Page 31 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Annabelle’s lips twitched despite herself. Oh, Celia might be bored by her father’s approved reading, but she now had farmore intriguing volumes tucked away, thanks to Annabelle’s small act of rebellion.

The real challenge, Annabelle thought with secret satisfaction, would be finding a way to discuss those books with the girl soon… without drawing the Duke’s wrath.

“Moral essays,” Lady Oakley mused with theatrical consideration. “How instructive. Though I wonder whether we might discover something more engaging to supplement your studies. Literature should expand your understanding of the world whilst maintaining perfect propriety.”

The girl brightened immediately, and hope bloomed across her features like sunrise after a long night. “That would be absolutely wonderful. I confess myself rather starved for intellectually stimulating material.”

“Excellent. Annabelle!” Her grandmother’s voice rang with the authority of a General commanding troops. “Might I trouble you to join our discussion? I require your expertise in selecting appropriate volumes for Lady Celia’s intellectual advancement.”

Annabelle’s pulse quickened traitorously as she realized she would be forced into proximity with the Duke once more. Ever since their encounter in the stable yard…this would be the first time in a week that she would be in the same room as him.

And since she was quite tired of her cowardice, she decided that she would not avoid him this time.

“Certainly, Grandmama,” she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady as she stepped into the doorway.

Despite her intentions, her gaze flicked toward the Duke involuntarily, and she felt that familiar jolt of awareness course through her system like lightning seeking ground. He stood with his characteristic rigid control. His broad shoulders filled out his perfectly tailored coat in a manner that made her mouth go inexplicably dry.

Yet as her eyes met his, she felt the same tempting pull that had nearly undone her composure in the stable yard?—

“Something that acknowledges the complexities of human nature whilst maintaining moral instruction,” Lady Oakley was saying with diplomatic smoothness, mercifully interrupting Annabelle’s treacherous recollections. “Perhaps you might recommend suitable authors for a young woman of Lady Celia’s evident intelligence and elevated social position.”

“Of course.” Now, she moved toward the bookshelf, acutely conscious of the Duke’s penetrating gaze following her every movement. She could feel the heat of his attention like a physical caress, raising gooseflesh along her arms despite the warmth of the afternoon.

“What manner of literature did you have in mind?” she managed to ask, proud that her voice betrayed none of the tumultuous emotions churning beneath her carefully composed exterior.

As she began discussing potential selections with Celia, Annabelle found herself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of discourse with the teenager. Truly, the girl possessed such a wonderfully quick mind, and she displayed such genuine curiosity about the world, which reached beyond her sheltered existence. It was criminal that her father seemed determined to cage such a brilliant spirit within the narrow confines of conventional feminine education.

“What of Lord Byron?” Celia inquired, trailing her gloved finger along the leather spines with a mixture of awe and hesitation.

Annabelle’s glance flickered toward the Duke, touching an exposed nerve. His grey eyes darkened, betraying both surprise and disapproval at her ready agreement with the choice.

“Lord Byron,” she said carefully, “is a poet of great talent, but his verses and life are… well, they have stirred no small amount of scandal in polite society.”

The word ‘scandal’ hung in the air like a challenge, charged with dangerous possibility. Annabelle’s cheeks warmed as she felt the Duke’s gaze sharpen on her, focused and predatory.

Don’t think about it, she told herself sharply.

“Byron is not appropriate reading for a young lady,” the Duke said sternly.

“Lord Byron’s verse,” she said, meeting the Duke’s gaze squarely, “explores the depths of human passion and folly. To shield Lady Celia from such truths would be to deny her the very experiences that shape us all.”

The Duke’s jaw tightened visibly. Annabelle felt a dark thrill at having pierced his armor of rigid propriety. His eyes held hers with a fierce intensity, stripping away all pretense until only raw awareness remained between them.

That was, at least, until he rose abruptly, signaling his patience was exhausted. “I believe that constitutes quite enough literary discussion for one afternoon.”

Both women turned to him, and Annabelle felt indignation flare within her. How dare he dismiss their conversation so summarily?

“But Father,” Celia protested, frustration clear, “Miss Lytton was merely explaining?—”

“Miss Lytton has explained quite enough,” he interrupted, his voice cold and authoritative. “Your lessons are conducted with Lady Oakley, not with her granddaughter.”

The tone ignited Annabelle’s temper like kindling aflame. Was she always to be cast as the villain? She was growing weary of it.

Stepping forward, she lifted her chin defiantly. “I was merely discussing the poetry of a man who dared to live and writebeyond the bounds of convention, Your Grace. Lord Byron’s work may be improper by some standards, but it is hardly unworthy.”

“Yes, but I fear your discussion will wander into territory I find wholly inappropriate for my daughter,” he replied, his voice frosty enough to chill blood. Yet his coldness only stoked her indignation further. “Your presence here is the very opposite of what I intended when arranging these lessons.”

“My presence?” The words came sharper than intended, voice rising despite restraint.

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