Page 53 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“I see,” she said instead. “You may leave now.”

“Yes, my lady.” The young maid curtsied again before hurriedly exiting, no doubt skipping down the corridor to spread the gossip to the other maids in the house.

She supposed it was rather novel. Ever since being jilted at the altar, she couldn’t say that she was popular with the noblemen of theton. If she had been, it was likely she’d no longer be a spinster.

Now, Annabelle eyed the parcel with suspicion, noting the expensive paper and silk ribbon that suggested its contents were valuable indeed. She knew the pattern of the wrapping paper and understood that it came from Madame Bouchard.

The contents of this package have to be that dress.

Annabelle sighed while rising from her vanity. She’d told her grandmother that she had no intention of wearing the dress anywhere. There was no need for it. After all, she was a woman on the shelf—what would advertising her body bring her but reproach?

“Since when did you care about what other people thought?” She scoffed at herself.

But that wasn’t quite right. She really didn’t care what other people thought. But she cared about whathethought.

With her cheeks flaming, Annabelle flung her comb back down on the vanity. “That insufferable man!” She hissed, more out of embarrassment than anything.

Memories of the way he’d watched her when she’d stepped out in the gown continued to play in her mind’s eye. The way his gaze had tracked every inhale and exhale of her bosom…

And then what had he to say about it? He hoped his daughter’s dresses wouldn’t be quite so…what,sophisticated, was it? As if she hadn’t known what he’d truly meant by those words.

“What an infuriating man,” she huffed. “Hot one moment and cold the next! If that’s what he truly thinks of me, then why did he kiss me like that?”

Now, her cheeks scorched as she remembered the kiss, the very one that had haunted her dreams every night since then, leaving her to wake with scorching desire that overtook her entire body, aching for more.

Annabelle let out a long breath, forcing her attention back to the package currently resting on the stool in front of her, her curiosity overcoming her. She did have suspicions of what it was, but she could…she could make sure, couldn’t she?

When she opened it, her breath caught in her throat.

The emerald gown lay nestled in tissue paper like a jewel. The silk folds of fabric gleamed in the candlelight. Beneath it lay anote, written in what she instinctively knew to be Henry’s hand—short and efficient strokes that were straight to the point.

You are mistaken if you believe you have no use for beautiful things. Because you arefar more exquisite than any handcrafted treasure. —H.

She sank onto her narrow bed, clutching the note in her fist as her heart started to pound so hard she thought she might pass out.

Why is he doing this to me?

Outside her window, London continued its evening rituals, but in her small room, Annabelle felt as though the world had shifted in some fundamental way.

A way that told her that she’d just opened a door she had no idea how to shut.

“Papa, are you quite alright today?” When Celia spoke from beside him, Henry immediately caught himself as they approached the familiar entrance to Lady Oakley’s townhouse.

Of course, it has been two days since the visit to the modiste’s shop, and Henry had spent those two days wondering if Annabelle had gotten his gift. He’d tortured himself with dreamsof her in that dress, or rather, of him ripping it off her, his lips closing in on her pale breasts?—

His daughter’s voice nipped that thought in the bud before it could overtake him, and he was thankful she could not read his thoughts.

“You are walking too fast. Is there perhaps something you wish to discuss with Lady Oakley?”

Henry glanced down at his daughter and noticed the questioning glint in her eyes. She possessed an unsettling ability to see through him so thoroughly. He detested it at moments like these, because it was a talent that both impressed and unnerved him.

“Oh, I…I suppose so,” he replied, his voice carrying that measured tone he’d perfected over the years.

“Oh, I see,” Celia replied with that knowing tone that had become increasingly frequent of late, her lips curving in a smile that was far too cheeky.

Henry narrowed his eyes at his daughter. “And what, exactly, is it that you see?”

Celia giggled and looked him right in the eye before she said, “I saw you. Back at the modiste’s. When you said there was a mistake on the invoice for my dresses? I saw Madame Bouchardshowing you the dress Miss Lytton tried on. You bought it for her, didn’t you?”

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