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“ L ady Celia appears to be making quite remarkable progress with her deportment,” Lady Oakley announced as her astute eyes assessed the young woman’s flawlessly executed curtsy.

“Though I confess myself curious regarding her broader intellectual development. Tell me, my dear, what literature currently occupies your attention?”

From her place at the flower arrangement in the next room, Annabelle’s hands stilled as her grandmother’s question registered—carefully worded and clearly meant to provoke. She could almost feel the Duke of Marchwood’s attention shift from his spot near the window.

“My former governess assigned me a collection of moral essays,” Lady Celia replied, her voice carrying barely concealed disdain. “They proved to be remarkably tedious, though.”

Annabelle’s lips twitched despite herself. Oh, Celia might be bored by her father’s approved reading, but she now had far more intriguing volumes tucked away, thanks to Annabelle’s small act of rebellion.

The real challenge, Annabelle thought with secret satisfaction, would be finding a way to discuss those books with the girl soon… without drawing the Duke’s wrath.

“Moral essays,” Lady Oakley mused with theatrical consideration. “How instructive. Though I wonder whether we might discover something more engaging to supplement your studies. Literature should expand your understanding of the world whilst maintaining perfect propriety.”

The girl brightened immediately, and hope bloomed across her features like sunrise after a long night. “That would be absolutely wonderful. I confess myself rather starved for intellectually stimulating material.”

“Excellent. Annabelle!” Her grandmother’s voice rang with the authority of a General commanding troops. “Might I trouble you to join our discussion? I require your expertise in selecting appropriate volumes for Lady Celia’s intellectual advancement.”

Annabelle’s pulse quickened traitorously as she realized she would be forced into proximity with the Duke once more. Ever since their encounter in the stable yard…this would be the first time in a week that she would be in the same room as him.

And since she was quite tired of her cowardice, she decided that she would not avoid him this time.

“Certainly, Grandmama,” she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady as she stepped into the doorway.

Despite her intentions, her gaze flicked toward the Duke involuntarily, and she felt that familiar jolt of awareness course through her system like lightning seeking ground.

He stood with his characteristic rigid control.

His broad shoulders filled out his perfectly tailored coat in a manner that made her mouth go inexplicably dry.

Yet as her eyes met his, she felt the same tempting pull that had nearly undone her composure in the stable yard?—

“Something that acknowledges the complexities of human nature whilst maintaining moral instruction,” Lady Oakley was saying with diplomatic smoothness, mercifully interrupting Annabelle’s treacherous recollections.

“Perhaps you might recommend suitable authors for a young woman of Lady Celia’s evident intelligence and elevated social position. ”

“Of course.” Now, she moved toward the bookshelf, acutely conscious of the Duke’s penetrating gaze following her every movement. She could feel the heat of his attention like a physical caress, raising gooseflesh along her arms despite the warmth of the afternoon.

“What manner of literature did you have in mind?” she managed to ask, proud that her voice betrayed none of the tumultuous emotions churning beneath her carefully composed exterior.

As she began discussing potential selections with Celia, Annabelle found herself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of discourse with the teenager.

Truly, the girl possessed such a wonderfully quick mind, and she displayed such genuine curiosity about the world, which reached beyond her sheltered existence.

It was criminal that her father seemed determined to cage such a brilliant spirit within the narrow confines of conventional feminine education.

“What of Lord Byron?” Celia inquired, trailing her gloved finger along the leather spines with a mixture of awe and hesitation.

Annabelle’s glance flickered toward the Duke, touching an exposed nerve. His grey eyes darkened, betraying both surprise and disapproval at her ready agreement with the choice.

“Lord Byron,” she said carefully, “is a poet of great talent, but his verses and life are… well, they have stirred no small amount of scandal in polite society.”

The word ‘scandal’ hung in the air like a challenge, charged with dangerous possibility. Annabelle’s cheeks warmed as she felt the Duke’s gaze sharpen on her, focused and predatory.

Don’t think about it , she told herself sharply.

“Byron is not appropriate reading for a young lady,” the Duke said sternly.

“Lord Byron’s verse,” she said, meeting the Duke’s gaze squarely, “explores the depths of human passion and folly. To shield Lady Celia from such truths would be to deny her the very experiences that shape us all.”

The Duke’s jaw tightened visibly. Annabelle felt a dark thrill at having pierced his armor of rigid propriety. His eyes held hers with a fierce intensity, stripping away all pretense until only raw awareness remained between them.

That was, at least, until he rose abruptly, signaling his patience was exhausted. “I believe that constitutes quite enough literary discussion for one afternoon.”

Both women turned to him, and Annabelle felt indignation flare within her. How dare he dismiss their conversation so summarily?

“But Father,” Celia protested, frustration clear, “Miss Lytton was merely explaining?—”

“Miss Lytton has explained quite enough,” he interrupted, his voice cold and authoritative. “Your lessons are conducted with Lady Oakley, not with her granddaughter.”

The tone ignited Annabelle’s temper like kindling aflame. Was she always to be cast as the villain? She was growing weary of it.

Stepping forward, she lifted her chin defiantly. “I was merely discussing the poetry of a man who dared to live and write beyond the bounds of convention, Your Grace. Lord Byron’s work may be improper by some standards, but it is hardly unworthy.”

“Yes, but I fear your discussion will wander into territory I find wholly inappropriate for my daughter,” he replied, his voice frosty enough to chill blood.

Yet his coldness only stoked her indignation further.

“Your presence here is the very opposite of what I intended when arranging these lessons.”

“My presence?” The words came sharper than intended, voice rising despite restraint.

Aware they were creating a scene, and with Celia watching wide-eyed, the Duke’s arrogance pushed her beyond polite bounds.

“This is my home! And I was recommending the work of a poet who dared challenge the world! If you find such reading objectionable, perhaps the fault lies not in my suggestions but in your own sensibilities?—”

“That is enough .”

The words cut through her protest like a slap, and suddenly he was moving toward her and positioning himself between her and Celia.

This close, she could see the storm brewing behind his carefully controlled expression and detect the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather that clung to his skin.

The proximity sent her pulse racing in a manner that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the awareness that had been building between them since their first encounter.

But she refused to step back. Annabelle was too unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower.

“Celia, collect your belongings. We are departing immediately.”

“But I haven’t finished the lesson—” the girl began with evident disappointment.

“It is finished now.” His tone brooked no argument, though Annabelle caught the flash of genuine hurt that crossed Celia’s features before she masked it behind dutiful compliance.

The injustice of it—the casual cruelty with which he dismissed his daughter’s intellectual hunger—pushed Annabelle beyond the bounds of prudence.

“Your daughter possesses one of the finest intellects I have encountered, yet you seem determined to stifle her natural curiosity at every opportunity. What precisely do you fear will occur if she reads Byron?”

He advanced until only inches separated them, and his towering presence overwhelmed her senses.

“I fear,” he said with a quietness that was somehow more menacing than any shout, “that she will develop the same casual disregard for propriety and convention that has characterized your own life choices.”

His words pierced her precisely as he obviously intended, finding the tender place where her old wounds still ached.

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, and she felt the familiar rush of shame and pain that always accompanied any reference to her scandalous past.

There was something in his expression—perhaps regret—that suggested his cruelty had cost him as well.

“You overstep, Your Grace.” She snapped, unable to contain her anger. “I think I have had quite enough of you speaking about my life as though you have any say in how I have lived it. For a man who touts propriety, you obviously have no problem behaving like a rude vagrant.”

His eyes flared at her insult, but she also knew that he knew she was right. He had overstepped. He was the one in the wrong here. For one breathless moment, she thought she saw something shift in his storm-grey eyes, a crack in the armor of his rigid control that revealed the man beneath the Duke.

“Annabelle,” her grandmother interjected, “perhaps you might attend to the arrangements for tea service.”

The moment shattered like glass against stone. Without uttering another syllable, Annabelle turned and fled the chamber. Her silk skirts rustled with the velocity of her retreat.