Page 14 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

The tavern’s amber glow cast flickering shadows across his weathered features as he signaled the barmaid for two tankards of ale.

Henry raised his eyes from the untouched glass of whiskey before him. “Perhaps I have.”

“Ah,” Everett said, settling back with evident amusement, “and here I thought you’d merely attended your daughter’s propriety lesson. How terrifying could the Dowager Viscountess Oakley possibly be?”

“It wasn’t Lady Oakley who proved challenging.”

The barmaid appeared with their drinks, and Everett dismissed her swiftly. The Marquess took a generous sip of his ale while studying Henry closely.

“Let me hazard a guess,” Everett said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “The infamous granddaughter was present?”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “Miss Lytton was indeed there. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” Everett’s eyebrows rose. “How intriguing. I would have thought you’d barely notice a spinster, given your general disdain for the fairer sex.”

“She is insolent,” Henry bit out, then lifted his whiskey to his lips.

The amber liquid burned, but not as much as the memory of Annabelle Lytton’s fiery blue eyes.

“Completely lacking in proper deference. She spoke to me as though we were engaged in some parliamentary debate.”

“How absolutely shocking,” Everett replied dryly. “A woman with opinions. Whatever will happen next?”

Henry shot him a warning look that would have silenced lesser men. Everett, however, merely grinned and continued his gentle provocation.

“Tell me, what precisely did this terrifying bluestocking do to earn such ire?”

“She encouraged my daughter to read salacious novels,” Henry snapped. “Books filled with inappropriate content. When I pointed out the impropriety, she had the audacity to question my authority as Celia’s father.”

“Question your authority?” Everett’s tone carried mock horror. “The nerve! Did she also suggest that sixteen-year-old girls might be curious about the world beyond embroidery hoops and watercolor painting?”

Henry’s grip tightened around his glass. “This is not amusing, Southall. My daughter’s reputation?—”

“Will survive her reading a novel or two,” Everett interrupted smoothly. “Good God, Henry, half the ladies in London devour such books behind closed doors. At least Miss Lytton’s club discusses them openly rather than pretending they don’t exist.”

“That’s precisely the problem,” Henry countered. His voice rose slightly before he caught himself and lowered it to its usual controlled register. “She disregards convention and encourages rebellion in young women who should be learning proper deportment.”

Everett leaned forward, and his expression suddenly grew more serious. “Or perhaps you find that rather refreshing.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “I didn’t ask you.”

“No, but it does seem that you are preoccupied with Miss Lytton’s opinions, considering you claim to find her so objectionable.” Everett took another sip of his ale, but his gaze never left Henry’s face. “Tell me, what does Miss Lytton look like? I’ve heard varying descriptions.”

“That’s hardly relevant?—”

“Humor me.”

Henry hesitated, then spoke with deliberate indifference. “Tall. Blonde. Blue eyes. Reasonably attractive, I suppose.”

“Reasonably attractive,” Everett repeated, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “How diplomatic of you. And her figure?”

“Southall—”

“Come now, Henry. You’re a man, not a monk. Surely you noticed whether she’s built like a scarecrow or possesses moreappealingattributes.”

Heat crept up Henry’s neck at the memory of Miss Lytton’s blue gown and her decidedly feminine curves. “She’s…adequately proportioned.”

“Adequately proportioned,” Everett mused. “Good Lord, you sound as though you’re describing a broodmare. Was she beautiful, Henry? It is a simple enough question.”

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