Page 22 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“Miss Lytton! Miss Lytton!” Theodore’s voice rang across the cobblestones as he tugged at her gloved hand with the determined persistence of a five-year-old who had spotted something of utmost importance. “Look! There’s a cat in that window!”

“So there is,” Annabelle replied, allowing herself to be dragged toward the shop front where a tabby cat dozed peacefully among the displayed wares. “A very fine specimen indeed.”

“Can we pet him?” Clara piped up from her other side. Her blonde curls bounced beneath her small bonnet as she craned her neck to see better.

“I’m afraid cats in shop windows are generally for looking, not touching,” Joanna interjected with gentle authority, adjusting her spectacles as she attempted to corral her youngest, Rose, who had discovered a fascinating puddle and seemed intent on exploring its depths. “Mary, if you would be so kind?—”

The maid stepped forward with practiced efficiency and scooped up the wayward child before disaster could strike. “Come along, Lady Rose. Let’s see what other interesting sights await us.”

Annabelle found herself smiling as she watched Joanna move with the fluid grace of one who had mastered the art of managing her triplets while maintaining the appearance of perfect composure. It was a skill Annabelle both admired and envied.

“You’re wonderful with them,” Joanna observed quietly, falling into step beside her as they continued down the main thoroughfare. “They adore you.”

“Children are remarkably honest creatures,” Annabelle replied, watching as Theodore attempted to interest his sisters in a complex game involving the arrangement of fallen leaves. “They haven’t yet learned to dissemble their affections.”

“Unlike adults,” Joanna said. Her tone carried layers of meaning that Annabelle chose to ignore.

“Precisely. They say what they mean and feel what they feel without apology.” A wistful note crept into her voice despite her best efforts. “It’s rather refreshing.”

“Aunt Annabelle,” Clara announced with the solemnity of a judge delivering a verdict, “you should have babies of your own. You would be an excellent mama.”

The innocent observation struck with unexpected force and sent a pang through Annabelle’s chest that she quickly suppressed.

“What a lovely thought, dear one. Perhaps someday.”

Annabelle noticed Joanna’s knowing glance, but she focused her attention on the approaching shop fronts. The bookseller’s establishment loomed ahead. Its windows displayed an enticing array of new arrivals and established classics.

“Shall we stop?” she suggested, grateful for the distraction. “I believe Mr. Fitzwilliam mentioned receiving some new volumes from London.”

“Books!” Theodore exclaimed with the enthusiasm of one who had inherited his mother’s literary inclinations. “Are there any with pictures of knights?”

“We shall certainly investigate,” Annabelle assured him, pushing open the shop door to the familiar scent of leather bindings and printed pages.

The interior was mercifully quiet, save for the soft murmur of conversation from near the back counter.

Mr. Fitzwilliam stood behind his desk, gesturing toward a collection of volumes while speaking with a customer whose broad shoulders and sheer bulk were unmistakable even from behind.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Annabelle whispered to herself.

The Duke of Marchwood turned at the sound of their entrance. His slate eyes found Annabelle’s with a familiar jolt of awareness.

“Your Grace,” she acknowledged with a curtsy.

“Miss Lytton. Lady Knightley.” His gaze flickered to the children who had already scattered among the lower shelves like eager explorers. “A charming family expedition.”

“Indeed,” Annabelle replied, watching as Theodore carefully examined a volume of fairy tales. “I’m surprised to find you here. I would have thought you’d send a servant to complete such mundane errands.”

“I prefer to select my own reading material,” he said, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. “One cannot trust others to understand the nuances of what constitutes appropriate literature.”

Annabelle didn’t think she could dislike a man more. But alas, he was also an intellectual snob. Although that was the root of their disagreements, wasn’t it? He thought some forms of literature were superior to others.

“Your Grace—” she started but did not get the chance to voice her dissatisfaction at his words.

“Oh my,” Joanna cut in suddenly. “I do believe my Rose has developed a rather pressing need for… that is to say, Mary, we must find the necessary, erm… Let us go, immediately. We’ll meet you outside, Annabelle dear.”

Before Annabelle could protest, her friend efficiently gathered her offspring and maid and left her alone with the duke in the suddenly too-small shop.

The silence stretched between them and was charged with the sort of tension that made the very air seem to thicken.

---