Page 21 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“Her playing was adequate,” Henry allowed. He lifted the pages of the morning paper and used them more as a shield than because of any genuine interest he had in their contents.

“Lady Oakley says that true artistry requires both technical skill and emotional connection,” Celia ventured. “She believes many performers master the former while neglecting the latter.”

Henry lowered the newspaper fractionally. “Lady Oakley appears to have strong opinions on a great many subjects.”

“Oh yes,” Celia replied, her expression brightening. “She’s terribly knowledgeable about everything from classical literature to modern politics. Did you know she once dined withthe Duke of Wellington? She told the most fascinating story about it during our last lesson.” She paused and buttered a piece of toast. “Miss Lytton was there too. She made the most amusing observation about how?—”

“Miss Lytton was present during your lesson?” Henry interrupted, his voice acquiring an edge that caused his daughter to look up in surprise.

“Only briefly!” Celia clarified quickly as she set down her knife—too quickly, and Henry could not help but he suspicious. “She brought us tea and stayed to discuss Herodotus. Her Greek is remarkably good, you know. Far better than mine.”

“I was not aware that Greek was among the subjects Lady Oakley had undertaken to teach you,” Henry said, his body tensing.

“Oh, it wasn’t part of the formal lesson,” Celia assured him. “It was merely a conversation that arose naturally. Miss Lytton is so wonderfully well-read?—”

“I would prefer,” Henry cut in, his tone cooling several degrees, “that you not become overly influenced by Miss Lytton’s example. While she may possess certain academic accomplishments, her disregard for propriety and conventional behavior is hardly becoming in a lady of quality.”

Celia’s expression grew carefully neutral. It was a look Henry recognized as his quite clever daughter’s attempt to navigate potentially turbulent conversational waters while simultaneously pushing the bounds of what he could tolerate.

“Miss Lytton seems every inch a lady to me,” she observed after a moment. “Simply not a boring one.”

Oh?Henry set the newspaper down, regarding his daughter with narrow eyes.

“And what, precisely, does that imply about other ladies of your acquaintance?”

“Nothing in particular,” Celia replied, her gaze unwavering. “Only that Miss Lytton speaks her mind rather than merely echoing the opinions of others. It’s refreshing.”

Refreshing. The word echoed in Henry’s mind, accompanied by the unwelcome memory of Annabelle Lytton’s flushed cheeks and vibrant eyes as she had defended her views on music the previous evening. The passion with which she had spoken had indeed been… stimulating.

No. Not stimulating.Inappropriate.That was the word.

“There is wisdom in restraint,” he said aloud, as much to himself as to his daughter. “Not every thought requires immediate expression.”

“But if we never express our true thoughts, how does anyone ever truly know us?” Celia asked. Her question possessed a philosophical depth that momentarily caught Henry off guard.

When had his little girl developed such penetrating insight? And more disturbing still, when had he ceased to know her mind so thoroughly?

“Father,” Celia said, her tone softening as she leaned forward slightly, “might we play chess this afternoon? It’s been an age since we’ve had a proper match, and I’ve been practicing with Mr. Fletcher.”

The request, so innocently made, caused an unexpected surge of something like guilt in Henry’s chest.

How long had it been since he’d spent an afternoon simply enjoying his daughter’s company?

He had kept his distance ever since she began her formal lessons and continued to near marriageable age. But even so…

“I regret that I cannot,” he replied, already reaching for the correspondence that was stacked on the table. “The steward has identified several issues with the south pasture that require my immediate attention. Another time, perhaps.”

Celia’s face fell. But she recovered quickly, smoothing her features into a mask of polite acceptance, so swift and practiced that it unsettled him more than he cared to admit. There was something deeply disquieting about seeing his daughter, so young, already adept at concealing her feelings behind the same kind of cold composure he’d spent years perfecting.

And yet, a part of him, one far too honest to ignore, knew exactly where she’d learned it. She hadn’t needed governesses or tutors to teach her how to hide her heart.

She’d learned it fromhim.

“Of course, Father,” she said, rising from the table with perfect grace. “Your responsibilities must take precedence.”

She left without a backward glance, and Henry found himself staring after her. Restlessness settled over him like an ill-fitting coat. It was not as though she had not walked away from him like this many times before, but now, he could almost sense an edge to it. A dissatisfaction. A brewing rebellion.

It felt like the calm before the storm.

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