Page 79 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“I know you must hate me,” she began, but Annabelle cut her off. Her curiosity was fixed on something more important.

“Where is Philip?” she asked.

Florentia’s face crumpled. “He… He’s gone. He… he left me last year for an actress. Took what little money I had and disappeared.”

Annabelle shook her head. She didn’t know what to feel, but…despite everything, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. “Florentia…”

“I was such a fool, Annabelle. I thought I was in love, thought he truly cared for me. But you were right all along. He was selfish and weak. He would have made you miserable.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make,” Annabelle said quietly.

“I know. I know I took your life away from you.” Tears spilled down Florentia’s cheeks. “I know, and I’m so sorry. I’ve regretted it every day since. Can you… Can you ever forgive me?”

Annabelle looked at her sister—truly looked at her—and saw not the radiant girl who had stolen her future, but a young woman who had learned hard lessons about love, trust, and betrayal.

“Yes,” she said finally, even though she couldn’t help but harbor that inkling of doubt in her heart about her sister’s intentions. “I forgive you.”

“Oh, Anna!” Florentia hugged her even tighter and pressed her face against her neck. “Thank you so much!”

But Annabelle couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just made a big mistake.

The weeks following Florentia’s return passed in a blur of forced civility and carefully orchestrated encounters. It seemed wherever Annabelle ventured, whether to morning calls or afternoon shopping, her sister materialized like an unwelcome specter from her past.

“How fortuitous,” Lord Oakley would declare each time. He kept his satisfaction poorly concealed. “Perhaps you ladies might accompany each other. Sisters should remain close, after all.”

The latest such orchestration manifested at Lady Pemberton’s garden party, where Annabelle found herself trapped in the verdant splendor of manicured lawns and strategic social positioning.

“My dear Miss Lytton,” Lady Pemberton greeted with the practiced warmth of a seasoned hostess. “How delightful thatyou could join us. And with your sister returned to our midst—what a lovely reunion this must be.”

Annabelle managed a smile that felt brittle as porcelain. “Indeed, Lady Pemberton. Most unexpected.”

“Unexpected, perhaps, but thoroughly charming,” came a familiar voice. Henry approached with measured steps. His presence immediately shifted the tenor of their small gathering.

“Your Grace.” Lady Pemberton curtsied deeply. “How honored we are by your attendance.”

“The honor is mine entirely,” Henry replied, though his gaze remained fixed on Annabelle. “Miss Lytton, you appear particularly radiant this afternoon.”

The compliment, delivered with such genuine warmth, drew curious glances from nearby guests. Annabelle felt heat rise in her cheeks as whispers began to circulate like autumn leaves on an unwelcome breeze.

“Papa!” Florentia’s melodic voice rang across the garden as she glided toward them, resplendent in pale blue silk that complemented her golden curls to perfection. “You didn’t tell me His Grace would be attending. Your Grace,” Florentia executed a flawless curtsy, her eyes sparkling with practiced charm.

Henry’s bow was polite but reserved. “Miss Florentia Lytton. I heard you spent time abroad. I trust your travels were… educational.”

“Oh, immensely,” she laughed. The sound was high and clear like silver bells. “Though nothing compares to being home in England. Don’t you agree, Anna? There’s simply no place like home.”

Annabelle managed to wrestle the feeling of annoyance before it could show on her face.

“Home is indeed precious,” Annabelle managed. She kept her voice steady despite the turmoil within.

“How lovely to see sisters so devoted,” Lady Pemberton observed. “Though one must say, the resemblance is quite remarkable. And yet, how different you both are in temperament.”

That, Annabelle knew, was a direct reference to her rebellion in standing up to the societal pressures that had once buried her in shame for something that she had not committed directly.

“Indeed,” agreed Lady Harrington, who joined their circle with the grace of a woman who thrived on social undercurrents. “Miss Florentia Lytton possesses such vivacity, such… continental sophistication. While Miss Lytton has always been so… steadfast.”

The word ‘steadfast’ hung in the air like a poorly aimed dart. Its intended meaning was clear to all present.

Annabelle kept her chin up; she’d grown accustomed to such veiled insults.

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