Page 69 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

Henry’s frown was immediate and pronounced, but he said nothing as Annabelle stepped aside.

“Now then,” she continued, gesturing toward father and daughter, “why don’t you try again? Remember what you observed, and don’t think so hard about your feet. Let the rhythm carry you.”

Celia nodded eagerly and moved to take her father’s hand once more. This time, perhaps inspired by the demonstration she had witnessed, her movements were noticeably more fluid. She still stumbled occasionally, but there was a marked improvement in her confidence and grace.

“Much better!” Lady Oakley proclaimed. “You see what a proper example can accomplish?”

“Indeed,” Henry said, though his attention remained fixed on Annabelle rather than his daughter’s progress. “Miss Lytton is quite an accomplished dancer.”

“Yes, well,” Annabelle said, already moving toward the door, “I’m certain Lady Celia will master it with continued practice. If you’ll excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to.”

“Of course, my dear.” Lady Oakley waved her away absently as her focus returned to Celia’s footwork. “Thank you for the assistance.”

Henry executed a formal bow, though his eyes held an intensity that made Annabelle’s pulse race. “Miss Lytton,” he said simply, but there was a wealth of unspoken meaning in those two words.

She curtsied in return, not trusting herself to speak, and fled the parlor with as much dignity as she could muster.

Only when she reached the safety of her own room did she allow herself to breathe freely again. Her back pressed against the closed door as she fought to regain her composure.

The memory of his touch lingered on her skin like a brand, and she closed her eyes against the wave of longing that threatened to overwhelm her carefully constructed resolve.

This could not continue. She would not allow it to continue, no matter how desperately her body craved his attention.

But as she retrieved Emma’s letter from where she had abandoned it in the parlor, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Henry would not be so easily discouraged.

Because she could feel his eyes following her even as she left the room.

“Marchwood, you’re distracted this evening,” Everett observed as he accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman. “The Countess of Westfield has been practically batting her eyelashes at you for the past quarter hour, and you haven’t so much as acknowledged her existence.”

Henry’s gaze swept across Lord Fitzwilliam’s crowded drawing room, searching faces with barely concealed desperation. “Have I? How terribly rude of me.” His response was automatic because his attention was elsewhere entirely.

Where is she?

The soirée was in full swing. The usual collection of London’s political elite gathered to discuss the pressing matters of the day over fine wine and careful observation of social hierarchies.

Henry had attended out of obligation rather than interest. His mind was consumed with thoughts of taste and touch and of Annabelle’s breathless moans echoing in his memory.

“Indeed,” Everett continued, seemingly oblivious to his friend’s distraction. “Lord Fitzwilliam was just discussing the proposed reforms to the electoral system. Rather progressive thinking, actually. You might find his perspective enlightening.”

“Enlightening,” Henry repeated absently as his eyes finally located Lady Oakley across the room. She stood near the refreshment table, engaged in animated conversation with Lady Fitzwilliam, but notably alone. His frown deepened as he scanned the immediate vicinity.

No sign of Annabelle.

“She’s not here,” he said to himself while clenching his jaw.

“Are you quite well?” Everett’s tone carried a note of genuine concern now. “You are moping at a social event. Being too much of a downer, really.”

Henry forced his attention back to his friend. “I’m perfectly well. Perhaps we should pay our respects to Lady Oakley. I notice she’s arrived this evening.”

Without waiting for the Marquess’s response, Henry made his way through the clusters of guests, nodding politely at those who greeted him while his thoughts remained fixated on one glaring absence.

Three days. It had been three days since that afternoon in the parlor, three days since he had held Annabelle in his armsduring that torturous dance demonstration. Three days since she had fled from him as though he carried the plague.

“Lady Oakley,” he said, executing a proper bow as he approached. “How delightful to see you this evening.”

“Your Grace,” Lady Oakley responded with a warm smile, though Henry detected something guarded in her expression. “Lord Southall, what a pleasure.”

“I trust you’re both well?” Henry inquired, though the question was hardly as casual as he attempted to make it sound. “I confess I expected to see Miss Lytton accompanying you this evening.”

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