Page 44 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

The Duke opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He paused. Then, he nodded.

“Indeed,” the Duke agreed, his voice softening. “Your welfare is always my foremost consideration.”

“And what Papa means by that,” Celia said with newfound confidence, “is that he loves me, though he finds the actual word rather terrifying to pronounce.”

Annabelle bit her lip to contain her smile as the Duke’s eyes widened slightly.

“I… that is to say…” He cleared his throat. “Your characterization is not entirely inaccurate.”

“Which means ‘yes, precisely so’ in Duke-speak,” Celia translated as a hint of mischief entered her eyes. “And when I suggested a masquerade, I wasn’t rejecting tradition so much as hoping to make my debut uniquely memorable.”

The Duke’s expression suggested he was navigating unfamiliar and treacherous territory. “Your debut will be memorable regardless of such embellishments.”

“Because I am the daughter of the Duke of Marchwood,” Celia supplied, “and that identity carries certain responsibilities.”

“Yes,” he agreed, seeming relieved that she understood.

“But I am also Celia,” she continued more softly, “your daughter, who sometimes wishes her father would see her as more than merely his offspring.”

Something shifted in the Duke’s expression then. There was a subtle softening around his eyes that transformed his entire countenance.

“You have never been merely anything, Celia,” he said quietly. “Everything I have done—every rule, every expectation—has been to ensure your future happiness and security. How I wish you would know this?—”

“—I know, Papa,” she replied. “But sometimes happiness exists in smaller moments, too. Like a beautiful ball that reflects something of who I am, not just who I’m expected to be.”

The Duke glanced at Annabelle, who stood silently observing their exchange. Something in his gaze made her heart beat faster: a vulnerability, a question, perhaps even a plea for guidance.

“Perhaps,” she suggested gently, “Shakespeare might provide a compromise. His works are both classical and beloved. A midsummer theme would allow for elegant decorations while remaining comfortably within the bounds of propriety.”

The Duke considered this for a long moment, his gaze never leaving Annabelle’s face.

“A reasonable suggestion,” he conceded finally. “Though I draw the line at masks.”

“No masks,” Celia agreed immediately as her face brightened with hope. “Just flowers and lights and perhaps some suitable quotations on the dance cards?”

“Very well,” the Duke nodded, and the barest hint of a smile touched his lips. “Though the guest list shall remain as originally planned.”

“Of course, Papa,” Celia beamed, throwing propriety to the winds as she rushed forward to embrace him.

The Duke’s expression of shock nearly made Annabelle laugh aloud, but then his arms came around his daughter with gentlehesitation. His expression relaxed into a deep relief that made something in her chest tighten at the sight.

Over Celia’s head, his eyes met Annabelle’s, carrying something that looked remarkably like gratitude.

She nodded once, acknowledging the silent thanks, then quietly slipped from the room to give father and daughter a moment of privacy.

And she wondered, despite knowing that she was indeed courting flames, how his arms would feel around her.

CHAPTER 15

“The salmon is particularly fine this evening,” Lord Wexford declared as he gestured expansively with his fork. “Caught fresh from my own stream, of course. Nothing compares to the flavor of fish raised in Wexford waters.”

“Indeed, though I confess a preference for the Scottish salmon myself,” Lady Egerton replied, delicately patting her lips with her napkin. “The colder waters produce a firmer flesh, don’t you find?”

Annabelle suppressed a sigh, wondering how much longer the dinner party would drag on. She had accompanied her grandmother to what had been described as an intimate gathering at Lord Wexford’s London townhouse, only to discover a carefully orchestrated seating arrangement that had placed her directly across from the Duke of Marchwood.

His unexpected presence had sent her pulse racing embarrassingly, though she’d managed to maintain her composure through the first three courses.

Now, as the conversation drifted from salmon breeding to horse racing to the deplorable state of the modern novel, she found her attention repeatedly drawn to the Duke despite her best efforts.

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