Page 42 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“I understand perfectly, Father,” she said, her voice suddenly small and controlled in a way that somehow wounded him more than any outburst might have. “As we have previously established, my identity exists solely to serve the Marchwood legacy. My own thoughts and feelings are merely inconvenient complications.”

“Celia—” he began, but she was already rising, her movements precise and controlled as she gathered her shawl.

“I’m trying my best,” she said, her voice slightly despite her evident effort at composure. “But it seems nothing I do is ever enough to meet your expectations.”

She did not wait for him to respond before she swept from the room, the door closing behind her with a decisive click that somehow carried more rebuke than any slam might have.

“Well,” Lady Oakley observed after a moment of heavy silence, “that could have been handled with greater diplomacy.”

Henry sighed. “She needs to understand the realities of her position.”

“She understands them all too well,” Miss Lytton replied, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “And that is why I think her father’s overbearing nature bothers her so. I had thought you realized that you are?—”

Yes, Henry knew he was being a heartless bastard. But he did not know how to be anything else. He intended to make sure Celia had the best life in society and that heartlessness was what would help him achieve that.

So, he turned toward her with his sense of irritation flaring. “You overstep, Miss Lytton. I would have thought that you would understand me by now.”

“Perhaps I do understand you,” she acknowledged, meeting his gaze directly. “But I think it is you who refuses to understandher. I speak as someone who recognizes the look in her eyes. She fears disappointing you above all else. You choke her with your rigid expectations, Your Grace.”

Those words momentarily robbed him of response. A maid appeared at the doorway at that moment, wearing an anxious expression.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, Your Grace, but Lady Celia has locked herself in the small library and refuses to respond to our knocking.”

Lady Oakley rose immediately. “I shall speak with her.”

Twenty minutes later, however, they had made no progress. Celia remained barricaded behind the solid oak door despite Lady Oakley’s increasingly firm entreaties and Henry’s eventual commanding tone.

“This is childish behavior,” Henry declared. His frustration mounted as the standoff continued. “She cannot simply hide away when faced with unpleasant truths.”

“With respect, Your Grace,” Miss Lytton said quietly from where she had been observing their efforts, “perhaps your daughter requires a different approach.” She stepped forward hesitantly. “Might I attempt to speak with her?”

Henry sighed, knowing fully that she might indeed be the only one to get through to his daughter.

“Very well,” he said finally, stepping aside even as nervousness danced under his skin, heart pounding in his throat.

Miss Lytton approached the door with calm and deliberate movements. Rather than knocking forcefully as they had done, she simply placed her palm against the polished wood.

“Celia?” she called softly. “It’s Annabelle. I wonder if I might join you for a moment? I’ve always found that difficult conversations are easier with tea, and I’ve asked our housekeeper to prepare a tray.”

Silence greeted her words, but Miss Lytton continued undeterred, keeping her voice gentle but not condescending. “You needn’t speak if you don’t wish to. I would simply appreciate the opportunity to sit with you for a while. Sometimes silence shared is better than solitude, don’t you think?”

Henry watched, and something tightened in his chest as Miss Lytton continued her quiet entreaty, speaking of inconsequential matters even though profound silence followed her words.

But then, so quietly they nearly missed it, came the soft click of the lock turning.

The door opened just enough for Annabelle to slip through before Celia closed it firmly behind her.

“I don’t wish to speak with my father,” Celia said immediately in a trembling voice.

“I haven’t come to persuade you otherwise,” Annabelle replied. “May we sit?”

Celia hesitated, then they settled on the thick carpet with their backs against plush footstools, allowing the flames to cast dancing shadows across their faces.

“He doesn’t understand me at all,” Celia burst out after a moment of shared silence. “Or rather, he simply refuses to. Everything must be exactly as he dictates.” Her fingers plucked restlessly at her skirts.

Annabelle hummed. “Is that the reason you both haven’t been on speaking terms lately?” She said, and Celia snapped her head to look at her with wide eyes.

“How did you?—?”

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