Page 49 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

He inserted the key with a practiced twist born of previous visits, though it had been months since he had last availed himself of such arrangements. The lock yielded with a soft click, and he stepped into the opulently appointed chamber.

The suite was decorated in the Orientalist style currently fashionable among London’s elite: plush carpets in deep burgundy and indigo, heavy velvet draperies adorned with gold tassels, and a four-poster bed draped in silks that suggested both luxury and license. A single Turkish lamp cast honeyed light across the room, illuminating the woman who rose gracefully from a chaise longue as he entered.

“Your Grace.” Her voice carried the subtle French accent that London gentlemen found so enticing as she greeted him. “I’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

She was undeniably beautiful with raven hair arranged in artful disarray, alabaster skin displayed to advantage by her silk dressing gown, and eyes that promised both skill and discretion.

Madame Rousseau’s most exclusive companions were renowned for their ability to provide precisely what each gentleman required, whether conversation, passion, or merely silent companionship.

“Madame,” he acknowledged with a brief nod while removing his coat and gloves with mechanical precision.

She approached with the fluid grace of a dancer. Her movements were calculated to display her considerable charms without appearing overly eager. “May I offer you a drink? Or perhaps you might prefer to move directly to more pleasurable pursuits?”

“A brandy,” he replied, needing the delay to compose himself.

What was he doing here? The question echoed in his mind with increasing urgency as she moved to the sideboard. The silk of her gown whispered against her curves with each deliberate step.

He watched her pour the amber liquid. Her movements were choreographed to emphasize the elegant line of her neck and the delicate arch of her wrist. Everything about her was designed to appeal to masculine appreciation: her scent, her voice, and the calculated vulnerability in her glances.

She returned with his drink and deliberately brushed her fingers against his as she handed him the crystal tumbler.

“You seem tense, Your Grace,” she observed as her hand came to rest lightly upon his chest. “Allow me to ease your burdens.”

Henry closed his eyes as her fingers began to trace delicate patterns across his waistcoat, attempting to focus on the present moment rather than the memories that continued to plague him. Her touch was skillful, practiced. The caress of a woman who understood precisely how to please a man.

Yet all he could think of was Annabelle’s imperfect, passionate response—the way her fingers had clutched at his shoulders, how her body had melted against his with artless sincerity.

The French courtesan’s perfume, though expensive and subtle, seemed cloying compared to the remembered scent of lavender that had clung to Annabelle’s skin.

The experiment, it seemed, was yielding results far more conclusive than he had anticipated. Even here, in a setting explicitly designed for physical pleasure, with a woman whose beauty and skill were beyond question, his mind betrayed him, returning inexorably to the woman whose challenging blue eyes and forthright manner had disrupted the careful order of his existence.

When the courtesan’s hand began to drift lower, tracing a path that promised imminent relief from his physical tension, Henry found himself grasping her wrist with gentle but implacable firmness.

“I apologize,” he said quietly while stepping away from her touch. “This was a mistake.”

Confusion flickered across her perfect features. “Have I displeased you in some way, Your Grace?”

“Not at all,” he assured her, reaching for his discarded coat. “The fault lies entirely with me.”

He withdrew several banknotes from his pocket—far more than the arranged fee—and placed them on the nearby table. “For your time and discretion,” he explained.

“But monsieur,” she protested as genuine bewilderment replaced her professional poise, “we have not yet?—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “Nevertheless, I must ask to be left alone.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she gathered the notes with a graceful shrug. “As you wish, Your Grace. Should you change your mind…”

But Henry knew with absolute certainty that he would not. As the door closed behind her, he sank into the nearest chair, with a glass of forgotten brandy in his hand as he confronted a truth he’d known all along. His indulgence of Southall’s little test had served its purpose. He was certain now. So certain, in fact, that he felt like such a fool for even thinking to test himself like this.

Of course, no other woman would do.

For the first time in fourteen years, Henry found himself genuinely desiring a woman. He wanted not merely her body, but her mind, her spirit, and her challenging presence.

And that woman was Miss Annabelle Lytton.

CHAPTER 17

“Papa, you’re fidgeting again,” Celia observed with the sort of directness that Henry had come to both appreciate and dread in his daughter.

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