Page 12 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“Of course, Grandmama,” Annabelle replied, casting a triumphant glance at the duke’s rigid back as he disappeared into the blue parlor.

At least now she had a legitimate reason to hover in the vicinity. Admittedly, she was curious about what her grandmother was going to teach Lady Celia.

“The art of the curtsy,” Lady Oakley declared moments later while standing before Lady Celia with the erect posture of a military commander, “is far more complex than a mere bending of the knees. It is a silent language that communicates volumes about breeding, education, and one’s social discernment.”

From his position near the window, the Duke of Marchwood observed the proceedings with hawkish intensity.

Annabelle, ostensibly arranging flowers in the adjoining room with the door conveniently ajar, found herself equally absorbedin the lesson, though her attention was divided between Lady Celia’s efforts and the duke’s reactions.

“Now, demonstrate a curtsy appropriate for greeting a countess at a morning call,” Lady Oakley instructed.

Lady Celia, to her credit, made a valiant attempt. She gathered her skirts with practiced fingers, bent her knees with reasonable grace, and inclined her head in what might have been mistaken for appropriate deference.

“No, no, no,” the Dowager interrupted with a sharp tap of her cane against the floor. “Your right foot should be positioned behind the left, not alongside it. You appear to be preparing for a country dance rather than acknowledging your social superior.”

“Does it truly matter?” Celia asked, her tone bordering dangerously on impertinence. “The countess would hardly notice such a minor detail.”

The duke shifted in his chair, his expression darkening at his daughter’s tone. He looked rightfully frustrated.

Annabelle bit her lip to suppress a smile, recognizing all too well the frustration of a spirited young woman chafing against the arbitrary rules of polite society.

“The countess might not notice,” Lady Oakley replied crisply, “but her mother certainly would. And the Dowager Countess of Harborough has been known to cut promising debutantes fromher guest lists for far less significant transgressions. Again, if you please.”

Lady Celia sighed dramatically before attempting the curtsy once more. This time, her foot placement was correct, but her balance wavered, causing her to grasp wildly at a nearby chair to prevent herself from toppling over.

“Perhaps we should have begun with the basic elements of standing properly,” the Dowager observed dryly. “Shoulders back, chin level, weight distributed evenly. You cannot hope to execute a proper curtsy if you cannot first achieve equilibrium.”

“I achieved perfect equilibrium in Miss Harrington’s lessons,” Lady Celia muttered, though not quite quietly enough.

The duke cleared his throat ominously. “Celia,” he warned, his voice carrying that quiet authority that seemed to fill the room.

“Sorry, Lady Oakley,” Celia apologized hastily. “I shall try again.”

Annabelle’s heart went out to the girl. She remembered all too well the tedious hours spent practicing such social niceties under her own mother’s exacting tutelage. The absurdity of it all had never quite left her… that a young woman’s worth could be measured in the precise angle of a curtsy or the delicacy with which she poured tea.

“Tea, my lady,” Mrs. Pike announced while appearing at Annabelle’s elbow with a laden tray. “Shall I serve it in the blue parlor?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pike. I shall take it myself,” Annabelle replied, seizing the opportunity to observe the lesson more directly.

She entered the blue parlor with the tea tray; her expression arranged in a mask of perfect politeness.

“Grandmama, I thought perhaps a brief respite might be welcome. Lady Celia must be quite fatigued from all that curtsying.”

“How thoughtful, my dear,” the Dowager replied, though her sharp eyes suggested she was not fooled by Annabelle’s sudden solicitude. “Your Grace, Lady Celia, shall we pause for refreshment?”

The Duke rose from his chair with fluid grace. “Thank you, Lady Oakley.”

As Annabelle arranged the cutlery on the small table, she was acutely aware of his gaze upon her. The intensity of it raised gooseflesh along her arms, though whether from irritation or something far more disquieting, she could not say.

“Lady Celia, perhaps you might accompany me to view the roses in the garden,” the Dowager suggested, rising with remarkableagility for a woman of her years. “I believe some fresh air would be beneficial before we continue.”

Before either the Duke or Annabelle could protest, Lady Oakley ushered the girl from the room, leaving them in a silence charged with unspoken tension. Annabelle busied herself with the tea set, painfully aware of the Duke’s towering presence mere feet away.

“Your grandmother’s methods are… effective, Miss Lytton,” he observed after a moment, his deep voice breaking the silence like a stone dropped into still water.

“The General rarely fails to achieve her objectives,” Annabelle replied, risking a glance at him.

The Duke knit his eyebrows together, then tilted his head to the side. “The General?”

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