Page 50 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Now, she glanced up from her embroidery hoop as their carriage rolled through the fashionable streets toward Lady Oakley’s townhouse.

“One might think you were the one requiring instruction in proper stance,” his daughter added.

Henry stilled his restless fingers against his knee before shooting his daughter a look that carried both reproach and reluctant amusement. He couldn’t say her attempt at humor hadn’t caught.

“I am merely contemplating the day’s affairs, nothing more,” he responded.

“Indeed?” Celia’s eyes widened. “Would it do you such harm to defer such thoughts for a few hours when you’re with me?”

Henry offered a tight smile. “A man’s mind is always working, as you see,” he said, but at her slightly falling expression, he quickly added, “But of course, I will not fail to pay close attention to you or your lessons, Celia.”

At his words, his daughter beamed and puffed up like a bird of paradise, in fact. “You must, Papa.”

Their carriage drew to a halt before the familiar facade of Lady Oakley’s residence, breaking the short, intimate moment between them.

The footman hastened to lower the steps, and Henry handed his daughter down with practiced efficiency, though his mind was already occupied with the prospect of seeing Annabelle again.

It had been three days since his foolish episode at the gaming hell. Three days of restless nights and increasingly futile attempts to banish Annabelle from his thoughts. Now, he could not believe his heart shook inside his chest at the inevitability of coming face to face with the woman who’d undone him with a kiss.

“Your Grace, Lady Celia,” Lady Oakley greeted them warmly as they were shown into her drawing room. “How delightful to see you both again.”

Henry’s gaze immediately sought Annabelle, and he found her seated near the window with a book in her lap. The afternoon light caught the golden hues of her hair, and he felt that familiar tightening in his chest that had become his companion over the last few weeks.

“Lady Oakley,” he acknowledged with a bow, though his attention remained fixed on Annabelle as she rose to curtsy.

The curve of her hips, in particular, caught his eye, and he had to restrain himself from recalling how delectable she’d felt against him when they?—

“Your Grace,” she murmured, her voice carefully modulated, though he caught the slight flutter in her composure. “Lady Celia.”

But of course, his dreams already supplied him with enough details to wreak such havoc on even his waking thoughts!

“Miss Lytton.” He bowed to her as well, even as he battled with his twitching manhood within the confines of his codpiece.

Control yourself, he told himself firmly.

“Oh, Miss Lytton!” Celia exclaimed, crossing to her with obvious pleasure. “I must thank you for lending me that wonderful volume. I was thoroughly captured by it!”

“I’m so pleased you enjoyed it.” She said, “I knew reading Shakespeare would work for you.”

“Indeed, it did!” Celia agreed enthusiastically. “I instructed one of our footmen to give it to your butler. Thank you, sincerely.”

“There’s no urgency,” Annabelle assured her. “I’m simply glad it brought you pleasure.”

Lady Oakley clapped her hands together with evident satisfaction. “How lovely! But come, my dears, I have a rather special lesson planned for today. I thought we might venture to Madame Bouchard’s establishment for a practical demonstration in selecting appropriate fabrics and styles.”

Henry’s stomach sank. They were heading to a modiste’s shop where he would be surrounded by feminine fripperies. He would watch as Annabelle sifted through fabrics, or even glanced at chemises and silk stockings that would hug her delicious thighs?—

Good God. He had to avoid this.

“Perhaps it would be more appropriate if I remained here,” he suggested hopefully.

“Nonsense!” Lady Oakley declared with the sort of authority that brooked no argument. “A father’s approval is essential in such matters.”

Resignation settled over Henry like a familiar coat. “Very well.” He agreed, even as he found himself looking forward to watching Annabelle with this idle time he suddenly found on his hands.

The short journey to Madame Bouchard’s shop passed in a blur of feminine chatter about colors, cuts, and the latest fashions from Paris.

Henry found himself studying Annabelle’s profile as she engaged warmly with his daughter’s enthusiastic questions, noting the way her eyes lit up when discussing topics that interested her.

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