Page 70 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Lady Oakley’s smile faltered slightly. She leaned closer and lowered her voice to a discreet whisper. “I’m afraid my darling Annabelle is feeling rather indisposed this evening. Nothing serious, mind you, merely a touch of fatigue. She sends her regrets.”

Indisposed. The word made him flinch inwardly, though he maintained his composed exterior.

Was she truly unwell, or was this…one of those methods of retreat that women were wont to use when they willed it?

The taste of her was still vivid on his tongue, as was the memory of her body responding so eagerly against his tongue, providing a constant torment that plagued his waking hours.

“I do hope she recovers swiftly,” he managed. He struggled to keep his voice carefully neutral.

“Oh, Your Grace!” A booming voice interrupted their conversation, and Henry inwardly cringed as Lord Oakley materialized beside his wife with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge. “Delighted to make your acquaintance at last!”

Lady Oakley’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “My lord, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Marchwood. Your Grace, my son and Miss Lytton’s father, the Viscount Oakley.”

Henry executed the necessary pleasantries, though every fiber of his being recoiled from the man’s bombastic demeanor. Lord Oakley was precisely the sort of individual Henry found most insufferable—loud, presumptuous, and possessed of the unfortunate conviction that his opinions were of universal interest.

“Splendid evening, isn’t it?” Lord Oakley continued without pause for response. “Though I must say, Fitzwilliam’s wine selection leaves something to be desired. I was just telling Lady Fitzwilliam about the exceptional vintage I acquired last month. Eighteen twelve Bordeaux, you know. Quite extraordinary. Perhaps you’d care to sample it sometime? I should be delighted to?—”

“Marchwood.” Everett appeared at his elbow with impeccable timing. “Lord Fitzwilliam is most eager to discuss the shipping routes with you. Something about naval appropriations that requires your immediate attention.”

Henry seized the excuse with desperate gratitude. “Of course. Lord Oakley, Lady Oakley, if you’ll excuse me.”

As they moved away, Henry caught the look of relief that crossed the Dowager’s features, and he found himself wondering not for the first time how such a refined woman had come to bear such an insufferable bore. More importantly, how had such a man produced a daughter like Annabelle?

“Good God,” Everett muttered once they were out of earshot, “I thought he might actually corner you into an entire discourse on French wines. The man has no sense of conversational boundaries.”

“Indeed,” Henry replied, though his thoughts had already returned to their persistent obsession.

Annabelle’s absence felt like a wound that wouldn’t heal—a constant ache that no amount of social obligation could ease.

The following afternoon brought no relief. Henry arrived at the Oakley residence precisely on time for Celia’s scheduled lesson, and his daughter chattered excitedly about her improved dancing as they were shown into the familiar parlor.

Lady Oakley greeted them with her usual warmth, though Henry noted the slight strain around her eyes. “I’m afraid I must inform you that my granddaughter continues to feel somewhatindisposed today. She thought it best to remain in her chambers and rest.”

“Is she quite well?” Henry inquired, fighting to keep the sharp edge of concern from his voice. “Perhaps a physician should be consulted?”

“Nothing so serious, I assure you,” Lady Oakley replied quickly. “Merely a touch of the headache. These things pass, you know.”

But they didn’t pass. Two more scheduled lessons yielded identical results—Lady Oakley’s apologetic explanations, Annabelle’s continued absence, and Henry’s growing conviction that this was no mere indisposition.

She was avoiding him, quite deliberately, and the realization was driving him to distraction. And irritation.

The taste of her lingered on his tongue like wine, and the memory of her breathless cries echoed in his mind during the most inappropriate moments. He found himself distracted during important meetings. His attention drifted to visions of emerald silk pooled around pale ankles and of dark eyes wide with pleasure and shock as he had worshipped her with his mouth.

“Papa,” Celia’s voice penetrated his brooding as they departed the Oakley residence after yet another lesson conducted without Annabelle’s presence, “is Miss Lytton truly unwell? Lady Oakley seemed quite worried about her.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “I’m certain she’ll recover soon, darling.”

But privately, he was beginning to fear that recovery was the last thing on Annabelle’s mind. She was retreating from him, and his frustration was becoming unbearable.

If she thought she would dismiss him in such a manner, then she had another thing coming. Because he’d meant it when he’d told her he wanted her.

He was just going to have tomakeher see it.

CHAPTER 25

“Miss Lytton?” The young maid’s voice was barely above a whisper as she approached Annabelle’s writing desk. “This was left for you.”

Annabelle looked up from her half-finished letter to Emma and accepted the folded parchment with curiosity. The paper bore no external markings, no indication of its sender, though the quality of the stationery spoke of wealth and refinement.

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