Page 67 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“I thought…” Annabelle began, then stopped, pressing her fingers to her temples as if she could massage away the confusion. “I thought I couldn’t stand him. His arrogance, his certainty about everything, and how authoritative he is. But now…”

“Now?”

“Now I find I cannot stand being away from him.” The confession felt torn from her very soul. “When he touches me, when he looks at me with that intensity of his, it’s as if the rest of the world simply ceases to exist. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Joanna was quiet for a long moment. She studied her friend’s face with the careful attention of someone who understood the weight of such revelations.

“It sounds as though you are experiencing something quite powerful,” she said finally. “But I must ask you this: is it worth the risk?”

“If we are discovered…” she began.

“If you are discovered,” Joanna pressed gently, “what will happen?”

Annabelle closed her eyes, envisioning the catastrophe that would unfold. “It would ruin Celia’s debut.”

“And what of your own reputation?”

“What reputation?” Annabelle laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I am already a spinster with a questionable past. But even I have limits, and this… this would cross every conceivable line.”

“And marriage?” Joanna asked quietly. “Have you considered that possibility?”

The suggestion hung in the air like incense, heavy and complex. Annabelle shook her head slowly; her movements deliberate and final.

“I cannot marry him. I will not marry anyone. I have fought too hard for my independence to surrender it now, even for…” She trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

“Even for love?”

“Especially for love,” Annabelle said firmly. “Love is what makes women foolish.”

“And yet,” Joanna observed, “you speak of him with something that sounds remarkably like affection.”

“Affection,” Annabelle repeated as if testing the word. “Yes, perhaps that is what this is. But affection and marriage are entirely different propositions. Besides,” she added with a bitter smile, “who would marry a spinster past her prime? Even if I were inclined toward such folly, which I am not.”

“My dear friend,” Joanna said, rising from her chair to move closer, “you are barely thirty. Hardly in your dotage.”

“In society’s eyes, I am practically ancient,” Annabelle countered. “And with my reputation…”

“Your reputation is that of an intelligent, independent woman who has chosen her own path. Some might find that attractive rather than deterrent.”

“Some might,” Annabelle agreed, “but the Duke of Marchwood needs a wife who will improve his standing, not complicate it.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but she forced herself to speak them. It was better to face the truth now than allow herself to indulge in impossible fantasies.

“I think it is your fears that are speaking now, Annabelle, and not your reason,” Joanna said. Annabelle swallowed once as her fingers fisted in her skirts.

“It is better to do this than allow myself to be carried away on something I know will not last.”

“And so, what will you do?” Joanna finally asked after a short silence while she settled back into her chair.

“I will be sensible,” Annabelle said, though even as she spoke the words, she wondered if she truly meant them. “I will not allow myself to be caught in such a situation again.”

No matter how much her body craved it. Especiallybecauseher body craved it. Craved for more. Craved for everything.

“And if the Duke has other ideas?”

The question sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Because that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Henry—the Duke—had made his intentions quite clear. This was far from over, as he had put it.

The memory of his words, of his touch, of the way he had looked at her as if she were something precious and necessary, threatened to undo all her careful resolutions.

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