Page 51 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

He wanted to join in—but he didn’t quite know what to say. He was sure his own interests would bore both ladies to death, and he didn’t want to shatter the lively atmosphere between his daughter and Annabelle. He would much rather continue hearing her voice tickle his ears, so he kept his mouth shut and burned with longing.

Madame Bouchard’s establishment was everything Henry had expected and dreaded. The shop was a temple to feminine vanity filled with bolts of silk and satin, lace trim, and the sort of elaborate confections that transformed women into walking works of art. The proprietress herself was a sharp-eyed Frenchwoman who assessed each customer with the calculating gaze of a general surveying a battlefield.

“Ah, Lady Oakley!” Madame Bouchard exclaimed as she swept forward with practiced grace. “And what brings you to my humble establishment today?”

“Education, my dear Madame,” Lady Oakley replied with a meaningful glance toward Celia. “Lady Celia requires instruction in the art of selecting appropriate attire for a young lady of her station.”

“But of course!” The modiste’s eyes gleamed with professional interest as she studied Celia with the sort of thoroughness that made Henry distinctly uncomfortable. “Such lovely coloring—we shall make her a diamond of the first water, non?”

As Lady Oakley launched into an extensive discussion of fabrics, weaves, and the subtle language of color that every well-bred young woman must master, Henry found himself gravitating toward Annabelle, who stood somewhat apart from the animated group.

“…Miss Lytton,” he said quietly, moving to stand beside her near a display of kid gloves.

When she turned toward him, her eyes were wide with shock, and he was struck anew by the clarity of her blue eyes. “Your Grace?”

Her pulse was fluttering ever so seductively at the base of her throat, casting his mind back to far more… inappropriate thoughts and desires that he had to rein back by the skin of his teeth.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, keeping his voice low enough that their conversation would remain private.

Because that wasn’t quite right. What he wanted to do was pull her somewhere private where he could kiss those pretty lips sore, and drink in every moan she would make for him. His dreams ever since that first kiss were full of nothing else.

Now, he cleared his throat again. “For what you did the other day—for…for Celia and me. Whatever it is you said to her that day…has clearly changed her.”

A soft smile touched her lips, and his heart throbbed in time with his rousing member.

“And you. I am so happy that you both are closer now.” Her smile faltered slightly, and for a moment, he glimpsed a vulnerability that she usually kept carefully hidden. “Not all daughters are so fortunate with their fathers.”

The frank admission hung between them. Henry felt the urge to comfort her and demand the details of whatever pain lay behind that carefully neutral expression.

“Annabelle,” he began, forgetting propriety in his desire to know more about her, whatever crumbs she was willing to give him right now.

“Papa!” Celia’s voice cut through their moment of connection. “Madame Bouchard has selected several gowns for me to try. May I?”

Henry turned toward his daughter, noting with some dismay how the modiste’s selections seemed designed to emphasize Celia’s transition from child to young woman. The implications of her approaching debut season suddenly felt overwhelmingly real.

“If you wish,” he said, though his voice carried a note of reluctance.

As Celia disappeared into the dressing room with Madame Bouchard and an armful of gowns, Lady Oakley continued her educational monologue about the importance of proper fit and the subtle messages conveyed by various necklines and hemlines.

When Celia emerged in the first gown—a confection of pale blue silk that transformed his little girl into something perilously close to a woman—Henry’s chest constricted with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.

“Oh, Celia,” Annabelle breathed with genuine admiration in her voice. “You look absolutely lovely.”

Indeed, she did, and that was precisely the problem. The gown’s cut emphasized her emerging figure while maintaining perfect propriety, but Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that he waswatching his daughter slip away from him with each passing moment.

“What do you think, Papa?” Celia asked as she spun to show off the gown’s elegant lines.

“Beautiful,” he managed.

Three more gowns followed, each more sophisticated than the last, and with each transformation, Henry felt himself confronted with the reality of his daughter’s approaching womanhood. When she finally selected her favorites—naturally, the most expensive of the lot—he found himself nodding agreement without even inquiring about the cost.

“Excellent choices, mademoiselle,” Madame Bouchard pronounced with satisfaction. “And now,” she continued, turning toward Annabelle with a speculative gleam, “perhaps we might attend to Miss Lytton? I have just the thing! A gown that would complement your coloring beautifully.”

Annabelle shook her head with a polite smile. “Thank you, but I have no need of new gowns at present.”

“Nonsense!” Celia exclaimed with the enthusiasm of youth, her eyes bright with excitement. “You simply must try it, Miss Lytton. Madame Bouchard has such exquisite taste.”

“Indeed,” Lady Oakley added her voice to the campaign. “It would be educational for Celia to observe how different styles complement different figures.”

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