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“ A poetry reading at Ellsworth Gardens? How perfectly dreadful,” Lady Oakley declared, brandishing the embossed invitation between two fingers as though it were a particularly distasteful insect.

“Lady Carmichael means well, but her literary tastes run to the decidedly maudlin. Last year’s affair featured no fewer than three odes to deceased lapdogs. ”

Annabelle glanced up from her correspondence, attempting to conceal the immediate spark of interest that flickered to life at her grandmother’s pronouncement. “Is it to be a large gathering?”

“Mercifully not. A select assembly of thirty or so, according to her note,” Lady Oakley replied, studying her granddaughter with shrewd assessment.

“You cannot possibly wish to attend such a tepid affair. The garden will be lovely, of course, but the poetry—” She shuddered delicately. “—will be positively dire.”

“On the contrary,” Annabelle countered, setting aside her letter with careful nonchalance, “I find myself quite in the mood for some diversion, however modest.”

Her grandmother’s eyebrow arched with elegant skepticism. “Indeed? And your sudden enthusiasm for dreadful poetry has nothing whatsoever to do with avoiding certain people who might call here for Celia’s lessons?”

Heat crept up Annabelle’s neck at the Dowager’s unerring perception. A full fortnight had elapsed since her last disastrous encounter with the Duke of Marchwood, during which his cruel words regarding her life choices had cut far deeper than she cared to acknowledge.

“I merely think that fresh air and new conversation would be welcome,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “Besides, if the poetry proves truly dreadful, we might at least enjoy the challenge of pretending it is not.”

Lady Oakley’s lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement. “Very well, my dear.”

Two days later, Annabelle found herself traversing the elegant gravel paths of Ellsworth Gardens, surrounded by the delicate perfume of early summer roses and the rather less delicate affectations of the county’s minor nobility.

Lady Carmichael had arranged seating in a semi-circle before a small wooden platform where presumably the poetic sacrifices would be offered to a politely captive audience.

Annabelle’s gaze swept across the gathering with habitual curiosity and froze when it landed upon an unmistakable figure standing near the refreshment table.

The Duke of Marchwood.

Ah. Of course. Because Lady Luck wouldn’t possibly favor her just because she’d wished so.

He stood in conversation with their host, Lord Carmichael.

His broad shoulders and commanding height made him instantly recognizable even among the assembled gentlemen.

The afternoon sunlight caught the dark waves of his hair, highlighting the silver threading at his temples, and Annabelle felt her breath catch in her throat.

At that precise moment, as though sensing her regard, the Duke glanced in her direction.

Their eyes met across the garden, and Annabelle saw how his expression shifted.

He initially regarded her with surprise, then a flash of what appeared to be genuine discomfort stole over his features before he quickly averted his gaze and returned his attention to his conversation with unnecessary intensity.

“Your Grace has been most generous with the hospital committee,” Lord Carmichael was saying as they drew nearer. “The new wing shall make an immeasurable difference to the county’s poorest families.”

“It is merely a practical investment in public health,” the duke replied with characteristic dismissiveness. “Disease respects neither wealth nor title.”

“Miss Lytton!” Lord Carmichael exclaimed, noticing her approach. “How delightful to see you. I believe you are acquainted with the Duke of Marchwood?”

The Duke turned, and Annabelle watched as his eyes widened slightly as they fell on her before a muscle worked in his jaw. His discomfort was evident in the slight rigidity of his posture. For a moment, he appeared almost at a loss—an unfamiliar vulnerability that she found strangely satisfying.

“Yes, we are,” she replied, dropping into a curtsy that was precisely correct in its execution if somewhat cool in its delivery. “How nice it is to see you again, Your Grace.”

Alright, now she was just being rather petty, but she quite enjoyed the way his eyes shook inside his skull because of her words for that brief second.

“Of course.” The Duke inclined his head. His bow was a fraction stiffer than social convention required. “Miss Lytton. I trust the Dowager Viscountess is well?”

“Quite well, I thank you,” she replied, maintaining the careful distance of formal politeness. “She is somewhere around here, mingling.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to take your seats,” Lady Carmichael called, clapping her hands with the enthusiastic authority of a governess marshaling reluctant charges. “Lord Huntley is prepared to commence our afternoon’s entertainment.”

With a stiff nod that might charitably be interpreted as farewell, the Duke moved toward the arranged seating.

Annabelle followed, only to discover with mounting dismay that Lady Carmichael’s careful organization had placed her directly beside him.

The delicate garden chair was positioned so closely that the sleeve of her gown would inevitably brush against his coat.

“Miss Lytton,” the Duke acknowledged with rigid formality as she settled beside him. His posture suggested he might be seated upon thorns rather than cushions.

“Your Grace,” she replied, arranging her skirts with deliberate care to minimize any possible contact, though the narrow chairs rendered complete avoidance impossible.

The slight pressure of his arm against hers as he shifted sent an unwelcome frisson of awareness through her body, despite her determination to remain unaffected by his proximity.

Lord Huntley ascended the small platform with the dignified gravitas of one about to deliver epochal wisdom, adjusted his spectacles with theatrical precision, and proceeded to unleash upon the defenseless assembly what was undoubtedly the most tortured poetry Annabelle had ever endured.

“ Persephone, fair maiden of the verdant realm, whose tresses ripple like golden wheat fields undulating ‘neath Helios’ benevolent gaze ,” he intoned, his voice rising and falling in a peculiar cadence utterly divorced from natural speech.

“ Thou descendeth to Pluto’s gloomy dominion with reluctant step and teardrop crystalline, like dewdrops adorning Demeter’s botanical children… ”

By the third stanza, Annabelle found herself biting the inside of her cheek to suppress inappropriate laughter. By the seventh, she was contemplating whether feigning a swoon might constitute an acceptable escape strategy.

When Lord Huntley began comparing Persephone’s complexion to “alabaster marble kissed by Aurora’s rosy fingertips while Zephyrus whispers secrets to quivering oleander blossoms,” a small, involuntary snort of suppressed mirth escaped her.

She felt the Duke glance sideways at the sound and risked meeting his gaze.

For one breathless moment, she glimpsed something utterly unexpected in those storm-grey depths—a spark of shared amusement, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity they were collectively enduring.

She raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

Surely even he must admit this was beyond redemption?

His lips twitched almost imperceptibly, and the slight crack in his facade was more satisfying than it had any right to be.

Before he could master his expression completely, Annabelle gave him a look that clearly said, “Come now, this is truly abysmal,” and was rewarded with the faintest softening around his eyes before he returned his attention to the performance with exaggerated focus.

That brief flicker of connection sent an unwelcome thrill racing through Annabelle’s veins.

The remainder of the recitation became an exercise in hyperawareness of the slight movements of the duke’s breathing beside her, of the warmth radiating from his imposing frame, of the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather that clung to him.

When the torture finally concluded, some thirty minutes later, the audience erupted into applause with the desperate enthusiasm of prisoners acknowledging their release.

Guests rose to circulate as servants appeared with trays of refreshments, and Annabelle gratefully accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman.

“Miss Lytton! How delightful to find you here,” came an enthusiastic male voice, and she turned to discover Lord Frederick approaching with eager strides.

The youngest son of the Earl of Clavering was scarcely one-and-twenty, with the golden good looks and earnest enthusiasm that characterized youth not yet tempered by disappointment.

“Lord Frederick,” she acknowledged with a polite smile. “I trust you found Lord Huntley’s composition illuminating?”

“Illuminating?” he repeated with a boyish grin that transformed his handsome features. “I should rather say ‘soporific.’ I counted no fewer than three gentlemen nodding off by the time poor Persephone had consumed her third pomegranate seed.”

Despite herself, Annabelle laughed. “You are wicked to say so,” she admonished without heat. “Though I confess, the comparison of Hades’ realm to ‘subterranean apartments bedecked with gems like crystallized midnight tears’ did stretch credulity somewhat.”

“Not to mention the ‘cavernous chambers where stalactites drip like the frozen lamentations of entombed nymphs,’” Lord Frederick added, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I was particularly moved by the extended metaphor comparing Demeter’s grief to a ‘maternal nightingale bereft of fledglings while autumn winds molest her empty nest.’”