Page 89 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

The question, asked with such matter-of-fact concern, made Annabelle laugh despite her tears. Here were the women who knew her best. They saw through her careful facades to the wounded woman beneath. Perhaps it was time to stop carrying this burden alone.

“It’s the Duke of Marchwood,” she said quietly, watching as understanding dawned in Joanna’s intelligent eyes. “And I…I’m the one who broke his heart, I suppose.”

“Ah.” Joanna sat back, and her expression shifted to one of calculation. “I wondered about that. The way he’s been lookinglike a man attending his own funeral at social gatherings lately rather gave it away.”

“Oh? Has he?”

“My dear, half of London has noticed. The gossip mill is churning.” Joanna leaned forward, and her voice grew urgent. “Because if you love him—and it’s abundantly clear that you do—then you’re being an absolute fool to let him slip away without a fight.”

“But Celia?—”

“Children are far more resilient than we give them credit for, and that girl adores you. As for society…” She waved a dismissive hand. “Society will always find something to whisper about. The question is whether you’re going to let their whispers dictate your happiness.”

Annabelle looked between her grandmother and her dearest friend. She saw the same message reflected in both their faces. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps she had let fear masquerade as noble sacrifice for too long.

But even as hope began to flicker in her chest, she couldn’t quite silence the voice that whispered of all the ways this could go wrong and all the people who might be hurt by her choices.

Outside, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. The sun cast long shadows across the room. Somewhere across London,Henry was probably preparing for another evening of social obligations. His face would be carefully arranged in the mask of polite indifference she had forced him to wear.

The thought of him, alone and hurting, made her chest ache with longing.

Whatever the consequences, whatever society might say, surely their love was worth fighting for?

The daisy in her hands seemed to mock her with its simple beauty. It served as a reminder that sometimes the most precious gifts came without calculation or fear of consequence.

CHAPTER 31

“You cannot seriously be considering investing in that railway venture, Marchwood. The man’s a charlatan.”

Henry lifted his wine glass to his lips, allowing the conversation to flow around him without truly engaging. The Marquess Southall had insisted on this dinner party, claiming it essential for cementing certain business relationships, but Henry found himself increasingly unable to muster enthusiasm for such gatherings.

“Perhaps,” he replied evenly, “but charlatans occasionally stumble upon profitable ventures despite themselves.”

The dinner party was precisely the sort of tedious affair he’d grown to despise—twenty couples seated around an enormous mahogany table, the conversation predictably shallow, and the company more interested in gossip than genuine discourse. He’d positioned himself strategically to avoid certain individuals, buteven from across the room, he could feel Miss Florentia Lytton’s expectant gaze boring into him.

“Speaking of ventures,” Lady Pemberton’s voice cut through the general chatter with the precision of a well-honed blade, “has anyone heard the latest whispers about the notorious Miss Lytton?”

Henry’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass, though his expression remained perfectly neutral.

“Oh, do tell,” another woman tittered. “I heard she’s become quite the recluse since her latest scandal broke.”

“What scandal?” Lord Whitmore asked as he leaned forward with obvious interest.

“Nothing confirmed, of course,” Lady Pemberton continued with false delicacy, “but there are whispers that she’s been conducting herself rather inappropriately with a certain gentleman of elevated rank. Again.”

Henry felt something cold and dangerous unfurl in his chest. “I’m afraid I don’t follow your meaning, Lady Pemberton.”

She cleared her throat and lifted her chin defiantly as she said, “Oh, Your Grace. Surely you’ve heard the talk? People have seen her sneaking off in the shadows with another gentleman over the past few weeks. One would think she’d learn to conduct herself with more discretion.”

Henry clenched his free hand. So, even now, in a new brewing scandal, Annabelle was the only one taking the brunt of the gossip. How disgusting.

“Perhaps,” Henry said quietly, his voice carrying just enough edge to make the woman pause, “one might consider that gossip often bears little resemblance to truth. Miss Lytton has always struck me as a woman of impeccable character who has been rather unfairly maligned by those with too much time and too little kindness.”

The table fell silent. The weight of his words settled over the assembled company like a heavy blanket. Lady Pemberton’s face flushed crimson while several other guests suddenly found their wine glasses fascinating.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she stammered. “I meant no offense. I’m sure you’re quite right.”

The conversation limped forward to safer topics, but Henry noticed how carefully the other guests avoided his gaze for the remainder of the meal. He’d made his position clear, perhaps more clearly than was wise, but he found he didn’t care. The thought of Annabelle being subjected to such casual cruelty made his blood boil.

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