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As the men reluctantly moved toward the indicated stalls, Annabelle slipped toward the Duke of Marchwood’s distinctive black carriage.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she retrieved the two volumes from beneath her shawl: Mary Wollstonecraft’s book, as well as Austen’s Sense and Sensibility , as she wanted to spoil the girl.

She tucked the books beneath the velvet seat cushion. This was a small act of rebellion, perhaps, but one that might demonstrate to His Grace that not all literature was designed to corrupt impressionable minds.

“There’s really nothing amiss here, my lady,” one of the older grooms said as she rejoined them. His weathered face was creased with confusion.

“My mistake entirely,” Annabelle replied cheerfully. “How foolish of me to misinterpret what I heard.”

She made her way toward the stable entrance, congratulating herself on the success of her small subterfuge, when the sound of approaching voices caused her to pause.

Through the wide doorway, she glimpsed the unmistakable figure of the Duke of Marchwood striding across the courtyard alongside Williams, her grandmother’s steward.

“—requires immediate attention before the autumn rains worsen the situation,” Williams said as they drew nearer. “The drainage system in our south meadow has failed, and it borders Your Grace’s land.”

“Then we shall coordinate our efforts,” the Duke replied curtly. His commanding presence was evident even in profile. “Shared boundaries require—” He stopped abruptly as his gaze fell upon Annabelle standing in the stable entrance. “Miss Lytton.”

“Your Grace. Mr. Williams.” She dropped into a perfectly calibrated curtsy. “I was merely inspecting the roses while you concluded your business.”

Williams glanced between them, then cleared his throat once. “Perhaps I should see you to the house, Your Grace, where Lady Oakley awaits.”

Before the Duke could respond, a young footman appeared at the courtyard’s edge, slightly breathless. “Mr. Williams, sir? The master gardener requires your presence.”

Williams’s expression tightened with frustration. “Can it not wait? His Grace and I have pressing matters to discuss.”

“I’m afraid he was most insistent, sir,” the footman replied apologetically.

“Allow me to escort His Grace to the house,” Annabelle interjected smoothly. “I was returning there myself, after all.”

The steward hesitated, clearly reluctant to abandon his duties, but the footman’s increasingly urgent demeanor settled the matter. “Very well. Your Grace, if you’ll excuse me?”

With a bow, Williams departed, leaving Annabelle alone with the Duke in the suddenly charged atmosphere of the stable yard.

The Duke’s eyes locked onto her with sudden sharpness, his voice low but firm. “Miss Lytton, I found something unexpected in my study today.”

Annabelle’s pulse quickened. There it was. Obviously, he’d bring up the romance novel at some point. Still, she didn’t want to give him any satisfaction yet.

So, she blinked at him, feigning surprise, “Oh? And what would that be, Your Grace?”

He stepped closer, “A certain volume, rather out of place amid my usual reading. I find it nestled amongst the treatises on philosophy and politics.”

Annabelle tilted her head thoughtfully. “Do tell me the title, then. One must know what sort of book would cause such distress.”

His eyes narrowed. “A most improper romance novel. The Lustful Libertine’s Lessons in Love .”

A soft giggle escaped her lips. “I confess, Your Grace, I had no idea such works were to your taste.”

The Duke’s jaw tightened, frustration flickering in his gaze. “This is no jest, Miss Lytton. You see fit to toy with my household and my patience alike.”

Annabelle’s smile deepened, a spark of mischief lighting her eyes.

“Well, if one must suffer for one’s education, I daresay it is a small price to pay.”

Henry’s gaze sharpened. “You confess, then. You placed it among the volumes I purchased?”

She shrugged with mock innocence. “I might have. But it seemed a necessary lesson for you, Your Grace.”

He took a slow breath, his voice low and icy.

“You would see me unwittingly ensnared in your… diversions? And my daughter exposed to such… frivolities?”

“Frivolities or the truth about life, I ask you,” Annabelle countered, stepping closer until the heat from his presence prickled her skin.

His voice dropped to a near growl. “Do you intend to corrupt both me and my daughter, Miss Lytton?”

“Corrupt you? Do you truly perceive me as such a villain, Your Grace? Perhaps we should address this curious notion swiftly.”

The Duke tensed. “You persist in treating matters of propriety as though they were subjects for jest.”

“And you persist in treating me as though I were a witch intent upon leading Lady Celia into moral ruin,” she countered, her voice rising despite her efforts at composure. “I am not your enemy, Your Grace.”

“I know what is best for my daughter,” he replied coldly, “and that does not include exposure to your particular brand of guidance.”

“My particular brand of guidance?” Annabelle’s laugh held no warmth. “You speak as though encouraging a young woman to think for herself were tantamount to treason.”

“You were reading inappropriate material to my sixteen-year-old daughter, and you’re trying to convince me to do the same.”

“Allow me to clarify: your daughter was listening in on our conversation. Even if that wasn’t the case, what she heard was still material borne of human experience, which I’m certain you can appreciate too,” she shot back.

“Tell me, Your Grace, how exactly do you expect to prepare Lady Celia for the realities of marriage? When you launch her into society next year, who will explain what awaits her in the marriage bed? You?” Her voice dripped with skepticism.

“You appear as though you would be scandalized if someone merely uttered the word ‘thighs’ in your presence.”

The duke moved with startling swiftness, closing the distance between them until she could feel the heat radiating from his imposing frame.

And all at once, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. There was something very dangerous about that look in his eye. His gaze spoke of passion rather than violence.

“Is that what you think of me, Miss Lytton?” His voice was a sensuous whisper that turned her bones molten. “That I’m too proper to know what to do with a woman in my arms?”

Annabelle’s breath caught as his proximity overwhelmed her senses.

This close, she could see the storm brewing in his grey eyes and detect the barely leashed power that radiated from his carefully controlled frame.

She could see the way his throat worked each time he swallowed.

The strong cords of his neck tempted her beyond sense.

“I—” she began, her usual eloquence deserting her as he leaned closer still.

This is dangerous , she thought.

Then his gaze dropped to her lips with an intensity that sent liquid fire racing through her veins.

“Do you wish to see what I’m capable of, my lady?” he whispered, his eyes fixed on her mouth. “To have you trembling, gasping my name in surrender… with my mouth between your thighs ?”

Annabelle drew in a sharp breath. The space between them crackled with possibility. The air grew thick with that same tension she’d felt in the bookstore just before?—

A stable boy appeared at the entrance, his cap in hand, eyes wide as he glanced between them. “Beg pardon, Your Grace,” he stammered, clearly sensing the charged air. “Lady Oakley told me to inform you that Lady Celia’s lesson has concluded. The carriage is ready whenever you wish to depart.”

The Duke’s gaze snapped away from hers, his expression shuttering with brutal swiftness. His spine straightened, his voice cold as iron.

“Very well,” he said curtly, not sparing her another glance as he turned away.

Annabelle could scarcely draw breath, her heart thudding wildly as she watched him retreat, every step he took as rigid and controlled as if he hadn’t just threatened to undo her completely. Her cheeks flamed as she realized that she’d been leaning towards him, as well.

Any closer and she would have?—

“Excuse me.” With that choked-out plea, Annabelle gathered her skirts and fled toward the safety of the house.

Her heart hammered against her ribs with each retreating step.

She dared not look back.