Page 13 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“Oh, pardon me. That is a term of endearment of mine for her,” she clarified and swore she saw the corner of his lip inch upward ever so slightly. “As I was saying, my grandmother’s tactics might be somewhat familiar to a military man such as yourself.”

His eyebrow arched. “You seem well-informed about my past, Miss Lytton.”

“One hears things,” she replied with deliberate vagueness. “The county has a long memory for interesting tales, Your Grace.”

“You find my history particularly diverting?” There was an edge to his voice now, a warning that prudence dictated she should heed.

Prudence, however, had never been Annabelle’s strong suit.

“I find it curious,” she said, meeting his gaze directly, “that a man who once defied convention to pursue his own path now seeks to deny his daughter even the smallest freedoms.”

The duke’s expression hardened. “You know nothing about me or my daughter, Miss Lytton. Or what freedoms would serve her best.”

“I know that caging a bird only makes it long more desperately for flight,” Annabelle countered, abandoning all pretense of arranging the tea. “Your daughter is intelligent, curious, and yes, spirited. Those qualities should be channeled, not suppressed.”

“Like your little Society channels the baser appetites of its members?” he inquired with dangerous softness. “Reading material that would make a courtesan blush?”

Annabelle felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Literature is not the enemy, Your Grace. Ignorance is. Would you rather your daughter learns about life from books or from the whispers of her peers?”

“I would rather she learn at a pace and in a manner appropriate to her station,” he replied, stepping closer. “Not throughthe reckless influence of a woman who clearly defies every convention of proper behavior.”

The accusation stung more than Annabelle cared to admit. “Because I speak my mind? Because I refuse to simper and agree with everything a man says simply because he happens to possess a title?”

“Do not think to project your prejudices upon me, Miss Lytton.” The Duke’s words caused Annabelle’s eyes to widen. “I said nothing of the sort. My issue with you is that you encourage impressionable young women to follow your example without consideration for the consequences.” His voice dropped so low that an involuntary shiver raked down her spine. “Not everyone can afford the luxury of dancing so close to ruin, Miss Lytton.”

The words struck with precision, finding the tender place where her own painful history lay. She drew in a sharp breath, and her hand tightened around the teapot handle.

“You know nothing about me,” she said quietly, fury and hurt warring in her voice.

“I have seen enough to understand,” he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.

For a moment, they stood locked in silent combat. The air between them crackled with tension. His nearness, the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather, the way he towered over her, his broad shoulders and a wide chest filling her view…

Heavens, she could hardly breathe.

The sound of laughter from the garden snapped her back to reality, and she stepped back. Her pulse raced traitorously beneath her skin.

“Your tea, Your Grace,” she said stiffly, thrusting a cup toward him with unsteady hands.

Before he could respond, the door opened to admit Lady Oakley and Celia, their cheeks flushed from the garden air.

“Ah, tea! How delightful,” the Dowager exclaimed, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud. “Lady Celia has been telling me the most amusing story about her riding lessons. Your daughter has quite a talent for narrative, Your Grace.”

The duke’s gaze lingered on Annabelle for a moment longer before he turned to his daughter, and his expression softened almost imperceptibly.

“Indeed? Which story?”

As they resumed their places for tea, Annabelle retreated to the edge of the room with her heart feeling both anger and interest.

It was a discomforting sensation because the Duke of Marchwood was clearly the most infuriating, arrogant, insufferable man she had ever encountered in all her life!

And yet, as she watched him listen attentively to his daughter’s animated recounting, Annabelle could not suppress the treacherous thought that he was also quite the contradiction.

Contradictions were challenges in her eyes. And Annabelle had a weakness for challenges.

CHAPTER 5

“You look as though you’ve wrestled with a lion and lost,” Everett observed while sliding into the opposite chair at their usual table in the shadowed corner of The Crown and Anchor.

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