Page 23 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“You seem to be making quite the purchase,” Annabelle observed, nodding toward the impressive stack of volumes on the counter. She decided she was going to be civil with him. “An unexpected selection.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You find fault with my reading preferences?”

“No.” She stepped closer, studying the titles with deliberate interest. “I’m merely curious.A Treatise on Moral Philosophy,The Principles of Political Economy,Essays on the Nature of Virtue… rather weighty fare, even for a Duke.”

“Some of us prefer our reading to have substance,” he replied with his eyes narrowed. “In contrast to the frivolous fantasies that seem to captivate lesser minds.”

“Lesser minds?” Annabelle’s cheeks flushed with indignation.

Try being civil with him? This man was a beast!

“You speak as though imagination itself were a character flaw. Tell me, Your Grace, when did you last read something merely for the pleasure of it?”

“I find pleasure in improving my understanding of the world,” he said stiffly. “Knowledge serves a purpose beyond mere entertainment.”

“And what purpose does joy serve?” she challenged, moving closer still until she could detect the subtle scent of sandalwood that clung to his coat. “What value does wonder hold in your carefully ordered universe?”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment she thought she glimpsed something beneath the rigid control: a flicker of longing, perhaps, or regret.

“Some luxuries are not afforded to those with responsibilities,” he said hoarsely.

“Responsibilities,” she repeated, her voice softening despite her best intentions. “Or excuses?”

The space between them seemed to contract. His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to her eyes, and Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat.

“Miss Lytton, you—” he began, his voice rougher than usual.

The shop bell chimed, breaking the spell as another customer entered.

The Duke stepped back abruptly. His expression shuttered like windows being slammed against a storm.

As he turned to gather his purchases, Annabelle’s eyes dropped to the stack of volumes.

Her breath still unsteady, she acted without thinking, withoutquiteknowing why.

With a swift flick of her fingers, she slid a slim, scandalous novel,The Lustful Libertine’s Lessons in Love, into the middle of his stack, nestling it between his treatises on philosophy and economics.

He didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t. He was too busy shutting her out again, collecting his purchases with those sharp, precise movements.

“Good day, Miss Lytton,” he said formally, gathering his purchases with sharp, efficient movements.

“Your Grace,” she replied.

Her voice betrayed none of the tremors that ran through her as he strode past, so close that his sleeve brushed her arm.

She watched him leave, her heart pounding, but not from the encounter itself.

From anticipation.

CHAPTER 8

“Leave the tray there, and that will be all for the night,” Henry said, his voice clipped but polite as his valet placed the tea and decanter on the side table.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He barely acknowledged the man’s bow before the door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the quiet hush of his study.

Finally. Order. Silence. The only companions he needed.

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