Page 2 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

The change in Henry was instantaneous. His posture shifted subtly, and in three precise movements—a twist of the wrist, a sweep of the leg, and a forceful push—Pembrooke fell flat on his back, the air knocked from his lungs. Henry pressed his forearm against the man’s throat.

“My daughter,” Henry hissed, “is not a burden. She may not be the heir to my duchy, but she is my blood, my heir to everything I am. That includes my temperament. I suggest you remember that.”

Pembrooke’s eyes widened. Genuine fear replaced his earlier arrogance.

For a moment, no one in the circle breathed, waiting to see if the Duke of Marchwood might actually throttle the impertinent lord on Everett’s lawn. Then, with deliberate control, Henry released him and straightened, adjusting his waistcoat with meticulous care.

The assembled nobility erupted in laughter at Pembrooke’s expense as the humiliated lord scrambled to his feet, clutching at his throat and glaring daggers at Henry’s back.

“Perhaps that was a touch excessive,” Everett murmured, though his eyes glinted with approval as he handed Henry back his coat. “You’ve likely made an enemy today.”

“He was an enemy yesterday,” Henry replied, shrugging into his coat. “Now he’s merely a wiser one.”

Lord Finchley approached, clapping slowly. “Magnificent display, Your Grace! Reminds me of your father’s performance at the boxing club. Except the old duke preferred his battles in Parliament rather than on the lawn.”

Henry stiffened imperceptibly at the mention of his father. “The current Parliament would benefit from more battles and fewer tea parties,” he said curtly.

“Speaking of which,” Everett interjected smoothly, “shall we return to our abandoned game? The day grows long, and we’ve politics yet to discuss.”

The men retrieved their mallets, and the game of Pall Mall resumed, though Pembrooke slunk away to nurse both his injuries and pride.

Henry participated almost mechanically, driving his ball through the hoops with an efficiency that spoke more of duty than enjoyment. His thoughts had already drifted elsewhere: to the stack of correspondence awaiting his attention at Marchwood Hall, to the estate matters requiring his approval, and to his adolescent daughter, who had been unusually quiet at breakfast that morning.

Celia had entered that difficult age where girls became aware of their place in society, and Henry found himself increasingly at a loss. She had inherited not only his coloring, but also his stubbornness, a combination that both filled him with pride and kept him awake with worry.

Perhaps it was time to consider a more suitable companion for her than the elderly governess who had tutored her since childhood.

“Your move, Henry,” Everett prompted, breaking into his thoughts.

Henry lined up his shot, only to be interrupted when a footman approached, his expression carefully neutral as he bowed before the duke.

“Your Grace,” the servant said quietly, “I bear a message from Marchwood Hall.”

“What is it?” Henry asked, noting the deep frown on the man’s face.

The servant approached and lowered his voice so that only Henry could hear, “Lady Celia appears to have, erhm, absented herself during her lessons with Miss Harrington.”

Henry’s jaw clenched, but he let out a small breath to relax his features, a frequent habit of his, as he never wanted others to read his thoughts. Those were privy to him only.

Concern and exasperation washed over him. This was not the first time his daughter had slipped away from her lessons, but it was the first time the staff had felt compelled to interrupt him at a social engagement.

“I see. Have my horse prepared,” Henry said, his tone level. He turned to Everett, offering a nod. “My apologies, Southall. It appears I must take my leave.”

“Is there trouble?” Everett inquired, genuine concern crossing his features.

As one of the few who knew the tragedy that had befallen Henry’s late wife, he understood better than most the duke’s protectiveness toward his only child.

“Only the usual sort,” Henry replied with practiced calm, and nodded at the other guests before he hurried off to the stables.

As Henry strode away, he heard Everett resuming the game behind him and skillfully deflecting questions about Henry’s sudden departure.

You’re steadfast, my friend, Henry thought as he hopped on his saddled horse and rode away.

The ride to Marchwood Hall took less than half an hour at a brisk canter, though Henry’s thoughts raced faster than his mount.

Celia had been testing boundaries with increasing frequency these past months. While he understood it was natural for a girl of sixteen to chafe against restrictions, he couldn’t help but worry. The world was not kind to young women who strayed too far from convention. He had witnessed that cruelty firsthand when his own wife had perished.

Upon arriving at the grand entrance of Marchwood Hall, Henry found servants scurrying in all directions. He quicklydismounted his horse and handed the reins to the nearest stable hand.

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