Page 46 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Lady Wyndham had reduced her entire existence to a single moment of rejection, as though nothing she had accomplished since—the Athena Society, her intellectual pursuits, the respect she’d earned from women like her grandmother—counted for anything.

“It clearly does,” came a deep voice from behind her, “or you wouldn’t be hiding out here like this.”

Annabelle whirled to find the Duke standing in the doorway. His broad shoulders were silhouetted against the light from within. Her pulse leapt traitorously at the sight of him, and she hastily wiped away any remaining evidence of tears.

“I’m not hiding,” she lied, straightening her shoulders with dignity she did not feel. “I merely needed some air. Please, leave me be.”

“No. I’m afraid I cannot do that,” he said simply while stepping onto the balcony and closing the door behind him with quiet deliberation.

The soft click of the latch seemed unnaturally loud in the silence that followed.

Henry watched as indignation flashed across Miss Lytton’s face, momentarily displacing the hurt he’d glimpsed before she’d composed herself. Even in the dim light, he could see the tracesof tears on her cheeks and realized how much he did not like seeing her cry.

Oh, he did not like it at all. In fact, he had half a mind to go back into the building and track Lady Wyndham down himself?—

“This is highly improper,” she said stiffly. “If you’ve come to offer pity?—”

“I’ve come to ensure you’re well,” he interrupted, moving closer to her despite himself. “Lady Wyndham’s remark was unconscionable.”

“And yet entirely accurate,” she replied with brittle brightness. “I was indeed jilted at the altar. It happened. I survived. I have no need for your concern, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps not,” he acknowledged, “but you have it nonetheless.”

She turned away from him, her profile etched against the night sky like a divine painting. “How generous of you to spare such consideration for a woman you’ve previously described as a corrupting influence.”

“I admit I was wrong,” he said quietly.

Those simple words hung in the air between them. Miss Lytton turned slowly to face him.

“Wrong about what, precisely?” she asked.

“About many things,” he admitted, moving closer still. “About your character. About your influence on Celia. About my own…” He hesitated and searched for the right word. “Reactions to you.”

As her own grandmother had said, it was time to acknowledge the source of all these feelings that flared whenever she so much as looked at him.

“Your Grace—” She started to say, and Henry found that he did not like that, either.

“Henry,” he corrected her softly. The words were whispered without censure. “You can call me Henry.”

Her eyes widened at the intimate request. “I don’t think that would be wise, Your Grace,” she replied finally, though her voice held a tremor that sent heat coursing through his veins.

“Wisdom has apparently abandoned me where you’re concerned,” he said, closing the distance between them until scarcely a handspan separated their bodies. “…Annabelle.”

Her name on his lips felt like a transgression and a prayer all at once. She inhaled sharply, and her eyes darkened as they fixed on his face.

“I should go back inside,” she said, though she made no move to step away. “I think this discussion will breed nothing good for?—”

“I disagree,” he whispered. “I?—”

The sound of approaching voices from the hall made them both freeze.

Without thinking, Henry grasped her arm and pulled her into the shadows beside the balcony door. Her back pressed against the wall, he placed one hand over her mouth to silence her instinctive protest and used his body to effectively shield hers from view.

Lord Wexford’s voice drifted out: “…absolutely outrageous behavior from Marchwood. Defending that bluestocking as though she were some injured innocent rather than a woman with decidedly questionable judgment.”

“Oh, he’s merely being gallant,” came Lady Carmichael’s dismissive reply. “You know how these military men are. They can’t resist playing the hero. But I’ve never seen him so animated before. Perhaps there’s more to it than mere chivalry.”

“Surely not,” Lord Wexford scoffed. “A man of his position and a woman of her reputation? Unthinkable.”

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