Page 75 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“Then don’t.” His hands framed her face while his thumbs traced her cheekbones. “Don’t help yourself. Don’t fight this. Kiss me.”

“I-I want to. I really do, but it’s not that simple.” She pulled back slightly, though her hands remained pressed against his chest. “You know it isn’t.”

Henry’s arms tightened around her. “Annabelle,” he started to say, but she shook her head once, cutting him off.

“I-I’ve been here before,” she whispered. “I believed in impossible things once, and it nearly destroyed me.”

“Your fiancé,” Henry said, and it wasn’t a question.

She nodded as her throat grew tight with the old pain. Philip Horton, the heir to the Marquess of Belfast. We were to be married some years ago. I thought… I believed I loved him then. Now, I know it was just a fairytale infatuation, but at that time, I…I had hopes…fairytale dreams that would put the writers to shame. I…”

Henry swallowed hard, but he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

“The morning of our wedding…I discovered the truth.” The words came easier now, as if saying them aloud might finally exorcise the demons they carried. “Mylady’s maid—” Pure heartbreak and rage bled from that word. “—saw him running away with another woman. Kissing and fondling like they couldn’t bear to let go of each other.”

Henry did not say a word.

“Then she told me who it was. My own little sister, Florentia.” Annabelle’s laugh was bitter. “She’d been helping me prepare for the wedding. All those intimate conversations about marriage, about love… She knew everything about my hopes and dreams for the future and she… she decided to take it all.”

Henry’s hands tightened on her face. “Christ, Annabelle.”

“They ran away together that very morning. While I stood in my wedding dress, waiting for a groom who would never come.”

“That bastard,” Henry breathed. His eyes blazed with fury on her behalf. “And your sister?—”

“Our father told everyone that she’d gone to the colonies to live with a distant aunt. Luckily, only my lady’s maid saw her with Philip. The ton believed the story my father fed them,” Annabelle finished. “And I haven’t seen her since. We’re not…um, we’re not very close, you see.”

Henry could imagine why. They stood in silence for a moment, and the weight of her confession settled between them like a physical presence.

“I’m not him,” he said finally, his voice steady and sure. “I’m not Philip Horton.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But you’re still a duke, and I’m a spinster with a scandal in her past. The ending may be different, but it will still be an ending.”

“Do you truly believe I would abandon you?” His voice carried a note of hurt that he just could not mask.

“I think you would do what duty demands,” she replied honestly. “As you should.”

Henry was quiet for a long moment, his thumbs still tracing gentle patterns across her skin. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more vulnerable than he’d used with her before.

“My father was a very timid man,” he said quietly. “He never stood up for himself, never for me. He preferred his stones and his books to his own son. I spent years trying to earn even a glance of approval from him.”

Annabelle’s hands moved to grip his own, as she offered her own silent comfort.

“My mother, however, was everything he wasn’t. Strong, determined, ambitious.” His laugh was hollow. “I thought she loved me. I thought her constant criticism was because she wanted me to be the best duke I could be.”

“What changed?” Annabelle asked softly.

“Margaret. I was nineteen, foolish, and easily manipulated. Margaret trapped me into scandal, and I married her to preserve both our reputations. But years later, I discovered the truth.”

His jaw clenched, and the muscle there ticked with suppressed anger. “My mother orchestrated it all. She chose my wife for me by manipulating both Margaret and me into that compromising situation. Because she didn’t trust me to make the right choice.”

Annabelle’s breath caught. “Henry…”

“After I confronted her, she wasn’t even…she felt no remorse. So, I…I banished her to Scotland. I thought that was punishment enough.” His voice turned bitter. “I was wrong. She had Margaret killed, Annabelle. My wife was murdered because my mother blamed her for everything that went wrong.”

“Henry, I’m so sorry.” Annabelle’s eyes filled with tears, and Henry’s heart swelled at the sight of it; of the fact that she was sad for him. “None of that was your fault. I hope you know that.”

Henry smiled at her. “Do you see now, Annabelle?” He said, and his beautiful vixen blinked up at him with confusion in her eyes.

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