Page 88 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“My dear child, I may be old, but I am not blind. Nor am I lacking in experience when it comes to matters of the heart.” Lady Oakley leaned forward. Her gaze was intent. “You’ve been miserable for weeks, jumping at shadows and avoiding perfectly pleasant social engagements. Your sister hovers about like a cat with cream on its whiskers, and that poor child who comes for lessons looks as though someone has stolen her favorite toy.”

Annabelle felt her defenses crumbling under her grandmother’s relentless observation. “It’s complicated, Grandmother.”

“Affairs of the heart usually are. That doesn’t make them insurmountable.” Lady Oakley’s tone grew gentler. “Would it help to speak of it? I may be a relic of an earlier age, but I’ve seen enough of life to know that secrets fester like wounds when kept too close.”

The kindness in her grandmother’s voice nearly undid Annabelle completely. For weeks, she had carried the weight of her decision alone because she felt unable to confide in anyone the true nature of what she had given up.

“I’ve made such a mess of things,” she whispered.

“Have you? Tell me what troubles you so deeply that you’ve forgotten how to smile.” Lady Oakley reached across the space between them and covered Annabelle’s trembling hands with her own weathered ones.

The dam burst. Words poured from Annabelle in a torrent she couldn’t control—her growing feelings for Henry, their stolen moments of intimacy, the terrible choice she had made to protect Celia’s future at the cost of her own happiness. She told her grandmother everything except the most intimate details. Her voice broke with the weight of her pain.

When she finished, silence settled between them like a heavy blanket. Lady Oakley continued to hold her hands, and her expression was thoughtful rather than shocked.

“You love him,” the older woman said finally. It wasn’t a question.

“Desperately,” Annabelle admitted. The word was torn from somewhere deep in her chest. “But it doesn’t matter. I cannot—Iwill not—be the reason that sweet child suffers for her father’s choices.”

“And what of his choice in the matter? Does the Duke of Marchwood strike you as a man who makes decisions lightly?”

“Of course not, but?—”

“But you’ve decided that you know better than he does what risks are worth taking for love.” Lady Oakley’s tone carried a gentle reproach. “My dear girl, do you not see the arrogance in that position?”

Annabelle blinked. She was startled by the unexpected criticism. “I’m trying to protect them both.”

“Or are you protecting yourself from the possibility of being hurt again?” Her grandmother’s voice was kind but implacable. “Philip was a weak, selfish boy who chose the easier path when faced with difficulty. From what I’ve seen, the Duke of Marchwood is quite a different sort of man entirely.”

“But the scandal?—”

“Was not your fault. And it will pass, as all scandals do.” Lady Oakley squeezed Annabelle’s hands. “What matters is whether you’re willing to fight for what you want, or whether you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been.”

A commotion in the hallway announced new arrivals, breaking the moment. The morning room’s door burst open to admit Joanna, Marchioness of Knightley. Her usually immaculateappearance was slightly disheveled, and her spectacles sat askew.

“Annabelle, thank God you’re receiving visitors. I’ve been trying to call on you for days, but that sister of yours keeps insisting you’re indisposed.” Joanna paused. She took in Annabelle’s tear-stained face and Lady Oakley’s protective posture. “Good heavens, what’s happened?”

“Joanna.” Relief flooded through Annabelle at the sight of her friend’s familiar face. “I didn’t expect?—”

“Clearly not, considering your sister’s attempts to turn me away at the door.” Joanna settled into a nearby chair. “Fortunately, I’ve had experience dealing with officious gatekeepers. Now then, what has you looking as though the world has ended?”

Before Annabelle could respond, three small figures appeared in the doorway—Joanna’s triplets, their faces bright with curiosity and concern. The eldest, barely five years old, clutched a somewhat wilted daisy in her chubby fist.

“Mama said Miss Lytton was sad,” the child announced with the startling directness of the very young. “We brought her a flower to make her feel better.”

The simple gesture proved to be Annabelle’s complete undoing. Tears began to flow in earnest as the little girl toddled forward to present her offering with ceremony.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Annabelle managed through her tears. She accepted the daisy as though it were the finest gift she had ever received. “It’s beautiful.”

“Flowers always make Mama feel better when she’s crying,” Theodore offered solemnly. “Papa brings them all the time.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Lady Oakley murmured, while Joanna’s nurserymaid quickly gathered them and dispatched them to the nursery with promises of cakes and games.

When they were alone again, Joanna settled back into her chair with the determined air of someone preparing for a lengthy interrogation.

“Now then,” she said quietly, “who has broken your heart, and what are we going to do about it?”

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