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“ T he tea has gone cold, Father,” Celia observed. Her voice broke through the heavy silence that had descended upon the breakfast table. “Shall I ring for a fresh pot?”

Henry started, glancing down at his untouched cup with mild surprise.

Had he truly been sitting there, staring at one page of the newspaper for the last… fifteen minutes, was it?

Even more unsettling was the fact that he could scarcely recall a single thing he’d read on that page.

His mind was well and truly occupied, it seemed, but he had not been mulling over the matters that most deserved his attention.

“No need,” he replied, clearing his throat once before pushing the cup aside with a dismissive gesture. “I’ve had sufficient refreshment.”

This was, of course, a blatant falsehood. He had barely touched his breakfast. His appetite abandoned him sometime during the previous evening’s musicale.

Precisely when a pair of challenging blue eyes had locked with his from across the crowded room at Thornfield House.

Celia studied him over the rim of her own teacup. Her keen gaze was so similar to his own. “You seem rather out of sorts this morning, Father. Did you not enjoy the performances? Didn’t Lady Eliza play well last night?”

“Her playing was adequate,” Henry allowed. He lifted the pages of the morning paper and used them more as a shield than because of any genuine interest he had in their contents.

“Lady Oakley says that true artistry requires both technical skill and emotional connection,” Celia ventured. “She believes many performers master the former while neglecting the latter.”

Henry lowered the newspaper fractionally. “Lady Oakley appears to have strong opinions on a great many subjects.”

“Oh yes,” Celia replied, her expression brightening.

“She’s terribly knowledgeable about everything from classical literature to modern politics.

Did you know she once dined with the Duke of Wellington?

She told the most fascinating story about it during our last lesson.

” She paused and buttered a piece of toast. “Miss Lytton was there too. She made the most amusing observation about how?—”

“Miss Lytton was present during your lesson?” Henry interrupted, his voice acquiring an edge that caused his daughter to look up in surprise.

“Only briefly!” Celia clarified quickly as she set down her knife—too quickly, and Henry could not help but he suspicious. “She brought us tea and stayed to discuss Herodotus. Her Greek is remarkably good, you know. Far better than mine.”

“I was not aware that Greek was among the subjects Lady Oakley had undertaken to teach you,” Henry said, his body tensing.

“Oh, it wasn’t part of the formal lesson,” Celia assured him. “It was merely a conversation that arose naturally. Miss Lytton is so wonderfully well-read?—”

“I would prefer,” Henry cut in, his tone cooling several degrees, “that you not become overly influenced by Miss Lytton’s example. While she may possess certain academic accomplishments, her disregard for propriety and conventional behavior is hardly becoming in a lady of quality.”

Celia’s expression grew carefully neutral. It was a look Henry recognized as his quite clever daughter’s attempt to navigate potentially turbulent conversational waters while simultaneously pushing the bounds of what he could tolerate.

“Miss Lytton seems every inch a lady to me,” she observed after a moment. “Simply not a boring one.”

Oh? Henry set the newspaper down, regarding his daughter with narrow eyes.

“And what, precisely, does that imply about other ladies of your acquaintance?”

“Nothing in particular,” Celia replied, her gaze unwavering. “Only that Miss Lytton speaks her mind rather than merely echoing the opinions of others. It’s refreshing.”

Refreshing . The word echoed in Henry’s mind, accompanied by the unwelcome memory of Annabelle Lytton’s flushed cheeks and vibrant eyes as she had defended her views on music the previous evening. The passion with which she had spoken had indeed been… stimulating.

No. Not stimulating. Inappropriate. That was the word.

“There is wisdom in restraint,” he said aloud, as much to himself as to his daughter. “Not every thought requires immediate expression.”

“But if we never express our true thoughts, how does anyone ever truly know us?” Celia asked. Her question possessed a philosophical depth that momentarily caught Henry off guard.

When had his little girl developed such penetrating insight? And more disturbing still, when had he ceased to know her mind so thoroughly?

“Father,” Celia said, her tone softening as she leaned forward slightly, “might we play chess this afternoon? It’s been an age since we’ve had a proper match, and I’ve been practicing with Mr. Fletcher.”

The request, so innocently made, caused an unexpected surge of something like guilt in Henry’s chest.

How long had it been since he’d spent an afternoon simply enjoying his daughter’s company?

He had kept his distance ever since she began her formal lessons and continued to near marriageable age. But even so…

“I regret that I cannot,” he replied, already reaching for the correspondence that was stacked on the table. “The steward has identified several issues with the south pasture that require my immediate attention. Another time, perhaps.”

Celia’s face fell. But she recovered quickly, smoothing her features into a mask of polite acceptance, so swift and practiced that it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

There was something deeply disquieting about seeing his daughter, so young, already adept at concealing her feelings behind the same kind of cold composure he’d spent years perfecting.

And yet, a part of him, one far too honest to ignore, knew exactly where she’d learned it. She hadn’t needed governesses or tutors to teach her how to hide her heart.

She’d learned it from him .

“Of course, Father,” she said, rising from the table with perfect grace. “Your responsibilities must take precedence.”

She left without a backward glance, and Henry found himself staring after her.

Restlessness settled over him like an ill-fitting coat.

It was not as though she had not walked away from him like this many times before, but now, he could almost sense an edge to it. A dissatisfaction. A brewing rebellion.

It felt like the calm before the storm.

“Miss Lytton! Miss Lytton!” Theodore’s voice rang across the cobblestones as he tugged at her gloved hand with the determined persistence of a five-year-old who had spotted something of utmost importance. “Look! There’s a cat in that window!”

“So there is,” Annabelle replied, allowing herself to be dragged toward the shop front where a tabby cat dozed peacefully among the displayed wares. “A very fine specimen indeed.”

“Can we pet him?” Clara piped up from her other side. Her blonde curls bounced beneath her small bonnet as she craned her neck to see better.

“I’m afraid cats in shop windows are generally for looking, not touching,” Joanna interjected with gentle authority, adjusting her spectacles as she attempted to corral her youngest, Rose, who had discovered a fascinating puddle and seemed intent on exploring its depths. “Mary, if you would be so kind?—”

The maid stepped forward with practiced efficiency and scooped up the wayward child before disaster could strike. “Come along, Lady Rose. Let’s see what other interesting sights await us.”

Annabelle found herself smiling as she watched Joanna move with the fluid grace of one who had mastered the art of managing her triplets while maintaining the appearance of perfect composure. It was a skill Annabelle both admired and envied.

“You’re wonderful with them,” Joanna observed quietly, falling into step beside her as they continued down the main thoroughfare. “They adore you.”

“Children are remarkably honest creatures,” Annabelle replied, watching as Theodore attempted to interest his sisters in a complex game involving the arrangement of fallen leaves. “They haven’t yet learned to dissemble their affections.”

“Unlike adults,” Joanna said. Her tone carried layers of meaning that Annabelle chose to ignore.

“Precisely. They say what they mean and feel what they feel without apology.” A wistful note crept into her voice despite her best efforts. “It’s rather refreshing.”

“Aunt Annabelle,” Clara announced with the solemnity of a judge delivering a verdict, “you should have babies of your own. You would be an excellent mama.”

The innocent observation struck with unexpected force and sent a pang through Annabelle’s chest that she quickly suppressed.

“What a lovely thought, dear one. Perhaps someday.”

Annabelle noticed Joanna’s knowing glance, but she focused her attention on the approaching shop fronts. The bookseller’s establishment loomed ahead. Its windows displayed an enticing array of new arrivals and established classics.

“Shall we stop?” she suggested, grateful for the distraction. “I believe Mr. Fitzwilliam mentioned receiving some new volumes from London.”

“Books!” Theodore exclaimed with the enthusiasm of one who had inherited his mother’s literary inclinations. “Are there any with pictures of knights?”

“We shall certainly investigate,” Annabelle assured him, pushing open the shop door to the familiar scent of leather bindings and printed pages.

The interior was mercifully quiet, save for the soft murmur of conversation from near the back counter.

Mr. Fitzwilliam stood behind his desk, gesturing toward a collection of volumes while speaking with a customer whose broad shoulders and sheer bulk were unmistakable even from behind.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Annabelle whispered to herself.

The Duke of Marchwood turned at the sound of their entrance. His slate eyes found Annabelle’s with a familiar jolt of awareness.

“Your Grace,” she acknowledged with a curtsy.

“Miss Lytton. Lady Knightley.” His gaze flickered to the children who had already scattered among the lower shelves like eager explorers. “A charming family expedition.”

“Indeed,” Annabelle replied, watching as Theodore carefully examined a volume of fairy tales. “I’m surprised to find you here. I would have thought you’d send a servant to complete such mundane errands.”

“I prefer to select my own reading material,” he said, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. “One cannot trust others to understand the nuances of what constitutes appropriate literature.”

Annabelle didn’t think she could dislike a man more. But alas, he was also an intellectual snob. Although that was the root of their disagreements, wasn’t it? He thought some forms of literature were superior to others.

“Your Grace—” she started but did not get the chance to voice her dissatisfaction at his words.

“Oh my,” Joanna cut in suddenly. “I do believe my Rose has developed a rather pressing need for… that is to say, Mary, we must find the necessary, erm… Let us go, immediately. We’ll meet you outside, Annabelle dear.”

Before Annabelle could protest, her friend efficiently gathered her offspring and maid and left her alone with the duke in the suddenly too-small shop.

The silence stretched between them and was charged with the sort of tension that made the very air seem to thicken.

“You seem to be making quite the purchase,” Annabelle observed, nodding toward the impressive stack of volumes on the counter. She decided she was going to be civil with him. “An unexpected selection.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You find fault with my reading preferences?”

“No.” She stepped closer, studying the titles with deliberate interest. “I’m merely curious. A Treatise on Moral Philosophy , The Principles of Political Economy , Essays on the Nature of Virtue … rather weighty fare, even for a Duke.”

“Some of us prefer our reading to have substance,” he replied with his eyes narrowed. “In contrast to the frivolous fantasies that seem to captivate lesser minds.”

“Lesser minds?” Annabelle’s cheeks flushed with indignation.

Try being civil with him? This man was a beast!

“You speak as though imagination itself were a character flaw. Tell me, Your Grace, when did you last read something merely for the pleasure of it?”

“I find pleasure in improving my understanding of the world,” he said stiffly. “Knowledge serves a purpose beyond mere entertainment.”

“And what purpose does joy serve?” she challenged, moving closer still until she could detect the subtle scent of sandalwood that clung to his coat. “What value does wonder hold in your carefully ordered universe?”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment she thought she glimpsed something beneath the rigid control: a flicker of longing, perhaps, or regret.

“Some luxuries are not afforded to those with responsibilities,” he said hoarsely.

“Responsibilities,” she repeated, her voice softening despite her best intentions. “Or excuses?”

The space between them seemed to contract. His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to her eyes, and Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat.

“Miss Lytton, you—” he began, his voice rougher than usual.

The shop bell chimed, breaking the spell as another customer entered.

The Duke stepped back abruptly. His expression shuttered like windows being slammed against a storm.

As he turned to gather his purchases, Annabelle’s eyes dropped to the stack of volumes.

Her breath still unsteady, she acted without thinking, without quite knowing why.

With a swift flick of her fingers, she slid a slim, scandalous novel, The Lustful Libertine’s Lessons in Love , into the middle of his stack, nestling it between his treatises on philosophy and economics.

He didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t. He was too busy shutting her out again, collecting his purchases with those sharp, precise movements.

“Good day, Miss Lytton,” he said formally, gathering his purchases with sharp, efficient movements.

“Your Grace,” she replied.

Her voice betrayed none of the tremors that ran through her as he strode past, so close that his sleeve brushed her arm.

She watched him leave, her heart pounding, but not from the encounter itself.

From anticipation.