Page 25 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Without delay, the elderly footman appeared at Henry’s elbow and bowed with perfect deference.

“Your Grace, if you would be so kind as to follow me? The damask roses are particularly fine this year.”

With a final warning glance at his daughter, who was already rising with barely concealed excitement, Henry moved along beside the old footman.

“Excuse me.”

Annabelle looked up from her book to find Lady Celia standing in the library doorway, her expression bright with mischief and a longing that struck her as painfully familiar.

“Lady Celia,” she said, setting aside her volume with careful precision, “should you not be with my grandmother?”

“She’s examining a portrait of some long-dead ancestor with particular enthusiasm,” Celia replied while stepping fully into the room. “I thought I might… that is, I hoped we might speak. Privately.”

Annabelle’s resistance wavered at the girl’s earnest expression. “Your father would hardly approve of such impropriety.”

“My father disapproves of most things that bring me joy,” Celia said with startling bitterness. “Please, Miss Lytton. You’re the only person who speaks to me as though I possess thoughts worth hearing.”

The raw honesty in her voice made Annabelle’s heart clench.

“Surely that cannot be true. Your father clearly adores you?—”

“He protects me,” Celia corrected as she moved to the window where afternoon light cast golden patterns across the Persian carpet. “But protection and understanding are not the same thing. It has been a long time since he understood me. I speak to Papa, the staff, my tutors, Lady Oakley… but they all see me as something fragile that might break if handled roughly.”

Annabelle rose, drawn by the vulnerability in the girl’s voice. “And you don’t feel fragile?”

“I feel as though I might explode from all the things I’m not permitted to say or do or even think,” Celia replied, her eyes shimmering. “Do you have any books you might recommend? Something substantial?”

“Lady Celia,” Annabelle said carefully, “if your father discovered I gave you a book, it would get us both into considerable trouble. I believe you’ve gathered that I’m not exactly in his good graces.”

Especially knowing she’d secretly slipped one of her less-than-academic books into the duke’s purchases. Once he discovered it, he would surely be angry, and the thought of his daughter reading anything borrowed from her would only fuel his fury.

A part of Annabelle, however, felt a thrill at the thought.

“But I’m so dreadfully ignorant about everything that matters!” Celia turned, her eyes—so like her father’s—bright with unshed tears. “I know which fork to use for the fish course and how to curtsy to a duchess, but I know nothing about the world beyond these drawing rooms and morning calls.”

The plea struck at every protective instinct within Annabelle. Here was a girl on the cusp of womanhood, intelligent and curious, yet deliberately kept in the shadows of true understanding.

“Your father has you rather sheltered,” she conceded after a moment.

“Sheltered?” Celia laughed, though the sound held no humor. “I’m practically entombed and shall remain that way until I marry some gentleman he deems suitable, whereupon I’ll be transferred from his protection to my husband’s control.”

Annabelle sighed, recognizing her own younger self in the girl’s frustrated eloquence. “What sort of book were you hoping for?”

Celia’s face lit with hope. “Something that might help me understand, well, anything beyond the narrow world I inhabit. History, perhaps, or philosophy, or…” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Something that might explain why adults speak in such riddles about everything interesting.”

After a moment’s internal struggle, Annabelle moved to one of the lower shelves and retrieved a slim volume bound in deep blue leather.

“Mary Wollstonecraft’sA Vindication of the Rights of Woman,” she said quietly. “I’ll have Hodgins place it discreetly in your carriage.”

Celia launched herself forward, enveloping Annabelle in an enthusiastic embrace.

Startled by the sudden intimacy, Annabelle found herself returning the hug. Her heart swelled with tenderness for this lively girl who reminded her so painfully of her younger self.

“Thank you,” Celia whispered against her shoulder. “Thank you for seeing me as more than just a duke’s daughter who must be kept pristine for the marriage market.”

“Now go,” Annabelle said gently, stepping back as emotion threatened to overwhelm her composure. “Before we’re both discovered, and your father decides I’m an even more corrupting influence than he already believes.”

Celia giggled at that, and Annabelle was glad that she could find some measure of amusement in this situation.

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