Page 60 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

The moment their hands touched, even through the barrier of their gloves, Annabelle felt a jolt of electricity that seemed to race up her arm and settle somewhere deep in her chest.

Henry’s fingers closed around hers with gentle pressure, and she could have sworn she felt his thumb brush across her knuckles in a caress so subtle she might have imagined it.

As he led her toward the dance floor, she was dimly aware of the whispers that followed in their wake and the way heads turned to track their progress across the room. But all of that faded to insignificance as the opening strains of a waltz began to play, and Henry’s hand settled at her waist while his other maintained its hold on her fingers.

“You look absolutely breathtaking tonight,” he murmured. His voice was pitched low enough that only she could hear. “The gown is even more beautiful on you than I imagined.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze directly. “Your Grace, I?—”

“Henry,” he corrected automatically.

Annabelle’s pulse was a drumbeat in her throat, but she held his gaze. “I never thought I’d hear a man who is rather adamant about following social etiquette ask a lady to break it so easily.”Henry’s brow arched. “You know I cannot call you by your given name here, at such a public place?—”

“Oh, but I believe it is just you I have in my arms right this instant,” he said, his usual rigid tone dripping dark honey. “That is rather private enough to me.”

They began to move together across the floor, and Annabelle discovered that Henry was an exceptional dancer—strong and confident, as he guided her through the steps with an ease that made her feel as though she were floating. But it was more than mere technical skill; there was something in the way he held her, the careful attention he paid to her responses, that made the dance feel like an intimate conversation conducted without words.

“Henry,” she whispered, and felt his hand tighten slightly at her waist in response.

“Much better,” he said. His breath was warm against her ear as they turned together. “I’ve thought about nothing but you this past week.”

The admission sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the temperature in the ballroom. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Why not, when they’re true?” His eyes met hers again, and she saw heat there that made her breath catch. “I told you I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Did you think that would change simply because we were in public?”

They moved through another series of turns, their bodies perfectly synchronized, and Annabelle found herself acutely aware of every point of contact between them. His hand lingered at her waist, his fingers entwined with hers, and the way her skirts brushed against his legs as they danced…

“Everyone is watching us,” she managed, though she found she cared less about the observation than she should have.

“Let them,” Henry replied, his voice rough with some emotion she couldn’t quite identify. “All I care about is you enjoying yourself tonight.”

Annabelle’s eyes flew wide at the words coming out of the Duke’s mouth. She’d never been one at a loss for words, but now that she was faced with the full brunt of this man’s attention, she found herself wanting to run away.

And that annoyed her as much as it terrified her.

The music seemed to swell around them, and for a moment, Annabelle allowed herself to fall into the rhythm of the dance, into the warmth of Henry’s regard, and into the fantasy that perhaps, for just this one evening, she could be the woman in his arms without consequence.

But as the final notes of the waltz began to fade, reality crashed back over her like a cold wave. The whispers around the ballroom had grown more pronounced, and she could see the calculation in various observers’ eyes as they watched the Dukeof Marchwood escort the spinster Miss Annabelle Lytton from the dance floor.

Henry seemed reluctant to release her hand. His fingers lingered on hers for just a moment longer than propriety dictated.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Lytton,” he said formally, though his eyes conveyed a very different message as they slowly raked down her body and hurried back up to search her eyes.

“The pleasure was mine, Your Grace,” she replied, forcing herself to step back and create the appropriate distance between them.

But before she could retreat entirely, Henry was approached by several gentlemen. Their expressions were serious as they drew him aside for what was clearly a business discussion.

Annabelle caught fragments of their conversation—something about investments and parliamentary votes—and recognized several faces from her father’s social circle.

“I say, Your Grace,” Lord Hartwell was saying as she lingered nearby, pretending to adjust her gloves, “interesting choice of dance partner this evening. Miss Lytton, wasn’t it? Rather surprised to see you paying such marked attention to a woman of her reputation.”

“What reputation might that be, Hartwell?” Henry’s voice carried a dangerous edge that made Annabelle’s pulse quicken.

“Well, you know how it is,” another gentleman interjected with a nervous laugh. “The scandal with that Belford fellow a few years back. Jilted at the altar, if memory serves. And she’s well past her prime now, isn’t she? Hardly the sort of woman one would expect to catch the eye of someone in your position.”

Annabelle felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. She retreated toward where her grandmother waited, desperate as she was to escape before she heard Henry’s response.

But as she turned away, she found her path blocked by a familiar figure.

---