Page 82 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“They already are.” Florentia’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “I’ve heard them myself. They say your proximity will somehow taint her prospects. Even if the Duke were to propose—which, given society’s memory, is questionable—they’ll talk. You know how this world works, Annabelle. It doesn’t matter what you’ve actually done. It only matters what they believe. And they never forget.”

The truth of those words settled like lead in Annabelle’s stomach. She thought of Celia’s bright laughter, her innocent questions about love and marriage, and her trust in a world that Annabelle knew could be cruelly unforgiving.

“You’ve always been strong, Annabelle,” Florentia continued while placing a seemingly sympathetic hand on her arm. “But strength can’t change the rules of society. Just… be careful. For your sake. And hers.”

As they returned to the main gathering, Annabelle felt a familiar numbness descending—the same protective shell she’d cultivated during the darkest days following Philip’s betrayal.

The afternoon passed in a haze of forced smiles and mechanical responses as her mind churned over Florentia’s cold words.

When Monday arrived and it was time for Celia’s next lesson, Annabelle did not leave her room to greet them, even though she was keenly aware of Henry’s presence in the manor.

She knew he was waiting to meet with her as had become their custom. But she could no longer suffer this dalliance between them…no matter how much it felt as though her heart was rending to pieces.

Annabelle decided to avoid them altogether. She carried with her the weight of Florentia’s words and the growing certainty that perhaps her sister, for all her faults, had spoken a terrible truth.

“Your Grace, what are you doing here?”

Henry paused at the entrance to the conservatory. His hand gripped the ornate door handle. The familiar voice carried a note of formality that sent an unwelcome chill through him.

Three days had passed since Annabelle had failed to appear for Celia’s lesson, three days of increasingly stilted exchanges with the household staff who seemed as bewildered by her absence as he was troubled by it.

“Annabelle.” He turned slowly, drinking in the sight of her despite the obvious tension radiating from her rigid posture.

She stood framed by the afternoon light filtering through the glass panels. Her golden hair was pulled back severely, and she kept her expression carefully composed. Yet he could see the shadows beneath her eyes and the slight tremor in her hands that she tried to conceal by clasping them before her.

“I wondered when you might finally grant me an audience.” His tone was deliberately light, though his chest tightened with something that felt very much like…fear. “Celia misses you. She’s convinced she’s somehow offended you. Or…or that…Ihave.”

“She has done nothing wrong,” Annabelle’s voice was steady, but he caught the slight catch in her breath and saw the way she straightened her spine with a gall that boded nothing good. “And I cannot say that you have, either, Your Grace.”

Henry did not like the impersonal way she kept referring to him. It felt as though she was deliberately preparing herself for…something.

Something he most certainly would detest. He could feel it.

“I needed to speak with you about… about the arrangement we’ve maintained these past weeks,” she told him.

Henry stepped fully into the conservatory. The space felt intimate despite its grandeur. It was filled with the humid warmth of exotic blooms and the gentle trickle of the fountain at its center.

The coincidence was not lost on him. He remembered well the fact that this was the very place where they’d finally… consummated…and yet…

“What arrangement would that be?” he asked, though he suspected he knew the direction of this conversation.

The careful way she avoided his gaze, the formal distance she maintained between them… All spoke of a decision already made.

“You know very well what I mean.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes for the first time since entering. “These… meetings we’ve been having. The time we spend together after Celia’s lessons. It must end.”

Henry’s heart slammed against his ribs. His jaw clenched, breath hissing through his teeth as his hands curled into fists at his sides. Every muscle in his body felt pulled tight, as though he were holding back a shout.

But he did his best not to let it show.

“Must it?” He moved closer, noting how she stiffened at his approach. “And might I inquire as to why?”

“Because it’s inappropriate. Because people will begin to notice, and talk, and—” She stopped abruptly and pressed her lips together as if to prevent further words from escaping.

Henry wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, really. To think that she, the woman who’d stood up to him for the very reason of bowing to societal pressures, was now the very same saying these very words over and over?

“And what, exactly, would they say?” Henry kept his voice gentle, though something cold was beginning to coil in his stomach. “Or rather, have they said something already? What has someone said to distress you so thoroughly that you’ve taken to hiding in your chambers rather than face me?”

Annabelle turned away. Her attention was seemingly fixed on a cluster of orchids blooming near the fountain.

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