Page 43 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

But Annabelle just smiled, her lips curving gently. “Oh, come now. I know a sulking teenage girl when I see one.”

Celia harrumphed. “Well, it’s all his fault. Why should I waste my breath talking to him if he refuses to listen to me? A masquerade isn’t even particularly scandalous these days! Lady Milicent had one, and her father is a bishop, for heaven’s sake.”

“True,” Annabelle conceded while stretching her arms out in front of her. “Though I wonder if perhaps your father’s resistance stems from something beyond mere propriety.”

Celia glanced at her sideways. “What do you mean?”

“Fear,” Annabelle said simply. “Not of scandal or impropriety, but of losing you.”

“Losing me?” Celia’s brow furrowed. “That’s absurd. I’m merely suggesting a thematic ball, not running away to join a theatrical troupe.”

“To you, yes. But to a man who lost his wife suddenly and has raised you alone ever since…” Annabelle let the words trail off meaningfully. “Your debut marks the beginning of your independent life in society. The start of courtships, marriage proposals, and eventually a household of your own. For sixteen years, you’ve been the center of his world.”

“He has a peculiar way of showing affection, then,” Celia muttered, though Annabelle noticed the subtle softening of her expression and the light brush of pink dusting her cheeks.

“Most men do,” Annabelle replied with a wry smile. “Particularly those who’ve never learned to express tenderness directly. They translate love into protection, guidance, and preparation for life’s challenges. All valuable but often delivered with all the delicacy of a charging bull.”

That earned her a reluctant smile from Celia. “He does charge rather spectacularly, doesn’t he?”

“Like a bull who’s spotted a particularly offensive shade of red,” Annabelle agreed, relieved to see the girl’s tension beginning to ease. “That doesn’t excuse his dismissal of your feelings, mind you. He was unnecessarily harsh.”

“He always is when he feels his authority challenged,” Celia sighed and pulled her knees to her chest in a gesture that reminded Annabelle how young she still was, despite her poise. “Sometimes I wonder if he truly cares for me at all, or merely the idea of a proper daughter.”

“Oh, he cares,” Annabelle said with quiet certainty. “I’ve seen how he watches you when you’re engaged in conversation, the pride in his eyes when you demonstrate your accomplishments. That’s not the look of a man merely satisfied with his possession. That’s a father who adores his child.”

Celia’s eyes filled with fresh tears, though these seemed different from the angry ones she’d shed earlier. “Then why can’t he ever say so? Why must everything be rules and expectations and disappointment?”

“Because he’s afraid,” Annabelle repeated gently. “Afraid of failing you, afraid of the world hurting you. Fear makes men do terribly foolish things, Celia. Especially proud, powerful men like your father.”

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, watching the flames dance in the grate. Finally, when Celia spoke, her voice was small but steadier.

“Do you have a sibling, Miss Lytton? A brother or a sister, perhaps? You speak as though you do.”

The question caught her off guard and sent a sharp pang through her chest. “I do,” she said carefully. “A…sister. She lives in America now.”

“You must miss her terribly.”

Annabelle swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. “We… correspond infrequently.”

“I wish I had a sister,” Celia murmured while gazing into the fire. “I should be lucky to have one like you.”

Annabelle felt her smile falter and was grateful that Celia’s attention was not currently on her face. Otherwise, she would have seen the blatant discomfort there.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Annabelle managed, her voice admirably steady despite the turmoil beneath. She gently changed the subject. “Do you think you might be ready to speak with your father now? He’s quite worried, you know.”

Celia sighed deeply, then nodded. “I suppose I can’t hide in here forever. Though the prospect is tempting.” She glanced at Annabelle. “Will you stay? When I speak with him?”

“If you wish it,” Annabelle replied, surprised by the request.

“I do,” Celia said firmly. “You seem to understand us both. Perhaps you might translate when we inevitably begin speaking different languages again.”

Annabelle couldn’t suppress a laugh at the apt description. “Very well. Shall we venture forth, then?”

The Duke stood as they entered the main library. His rigid posture betrayed the tension he’d been under. His gaze moved swiftly from his daughter to Annabelle, carrying something that looked remarkably like gratitude before he masked it with his usual reserve.

“Celia,” he began stiffly, “your behavior was?—”

“What your father means,” Annabelle interrupted smoothly, ignoring his sharp glance, “is that he was concerned when you locked yourself away.”

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