Page 7 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

His gaze traveled from his daughter to the blonde woman who stood beside her, and then to the scattered volumes of what appeared to be?—

A particularly lurid romantic novel.

By Jove.

The assembled ladies stared at him with expressions ranging from dread to defiance. None, however, appeared as boldly unapologetic as the woman with the honey-blonde hair.

The blonde woman stepped forward. Her chin was raised in a manner Henry found immediately irritating—more so with that defiant flash in her eyes.

He wasn’t accustomed to being looked at that way. Especially not by a woman. It rankled, unsettled.

His mind raced, sharp with the weight of too many emotions—anger, disappointment, and something far more dangerous stirred by the woman’s bold stare.

He couldn’t afford to lose control now. He needed to reassert order quickly.

“Father,” Celia began, her voice wavering slightly despite her evident attempt at composure, “I can explain?—”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Henry cut her off. “You abandoned your lessons, deceived your governess, and rode across the countryside unescorted to… what? Frolic with this band of idle women?”

“I can assure you that this is no idle gathering, Your Grace. Your daughter was merely curious about literature. Hardly a hanging offense.”

Henry fixed his attention fully on this woman and narrowed his eyes to survey her.

She wore a gown of azure—a color that was like her eyes. Her curves filled out the dress in a manner that made a deeper part within him quake.

Focus,man, he reprimanded himself and immediately turned his attention to her face. The directness frustrated him mostly, yet that hungry part of him was drawn.

“And you are?” he inquired coldly.

“Miss Annabelle Lytton,” she replied without hesitation. “And I find your dramatic entrance somewhat excessive for the situation at hand.”

The room fell silent, except for several of the ladies who gasped at her boldness. Henry’s jaw tightened.

Lytton. Henry recalled hearing about the spinster daughter of the Viscount Oakley, who resided with Lady Oakley, her grandmother.

“Miss Lytton,” he said, each syllable precisely measured. “I find this gathering exceedingly inappropriate for my daughter. These…books—” He gestured toward the nearest volume. “—are hardly suitable material for a young lady of breeding.”

“Father,” Celia interjected, stepping forward with a boldness that did not surprise him. “I wasn’t in any danger. Miss Lytton and her friends were merely discussing a novel.”

“A novel with a rather suggestive title,” Henry replied dryly as his gaze fell on the book displayed prominently on the table again. He was unable to curb the downward curl of his lip. “Hardly educational reading.”

Miss Lytton’s eyes flashed. “On the contrary, Your Grace, I find it far more educational than the insipid morality tales society deems appropriate. At least these books acknowledge the realities of life and passion, rather than pretending women are devoid of both intellect and desire.”

Henry felt an unexpected heat rise in his chest. The woman was infuriating. She spoke to him as though they were equals engaged in a friendly debate.

“What you choose to pollute your own mind with, Miss Lytton, is your affair,” he said coldly. “Encouraging impressionable young ladies to do the same is quite another matter.”

“Impressionable?” Miss Lytton repeated, her eyes narrowed and mouth agape. “Your daughter managed to escape her keepers, ride unaccompanied across miles of countryside, and successfully infiltrate a private gathering. I’d say she demonstrates rather remarkable independence of thought already.”

Several of the older ladies tittered nervously at this observation. Henry’s patience now began to fray dangerously.

“Independence without guidance is merely recklessness,” he countered, his gaze unwavering from her face. “A quality I have no desire to see cultivated in my daughter.”

“And guidance without independence is merely control,” Miss Lytton shot back, her cheeks flushing with her conviction. “Something I suspect you excel at, Your Grace.”

What a headstrong termagant, he thought, his jaw clenching once.

The air between them crackled with tension, and Henry found himself simultaneously infuriated by her impertinence and oddly stirred by her passion, even if it was for the absolute wrong thing.

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