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“But the intensity of Mr. Darcy’s regard when he proposes the second time,” Lady Egerton protested. Her fan worked overtime despite the afternoon’s temperate air. “All that barely restrained emotion and burning ardor…it quite overwhelms a lady of proper sensibilities.”

Miss Banks leaned forward with the eager delight of one savoring particularly fine gossip.

“That is precisely what renders it so delicious, is it not? The exquisite tension between duty and desire, propriety and passion. When he declares how ardently he admires and loves Elizabeth,” She pressed her gloved hand to her heart.

“Ardently,” Lady Primworth repeated the word as though sampling a rare vintage before turning to look at Annabelle. “Such a wonderfully robust word, is it not? Far more evocative than mere conventional declarations of affection.”

Annabelle managed a small, albeit absent-minded, smile back.

A full week had elapsed since that rather mortifying encounter in her grandmother’s stable yard, yet Annabelle found herself only peripherally engaged with the familiar literary discourse swirling around her.

And for seven interminable days, she had orchestrated her movements with military precision to avoid any possibility of encountering the Duke of Marchwood. She mounted a campaign of evasion that ran contrary to every fiber of her naturally defiant character.

Of course, the cowardice of her behavior rankled deeply, yet she could not bring herself to abandon this uncharacteristic retreat.

Do you wish to see what I’m capable of, my lady? To have you trembling, gasping my name in surrender?

Those words, spoken in that deliciously seductive growl, kept replaying in her head over and over. His masculine scent trailed the memory each time.

“Annabelle?” Joanna’s voice penetrated her treacherous reverie. “You have been remarkably subdued today. Surely you possess opinions regarding Elizabeth and Darcy’s complex dynamic?”

“Indeed,” Annabelle replied, grateful for the distraction even as warmth crept up her throat. “Miss Austen understood that authentic attraction stems from intellectual sparring as much as physical awareness. The tension builds precisely because they challenge each other’s fundamental assumptions.”

“How perfectly articulated,” Miss Banks exclaimed with enthusiasm. “That delicious friction when two strong-willed individuals refuse to yield to one another…it creates an absolutely electric atmosphere, does it not?”

Electric . The word sent a traitorous shiver coursing through Annabelle as she recalled the crackling awareness that had filled the space between herself and the Duke of Marchwood.

When they had shared their moment of closeness, her skin felt uncomfortably tight, and her breathing became shallow and irregular.

There had even been one perilous instant when she had been utterly certain he intended to?—

“Though one must wonder,” Lady Egerton chimed in, mercifully interrupting Annabelle’s wicked thoughts, “whether such intense attraction can truly provide a stable foundation for matrimony. Surely compatibility and shared moral values matter more than mere ardor.”

“Mere ardor?” Lady Witherspoon laughed with genuine mirth. “My dear Penelope, you speak as though passion were some frivolous ornamentation rather than the very flame that sustains a marriage through life’s inevitable trials.”

“Charlotte speaks wisely,” Joanna agreed, though her gaze remained fixed upon Annabelle.

“A marriage devoid of passion constitutes merely a business arrangement clothed in religious ceremony. And yet, experiencing such intensity can prove rather overwhelming when one finds oneself unprepared for its force.”

Annabelle’s cheeks flamed despite her determined efforts at maintaining composure. “Perhaps we should focus upon Miss Austen’s masterful dialogue construction,” she suggested with forced lightness. “Her characters reveal as much through what remains unspoken as their actual words.”

Of course, she was no prude and wasn’t one to tiptoe around these topics, but she found that she was in no mood to allow the Duke to take up all her thoughts today, either.

“Speaking of unspoken matters,” Joanna murmured, leaning closer with the predatory instincts of true friendship, “you seem rather preoccupied today, my dear. Is everything quite alright?”

“I am perfectly fine, Joanna.” Annabelle cleared her throat. “I’m merely somewhat fatigued from the week’s social obligations.”

“Fatigued,” Joanna repeated with delicate skepticism. There was a glint in her eye. “How curious.”

Before Annabelle could formulate a suitably deflecting response, Lady Primworth’s voice rose above their whispered exchange.

“I believe we should select something equally stimulating for our next gathering. Perhaps Sense and Sensibility ? The contrast between Elinor’s restraint and Marianne’s passionate nature would provide excellent material for discussion. ”

“An inspired choice,” Annabelle agreed, seizing the reprieve with gratitude. “The eternal tension between duty and desire, reason and emotion?—”

“Rather like the conflict within any sensible woman who discovers herself unexpectedly attracted to someone wholly inappropriate,” Joanna observed all too casually while looking directly at Annabelle.

Annabelle’s teacup rattled against its delicate saucer as she put it down. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you might mean.”

“Of course not,” Joanna replied. Her lips curved upward slightly. “How presumptuous of me to suggest otherwise.”