Page 18 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“Oh, you did not have to. Your tone gives you away,” she retorted, and Joanna chuckled. “I cannot help but wonder,” Annabelle mused, gently swirling her teacup as she gazed out across the garden, “if that girl might have flourished under different circumstances. There’s something rather remarkable about her spirit, don’t you think?”

Joanna adjusted her spectacles, studying her friend with that penetrating gaze that always made Annabelle feel as though her innermost thoughts were being carefully catalogued.

“You’ve always had a protective streak where young women are concerned,” Joanna finally remarked, her voice carrying gentleprecision. “Ever since Florentia went to the colonies, you’ve taken a particular interest in guiding others.”

The mention of her sister’s name sent a familiar pang through Annabelle’s chest. It was sharp and unexpected, like stepping on broken glass when one believed the floor to be swept clean.

She schooled her features carefully, though not quickly enough to escape Joanna’s notice.

“Forgive me,” Joanna said softly, reaching across to place her hand atop Annabelle’s. “I didn’t mean to cause distress. You must miss her terribly.”

Annabelle tried to brush it off. She managed a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

“It has been many years now,” she replied. The lie sat uncomfortably on her tongue like a sour piece of confectionery. “And we were speaking of Lady Celia, were we not? A most promising young woman, despite her father’s determination to cage her considerable spirit.”

“Ah, yes, the formidable Duke of Marchwood,” Joanna said, accepting the diversion with the grace of true friendship. “A man who seems to have occupied a remarkable portion of your thoughts these past days.”

“Only because he is so thoroughly vexing, Joanna,” Annabelle protested, setting down her cup with perhaps more force than the delicate porcelain deserved.

“And this vexation explains why you’ve mentioned him no less than a dozen times since our tea began?” Joanna’s eyebrow arched delicately above the rim of her spectacles. “I find myself increasingly convinced that you are far too interested in a man you claim to so vehemently dislike.”

“Interested?” Annabelle scoffed even as she felt a traitorous warmth creep up her neck. “Please. I am no more interested in the Duke of Marchwood than I am in… in last season’s bonnets! He represents everything I find most tiresome in men of his station. He carries an insufferable certainty that his opinions constitute the natural order of things.”

“If you insist,” Joanna replied, her tone suggesting she believed nothing of the sort.

Annabelle pointedly ignored her tone. “I am merely statingfact. Surely, you must understand why I possess righteous indignation in the face of such arrogance!” Annabelle rose to pace the small terrace. She suddenly brimmed with restless energy.

“Of course,” Joanna agreed, her smile suggesting otherwise. “What else could it possibly be?”

Annabelle harrumphed and plopped back down into her seat with an unladylike air.

“On to more pleasant matters,” she said tartly. “I take it you shall be attending the musicale at Thornfield House?”

Joanna visibly perked up. “Oh, of course!” She gushed. “A night of wine and music with my beautiful husband by my side? How could I refuse?”

Annabelle smiled. “Lovely. It’ll be nice to enjoy that evening with you and Nathaniel.”

“And perhaps, a certain infuriatingly proper Duke?” Joanna teased.

Annabelle did not know what to think when she found that she was not repulsed by the idea at all.

But then, she rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, I simply live for stilted conversation and being judged from a great height. What a thrill.”

Joanna smiled, a little too knowingly. “Mm. We’ll see.”

She turned back to her teacup, but the amusement lingering on her lips said plenty.

CHAPTER 6

“Do stop fidgeting, Annabelle,” Lady Oakley murmured as they were announced at the entrance to the drawing room. “One would think you were facing the guillotine rather than a simple evening of music.”

Even though Annabelle typically avoided most of theton’sevents in Hampshire, the musicale at Thornfield House would be a pleasant reprieve. Joanna and Nathaniel would attend, not to mention that Lord Thornfield had been a very good friend of Annabelle’s late grandfather.

“The guillotine might be more merciful,” Annabelle replied under her breath, though she immediately straightened her posture and arranged her features into a mask of polite interest as they entered the crowded room.

Her gaze swept across the assembled guests, cataloguing familiar faces until—unbidden—it caught on the tall figure standing near the pianoforte.

The Duke of Marchwood looked as imposing as ever. His broad shoulders were emphasized by the precise cut of his evening coat, and his expression was one of polite restraint as he conversed with Lord Thornfield.

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