Page 11

“ L eave the tray there, and that will be all for the night,” Henry said, his voice clipped but polite as his valet placed the tea and decanter on the side table.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He barely acknowledged the man’s bow before the door clicked shut, leaving him alone in the quiet hush of his study.

Finally. Order. Silence. The only companions he needed.

With a sigh, Henry moved to the armchair by the fire, the evening’s purchases stacked neatly on the side table.

Philosophy, economics, and morality. Solid, respectable. Just as they should be.

He reached for the top volume, A Treatise on Moral Philosophy , and opened it. But as he lifted the first book, a flash of deep crimson caught his eye.

His gaze dropped to the remaining stack.

And froze.

There, tucked neatly beneath the more respectable tomes, lay a slim volume bound in scarlet leather, its title embossed in gleaming gold.

The Lustful Libertine’s Lessons in Love .

Henry simply stared at it. For a long, stunned moment.

Surely, surely , this was some error at the shop. A misplacement. The shopkeeper’s mistake. But even as he tried to believe that, the memory struck hard and sharp.

Honey-blonde hair. Defiant eyes. A mouth far too quick with its barbs.

Miss Lytton.

“Of course,” he murmured to himself.

His pulse kicked hard, a hot flush creeping up his neck. She’d done this deliberately. Smoothly. He didn’t even see it! How could he be so careless?

The sheer audacity of it, the sheer audacity of her , sent heat coursing through him, something perilously tangled with fury… and something far more dangerous.

Desire.

“Blast it,” he cursed and stood abruptly, the scandalous volume still clutched in his hand.

But no amount of distance would rid him of it.

Or her.

“Might we perhaps take a tour of the house today, Lady Oakley?” Celia ventured, her voice a bit too practiced to sound casual. “I find myself curious about the portraits in the gallery, and I’ve heard your conservatory houses the most remarkable orchids.”

From his position near the window, Henry’s shoulders tensed. The request was innocent enough, yet something in his daughter’s tone suggested layers beneath the surface, a quality he recognized all too well, having mastered it himself.

“What an excellent notion,” Lady Oakley replied while rising from her chair. “A change of scenery often enhances the learning experience. Fresh perspectives and all that.”

“However,” Celia continued, her gaze flickering briefly to her father before settling back on Lady Oakley, “might we venture forth without Father trailing behind us like… well, like a disapproving owl in human form?”

The words struck with unexpected force, and Henry felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest. Was that truly how his daughter perceived his presence?

“Celia,” he warned, “that tone is entirely inappropriate.”

“I merely thought,” she pressed on with the determined courage of youth, “that I might experience the house as you would show it to any young lady guest, rather than as…” She trailed off, seeming to recognize the dangerous territory she was entering.

“Rather than as a prisoner under guard?” Henry finished coldly, rising from his chair with deliberate slowness. “I think not. Your lessons will continue here, as arranged.”

Indeed, it pained him so that his daughter would consider his care for her so bleakly. But she did not know the harshness of the very society she was soon to enter. And if he had any say, he would make sure she did not know that harshness at all.

Lady Oakley stepped forward. “Your Grace, if I might suggest a compromise? I shall personally ensure Lady Celia remains within appropriate bounds during our tour. Perhaps Hodgins might show you the improvements we’ve made to the rose gardens?

The new varieties are particularly striking this season. ”

“Very well,” Henry replied curtly.

“Excellent,” Lady Oakley declared. “Every gentleman of refinement should appreciate horticulture. Hodgins! Please escort His Grace to see Mr. Williams and ensure he provides a thorough tour of our recent acquisitions.”

Without delay, the elderly footman appeared at Henry’s elbow and bowed with perfect deference.

“Your Grace, if you would be so kind as to follow me? The damask roses are particularly fine this year.”

With a final warning glance at his daughter, who was already rising with barely concealed excitement, Henry moved along beside the old footman.

“Excuse me.”

Annabelle looked up from her book to find Lady Celia standing in the library doorway, her expression bright with mischief and a longing that struck her as painfully familiar.

“Lady Celia,” she said, setting aside her volume with careful precision, “should you not be with my grandmother?”

“She’s examining a portrait of some long-dead ancestor with particular enthusiasm,” Celia replied while stepping fully into the room. “I thought I might… that is, I hoped we might speak. Privately.”

Annabelle’s resistance wavered at the girl’s earnest expression. “Your father would hardly approve of such impropriety.”

“My father disapproves of most things that bring me joy,” Celia said with startling bitterness. “Please, Miss Lytton. You’re the only person who speaks to me as though I possess thoughts worth hearing.”

The raw honesty in her voice made Annabelle’s heart clench.

“Surely that cannot be true. Your father clearly adores you?—”

“He protects me,” Celia corrected as she moved to the window where afternoon light cast golden patterns across the Persian carpet.

“But protection and understanding are not the same thing. It has been a long time since he understood me. I speak to Papa, the staff, my tutors, Lady Oakley… but they all see me as something fragile that might break if handled roughly.”

Annabelle rose, drawn by the vulnerability in the girl’s voice. “And you don’t feel fragile?”

“I feel as though I might explode from all the things I’m not permitted to say or do or even think,” Celia replied, her eyes shimmering. “Do you have any books you might recommend? Something substantial?”

“Lady Celia,” Annabelle said carefully, “if your father discovered I gave you a book, it would get us both into considerable trouble. I believe you’ve gathered that I’m not exactly in his good graces.”

Especially knowing she’d secretly slipped one of her less-than-academic books into the duke’s purchases. Once he discovered it, he would surely be angry, and the thought of his daughter reading anything borrowed from her would only fuel his fury.

A part of Annabelle, however, felt a thrill at the thought.

“But I’m so dreadfully ignorant about everything that matters!” Celia turned, her eyes—so like her father’s—bright with unshed tears. “I know which fork to use for the fish course and how to curtsy to a duchess, but I know nothing about the world beyond these drawing rooms and morning calls.”

The plea struck at every protective instinct within Annabelle. Here was a girl on the cusp of womanhood, intelligent and curious, yet deliberately kept in the shadows of true understanding.

“Your father has you rather sheltered,” she conceded after a moment.

“Sheltered?” Celia laughed, though the sound held no humor. “I’m practically entombed and shall remain that way until I marry some gentleman he deems suitable, whereupon I’ll be transferred from his protection to my husband’s control.”

Annabelle sighed, recognizing her own younger self in the girl’s frustrated eloquence. “What sort of book were you hoping for?”

Celia’s face lit with hope. “Something that might help me understand, well, anything beyond the narrow world I inhabit. History, perhaps, or philosophy, or…” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Something that might explain why adults speak in such riddles about everything interesting.”

After a moment’s internal struggle, Annabelle moved to one of the lower shelves and retrieved a slim volume bound in deep blue leather.

“Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman ,” she said quietly. “I’ll have Hodgins place it discreetly in your carriage.”

Celia launched herself forward, enveloping Annabelle in an enthusiastic embrace.

Startled by the sudden intimacy, Annabelle found herself returning the hug. Her heart swelled with tenderness for this lively girl who reminded her so painfully of her younger self.

“Thank you,” Celia whispered against her shoulder. “Thank you for seeing me as more than just a duke’s daughter who must be kept pristine for the marriage market.”

“Now go,” Annabelle said gently, stepping back as emotion threatened to overwhelm her composure. “Before we’re both discovered, and your father decides I’m an even more corrupting influence than he already believes.”

Celia giggled at that, and Annabelle was glad that she could find some measure of amusement in this situation.

She hoped she had not just made a terrible mistake, even though, in her heart of hearts, she knew it certainly did not feel that way.

That was when an idea popped into her mind, and Annabelle’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. She immediately set off for the stables.

“What’s this commotion about the new mare?” Annabelle called out brightly as she approached the Oakley Hall stables, causing the three stable hands to turn in her direction with obvious surprise.

“Miss Lytton!” John, the head groom, scrambled to his feet from where he’d been tending to the visiting horses. “We weren’t expecting… that is, there’s no commotion, my lady.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, gesturing toward the far end of the stable block. “I distinctly heard raised voices concerning the chestnut’s temperament. Come, show me what the fuss is about.”