Page 40 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Annabelle felt a pang of sympathy. Behind the polished façade of the Duke’s daughter, she recognized the lonely child who had grown up in a household dominated by masculine influence, however well-intentioned.

“I imagine it’s been difficult, growing up without your mother.”

“I was so young when she died that I scarcely remember her,” Celia admitted while glancing back to ensure her father remained out of earshot.

The melancholy that briefly shadowed her features added years to her countenance, transforming her from a carefree girl to a thoughtful young woman in the space of a heartbeat.

“Father hired the best governesses, of course, but they came and went. And the female staff, while kind, must maintain a proper distance.”

The quiet loneliness in her voice struck a responsive chord in Annabelle’s heart. She thought of her own mother, lost too early, though not before imparting a foundation of love and confidence that had sustained her through later trials. The acute pain of that absence had softened over time into a gentle ache, but she remembered all too well the bewildering sense of navigating life’s complexities without maternal guidance.

“Does your father speak of her often?” she asked gently while steering them toward a shaded bench overlooking a particularly picturesque vista of the Serpentine.

In the distance, swans glided across the water’s surface with serene dignity, their white forms stark against the deeper blue of the lake.

Celia shook her head, and her expression grew somber. “Never. Not once in all these years. I’ve seen her portrait in the gallery, of course, but whenever I ask questions about her, Father changes the subject immediately. It’s as though he cannot bear to revisit the past, even to share memories with me.”

Annabelle considered this revelation thoughtfully and allowed her perception of the Duke to shift yet again.

Perhaps his rigid control extended beyond mere social propriety. Perhaps it was the only defense he had foundagainst overwhelming grief. To lose the woman one loved, to be left alone with an infant daughter and a dukedom’s responsibilities… The weight of such burdens might indeed forge a man into something harder, more unyielding than he might otherwise have become.

“Sometimes,” she said carefully, choosing her words with deliberate precision, “the deepest wounds are the ones we protect most fiercely from view. Your father may find it difficult to speak of your mother precisely because her loss affected him so profoundly.”

Celia considered this for a moment as her brow furrowed pensively. A gentle breeze stirred the loose tendrils of hair that had escaped her bonnet, framing her young face with delicate wisps that caught the dappled sunlight.

“I never considered that possibility,” she admitted quietly. “I always assumed his silence meant he had simply… moved beyond her memory.”

“I rather think,” Annabelle replied, glancing back to where the Duke walked with Lady Oakley, his tall figure silhouetted against the afternoon light, “that some people shape our lives so fundamentally that moving beyond them proves impossible. We simply learn to carry their absence as part of who we have become.”

“She certainly has a natural ease about her,” Lady Oakley remarked. Her shrewd eyes followed Celia across the Harborough drawing room. “One might almost forget this is her first formal introduction to London society.”

Henry’s gaze tracked his daughter as she leaned over to whisper something into Miss Lytton’s ear.

“She has been adequately prepared,” he replied, though inwardly he couldn’t deny a flicker of pride at her composure.

“Indeed,” Lady Oakley agreed, “though I believe her natural grace owes as much to inheritance as instruction.”

Henry didn’t respond immediately because his attention was drawn inexorably to the graceful curve of Miss Lytton’s nape. The afternoon light caught in her honey-blonde curls, illuminating her animated features as she spoke. Even walking in front of him as they were, he could perceive the genuine warmth in her expression, and he was suddenly jealous that she’d never turned any of it his way.

Although, of course, he’d done nothing to deserve her warmth thus far.

“Your daughter and my granddaughter appear to have developed quite the rapport,” Lady Oakley observed as she followed his gaze with knowing eyes.

Henry stiffened slightly but quickly regained himself. “Indeed. Miss Lytton has a way of encouraging excessive familiarity.”

“Perhaps,” Lady Oakley replied mildly, “or perhaps she simply treats Celia as a person rather than merely a duke’s daughter. Young women of spirit recognize kindred souls, Your Grace.”

Celia laughed then, and Henry felt his face soften. The careful mask of decorum she’d worn around him slipped to reveal genuine animation as they spoke. The sound, so rarely heard, was like a balm to his otherwise austere existence.

How long had it been since he heard his daughter laugh?

Guilt spread over his chest like a set of rotten vines, circling around his ribcage and tightening mercilessly.

“You’ve done remarkably well with her, you know,” Lady Oakley said quietly, bringing his focus back to her. “Raising a daughter alone is no small feat, particularly for a man of your position.”

The rotten vines loosened slightly, and Henry felt like his breath came more easily now.

Indeed, he had sacrificed much. Countless evenings spent at council meetings or lavish social gatherings abandoned, despite Everett’s several attempts to drag him to a hunt or a card game. Each refusal was met with good-natured teasing, but Henry’s focus never wavered.

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