Page 55 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

His manhood jerked beneath his codpiece at the sight and sound.

“Do you want to know what I thought when I saw you in that gown?” He continued while taking another step toward her and moving close enough now to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. “I thought about peeling it off you, inch by inch, until there was nothing left between my eyes and your body. I thoughtabout kissing every inch of you, about making you cry out my name in pleasure as you came undone in my arms.”

“Your Grace,” Annabelle whispered, though she made no move to retreat. If anything, she seemed to sway slightly toward him.

“Henry,” he corrected roughly, his voice hoarse with want. “When we’re alone like this, I want to hear you say my name. Say it.”

“Henry,” she breathed, and the sound of his name on her lips nearly undid him entirely. Her voice was soft and wondering like a prayer or a secret shared in the darkness.

It made him want to get on his knees and worship at the altar between her thighs.

He closed the distance between them until he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and smell the lavender on her skin.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, reaching up to trace the line of her jaw with one finger.

Her skin was silk-soft beneath his touch, and he felt her shiver in response.

Her breath caught audibly, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her face up toward his. Her eyes fluttered closedin anticipation, and her lips parted slightly in an unconscious invitation.

Henry leaned down. His lips were a mere breath away from hers, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath against his mouth. He could taste the anticipation in the air between them, could feel the moment stretching taut like a bowstring?—

The half-muffled sound of his daughter’s laughter crashed against his senses. Reality flooded back over him like a wave of ice water.

What am I doing?

This was Lady Oakley’s library, and his daughter was waiting in the next room. If he were to start anything right now, he knew he would be unable to stop. And he didn’t want to have to stop.

With tremendous effort that felt like tearing away part of himself, he stepped back. He acknowledged just how ragged his breathing had become.

“The books are acceptable,” he said hoarsely, moving to gather them in his arms with hands that trembled slightly. “But I’m leaving that here.”

He nodded toward the package before striding toward the door. He kept his movements sharp and controlled, pausing only when his hand touched the handle.

“Your Grace—” she started to speak, no doubt to protest.

“Keep it, Annabelle,” he said without turning around, afraid that if he looked at her again, his resolve would crumble entirely. “I gave it to you because you look breathtaking in it.”

He left her standing there, knowing that if he remained even a moment longer, his control would shatter entirely, and he would take her like a rabid beast.

“Papa, these are rather advanced texts,” Celia observed later that evening as she examined the books Henry had placed on the table in their drawing room. The leather volumes seemed to glow in the lamplight, their gold lettering catching the flames from the fireplace. “Bacon, Descartes, Newton’sPrincipia… I’m surprised you approved them.”

Henry settled into his chair by the fireplace, attempting to project an air of casual indifference despite the way his pulse still quickened at any mention of the afternoon’s events. “Miss Lytton assured me they were suitable for someone of your intellectual capacity.”

“Did she indeed?” Celia’s tone carried that same teasing quality that had become so familiar, and Henry found himself wondering when his daughter had become so adept at reading between the lines. “How very thoughtful of her to consider my education so thoroughly.”

“Quite,” Henry replied tersely, hoping to discourage further commentary while knowing it was probably a futile effort.

“And did you have an opportunity to properly…thank her for her consideration?” Celia pressed, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

What a hellraiser he had on his hands.

Henry cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “Miss Lytton was appropriately thanked for her efforts on your behalf.”

“I hope you speak true,” his daughter murmured, “since you have a habit of saying all the wrong things?—”

“Celia,” Henry warned her once, his tone sufficiently stern.

He had no intention of speaking about his personal life with his sixteen-year-old daughter, no matter how quick-witted she might be.

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