Page 61 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Lady Catherine stood before her, resplendent in pale pink silk that emphasized her youthful beauty, holding a glass of red wine with what appeared to be casual elegance.

“Miss Lytton,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “What a delightful surprise to see you here this evening. I was just telling my dear friends how unexpected it was to see His Grace pay you such marked attention.”

“Were you indeed?” Annabelle replied carefully, sensing danger in the other woman’s tone.

“Oh yes. We were just discussing how some women simply don’t know when it’s time to gracefully retire from such pursuits.” Lady Catherine’s smile sharpened. “After all, there comes a point when one’s attempts to recapture youth become rather… pathetic, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Annabelle said evenly. “I’ve never found it necessary to concern myself with recapturing anything.”

“How fortunate for you.” Lady Catherine stepped closer, ostensibly to speak more intimately, but Annabelle saw the deliberate tilt of her wine glass a split second too late.

The red wine splashed across the front of the emerald gown in a dark, spreading stain that seemed to bloom like blood against the silk.

Gasps arose from the nearby guests, and Annabelle’s face flamed with mortification as all eyes turned toward the spectacle.

“Oh dear!” Lady Catherine exclaimed with obviously false dismay. “How terribly clumsy of me! I do hope the gown isn’t completely ruined. Though I suppose at your age, you won’t need it after tonight.”

Annabelle could feel the weight of every gaze in the ballroom and hear the whispers beginning to spread like wildfire through the assembled guests.

The beautiful gown—Henry’sgift—was destroyed, stained beyond any hope of repair.

Without a word, she turned and fled toward the doors leading to the side corridors. Her vision blurred with tears of shame and rage even as she made sure not one drop spilled out of her eyes.

Behind her, she could hear her grandmother’s sharp voice cutting through the murmur of conversation, no doubt delivering a set-down that would be remembered for weeks to come.

But Annabelle didn’t stop to listen. She needed to escape, to find somewhere private where she could attempt to compose herself before facing the inevitable gossip and speculation that would follow this disaster.

She found refuge in a small anteroom off one of the side corridors. The room was dimly lit by a single branch of candles, furnished with a few chairs and a small mirror that reflected her disheveled appearance back at her with cruel clarity.

Annabelle sank into one of the chairs and fought back tears as she stared down at the ruined gown. The wine had soaked deep into the silk, leaving an ugly stain that covered nearly the entire front of the dress.

All of Henry’s thoughtfulness, all the care he had taken in selecting this beautiful gift, had been destroyed by one woman’s petty jealousy.

She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, dabbing futilely at the stain while tears of frustration and humiliation began to fall in earnest.

“Annabelle?”

Annabelle froze.

Because she knew exactly who owned that voice.

“Annabelle.”

Henry paused in front of the door. His voice cut through the shadows of the anteroom like a blade, low and dangerous in a way that made Annabelle’s spine straighten at the sound of it.

When she turned around to look at him, he found her beautiful eyes wet with unshed tears and her cheeks shot with red. He also noticed the dark red stain that splashed across the front of her gown, soaking it through—so much so that he could almost make out the outlines of her underclothes if he squinted hard enough.

Henry’s teeth clenched, both from the effort of restraining his desire and anger.

“Who did this to you?” His expression was tight with barely controlled fury.

Annabelle narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t think it should concern you, Your Grace,” she said sharply, turning away from him to face the mirror once more. “Haven’t you done quite enough for one evening?”

“I asked you a question.” He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Who. Did. This?”

“And why should I tell you?” She challenged him, and her face flushed red, though he didn’t quite know whether it was from embarrassment or rage. Rage at him, to be precise, even though he didn’t know what he did to deserve it. “Are you going to fight a woman on my behalf? My, that is hardly proper, is it?”

Henry’s brows drew lower over his eyes. “What is the matter?—”

---