts of imprinting his handprints into Miss Lytton’s titillating backside?—

“Your Grace?” Lady Oakley’s voice broke through his decidedly improper reverie. “Are you quite well? You appear rather flushed.”

Bloody idiot, losing focus again, he scolded himself.

“Merely the warmth of the day, my lady,” he managed, forcing his thoughts back to propriety with ruthless determination. “Nothing of consequence.”

“If you say so,” Lady Oakley replied, her tone suggesting she believed nothing of the sort but was willing to overlook it. “Though I’ve always found that acknowledging the source of one’s discomfort is the first step toward addressing it.”

Henry gave her a sharp glance, but her expression remained serene, betraying nothing beyond polite concern.

But the woman was right. The only thing stopping him from acknowledging the source of his discomfort was the fact that acknowledgement would inevitably lead to him losing his composure.

And he could certainly not afford that. Absolutely not.

CHAPTER 14

“Absolutely not,” Henry stated firmly. His patience had worn thin after nearly an hour of what he considered increasingly frivolous discussion. “The notion of a masquerade ball for your debut is entirely inappropriate, Celia. I cannot imagine what has put such an idea into your head.”

They had gathered in Lady Oakley’s elegant townhouse library the following afternoon for Celia’s lesson, but what had begun as a practical discussion of debut arrangements had devolved into increasingly fanciful suggestions from his daughter.

“But Father, Lady Ashford had a masquerade for her coming out, and everyone still speaks of it as the most memorable event of that Season,” Celia protested. Her bright-eyed enthusiasm served only to deepen Henry’s frown.

“Lady Ashford’s circumstances were entirely different,” he replied coldly. “We shall have a traditional ball, as befits your station. These flights of fancy serve no purpose.”

Lady Oakley, seated near the window, cleared her throat delicately. “Perhaps a compromise might be reached? The traditional ball your father suggests, with perhaps some small, unique element to distinguish it?”

“What about flowers?” Miss Lytton suggested from her position near the bookshelf. “Not just the usual arrangements, but something more elaborate. A particular theme or color scheme that would make the evening distinctive without breaching propriety?”

Henry shot her a look, irritated at her intervention yet unable to find legitimate fault with the suggestion. She met his gaze steadily, and he felt that now-familiar jolt of awareness course through him, like lightning crackling through his bloodstream.

Celia brightened immediately. “Oh yes! Perhaps something inspired by Shakespeare?A Midsummer Night’s Dreamwith wildflowers and fairy lights and?—”

“This is precisely the problem,” Henry interrupted, his voice sharper than he’d intended. “You persist in viewing your debut as some theatrical entertainment rather than the serious social milestone it represents. This is not a game, Celia. Your entire future depends upon making the right impression with the right people.”

“I’m aware of that,” Celia replied, her voice cooling to match his own. “I simply thought that perhaps my debut might reflect something of who I am, rather than merely what society expects.”

“Who you are is the daughter of the Duke of Marchwood,” Henry stated flatly. “That identity carries responsibilities that supersede personal whims. I had hoped Lady Oakley’s instruction would have impressed that reality upon you by now.”

The hurt that flashed across Celia’s face sent an unexpected pang through his chest, but he hardened himself against it.

Better she learn these harsh realities now, in private, than discover them through public humiliation.

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