Page 20 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Lord Thornfield, sensing the undercurrent of tension, hastily intervened. “I was just discussing with the Duke the evening’s program. We’re fortunate to have secured Lady Eliza to perform Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’”

“A rather predictable choice,” Annabelle observed, unable to resist the small provocation. “Though I suppose one cannot fault tradition.”

The Duke’s eyebrow arched slightly. “You find Beethoven lacking, Miss Lytton?”

“Not lacking,” she clarified, warming to the topic despite herself. “Merely… safe. There are composers pushing music in far more expressive directions now. Chopin, Liszt, Berlioz. Art should evolve, should it not? Challenge us rather than merely comfort?”

“There is wisdom in tradition,” the Duke countered. “Newer compositions often sacrifice discipline for emotion, mistaking chaos for innovation.”

“And some mistake rigidity for wisdom,” Annabelle retorted as her cheeks flushed with the thrill of intellectual engagement, even though she wished to remain unmoved by his presence. “Music, like life, requires both structure and passion to be truly meaningful.”

“An interesting philosophy,” he spoke lowly, his voice so husky it resonated somewhere beneath her ribs. “Though I wonder if you apply it consistently.”

Lord Thornfield cleared his throat, blinking a few times in alarm at the intensity of their exchange. “I should perhaps announce the commencement of the performance,” he said hastily and bowed before making his retreat.

Lady Oakley’s hand settled firmly on Annabelle’s arm. “We should find our seats, my dear.” The gentle pressure of her fingers conveyed a clear warning. “Your Grace.”

After they’d curtseyed to the Duke and he’d responded with a brief bow, they moved toward the arranged chairs.

There, Annabelle felt the weight of the Duke’s gaze following her like a hand hovering against the small of her back. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder and instead focused on maintaining a measured pace.

As it was, her heart pounded inside her chest. The adrenaline from their short discourse sizzled through her veins like the crackle of wildfire.

By God, had she… Had she enjoyed their back and forth that much?

No. It couldn’t be.

The man was infuriating, and that was what this thrum in her veins was: frustration. That was the only answer she was willing to accept.

Once seated, however, her treacherous eyes sought him of their own accord.

The Duke had taken a position near the far wall, his imposing figure drawing attention despite his evident desire to remain unnoticed. As though sensing her scrutiny, he looked up. His gaze locked with hers across the crowded room.

For one breathless moment, the space between them became charged with something Annabelle could not name. Heat bloomed across her skin as though he had touched her, though they stood separated by a room full of people.

The intensity of her reaction startled her and she tore her gaze away from him. Resolutely, she focused on folding her hands in her lap.

What has come over you?She chastised herself even as she found, to her mounting dismay, that she did not know the answer to that question.

CHAPTER 7

“The tea has gone cold, Father,” Celia observed. Her voice broke through the heavy silence that had descended upon the breakfast table. “Shall I ring for a fresh pot?”

Henry started, glancing down at his untouched cup with mild surprise.

Had he truly been sitting there, staring at one page of the newspaper for the last… fifteen minutes, was it?

Even more unsettling was the fact that he could scarcely recall a single thing he’d read on that page.

His mind was well and truly occupied, it seemed, but he had not been mulling over the matters that most deserved his attention.

“No need,” he replied, clearing his throat once before pushing the cup aside with a dismissive gesture. “I’ve had sufficient refreshment.”

This was, of course, a blatant falsehood. He had barely touched his breakfast. His appetite abandoned him sometime during the previous evening’s musicale.

Precisely when a pair of challenging blue eyes had locked with his from across the crowded room at Thornfield House.

Celia studied him over the rim of her own teacup. Her keen gaze was so similar to his own. “You seem rather out of sorts this morning, Father. Did you not enjoy the performances? Didn’t Lady Eliza play well last night?”

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