Page 95 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

“Has Lady Witherspoon completely radicalized our members?” Annabelle asked, thinking of the opinionated woman who had temporarily taken charge of the reading club.

“She’s attempted to have a local troupe act out some particularly steamy scenes,” Joanna said dryly. “She seems rather adamant about bringing down the wrath of the vicar on us.”

“Haha! Wouldn’t that be rather funny to witness?” Emma giggled, and they all laughed along.

“We’ll sort her out when I return,” Annabelle promised. “Though I suspect she’ll find it harder to intimidate a duchess than a spinster.”

As the afternoon wore on, Annabelle found herself seeking out Celia, who had been regaling Tristan, Emma’s son from her first marriage, with stories of London society. The young woman’s face lit up when she saw her new stepmother approaching.

“Miss Lytton—I mean, Your Grace,” Celia corrected herself with a grin. “I keep forgetting your new title.”

“Annabelle will do perfectly well,” she assured the girl before settling beside her on the garden bench. “Celia, I wanted tothank you. You’ve been so welcoming and accepting of this match. I know it couldn’t have been easy, wondering if someone new would try to take your father’s attention.”

Celia’s expression grew serious. “Are you joking? You’ve made Papa happier than I’ve seen him in years. He actually smiles now—really smiles, not just those polite ones he uses in public.” She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially. “Besides, I’m hoping you’ll take some of the pressure off me when my debut season arrives. He’s been positively dreadful about potential suitors.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.” Henry’s voice came from behind them, making both women jump. “I intend to be twice as vigilant now that I understand how devious young people can be.”

“Papa!” Celia protested laughingly. “You cannot frighten away every gentleman who shows interest.”

“Watch me,” he replied with mock severity before settling on Annabelle’s other side and taking her hand.

“On that note,” Celia said, rising gracefully, “I should mention that I’ve accepted Lady Oakley’s invitation for a small trip to Brighton. We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, so the house will be entirely yours for the next week.”

Henry’s face went pale. “Celia Blakesley?—”

“What?” she asked innocently. “I thought you’d appreciate the privacy. After all, you are newlyweds.”

Annabelle bit back a laugh at her husband’s mortified expression. “Celia, perhaps you shouldn’t poke the bear quite so enthusiastically.”

The evening drew to a close with more toasts and well-wishes, but Annabelle found herself increasingly aware of her husband’s presence beside her. There was tenderness that lingered in his fingers when he helped her with her champagne glass. She saw the heat in his eyes when he thought no one was looking, and the possessive way his hand rested at the small of her back.

Finally, mercifully, their guests began to take their leave. Emma and Victor gathered their children, Joanna and Nathaniel departed arm in arm, their triplets trailing behind them, and Everett clapped Henry on the shoulder before giving him a meaningful look.

“Try not to scandalize the servants,” he murmured just loud enough for Annabelle to hear.

“I make no promises,” Henry replied. His voice was rough with barely contained desire.

When the last guest had departed, Henry turned to his wife with an expression that made her knees weak.

“Alone at last,” he murmured as he advanced on her slowly.

“Henry,” she breathed while backing toward the stairs. “The servants?—”

“Know not to disturb their masters on their wedding night,” he finished before sweeping her into his arms and carrying her up the stairs to their chamber.

The room had been prepared with candles and rose petals, creating an atmosphere of romantic intimacy that made Annabelle’s heart race. Henry set her down gently on the bed but didn’t release her. His hands framed her face as he gazed down at her.

“My wife,” he said wonderfully, as if testing the words. “My beautiful, brilliant wife. I finally have you in my bed.”

“Yes,” she agreed breathlessly as she rose on her toes to kiss him.

The kiss was slow and thorough, full of promise and barely restrained passion. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard.

“I love you.” Henry’s voice was rough with emotion. “I love your sharp tongue and your kind heart. I love your independence and your vulnerability. I love every single thing about you, Annabelle Lytton.”

“Show me,” she whispered against his lips.

He needed no further encouragement. His hands moved to the fastenings of her gown with reverent care. Each revealed inch of skin he worshipped with gentle kisses and caresses. When she lay before him in nothing but her chemise, he paused and allowed his eyes to drink in the sight of her.

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