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“ Y ou appear particularly distracted this morning, my dear,” Lady Oakley observed as she eyed her granddaughter over the rim of her teacup while they broke their fast in the morning room. “I daresay you’ve stirred that tea so thoroughly it might seek justice for mistreatment.”

Annabelle glanced down, startled to find herself still absently circling her spoon in the now-tepid liquid.

“Forgive me, Grandmama. I was merely… contemplating.”

“Contemplating what precisely?” Lady Oakley inquired as she set down her cup and cast a keen glance at Annabelle. “Or should I rather ask whom? Since you have the affectations of a young maiden on the cusp of a crush.”

Heat crept up Annabelle’s neck at her grandmother’s unerring perception.

“Grandmama! I was merely thinking about…the weather!” She gestured vaguely toward the window where summer sunshine bathed the gardens in gold. “It appears particularly favorable today.”

“Indeed. Almost as favorable as the Duke of Marchwood appeared yesterday at Lady Carmichael’s gathering,” Lady Oakley remarked with deceptive casualness while buttering a slice of toast.

“How—” Annabelle started to say, but her grandmother cut her short in the next second.

“I understand that his attention to you was most marked.”

“Marked?” Annabelle scoffed, though her heart quickened traitorously at the memory of his lowered voice and the intensity of his gaze as he had made his unexpected confession. “We exchanged perhaps a dozen civil words. Hardly the stuff of drawing-room gossip.”

“Civil words?” The Dowager’s eyebrow arched with elegant skepticism. “How novel. I had begun to think you two incapable of communication that didn’t involve verbal sparring.”

Annabelle sent a tight-lipped smile back to her grandmother, but before she could reply, the butler entered with a silver salver bearing a sealed letter.

The morning light caught the insignia pressed into the wax—a falcon with outstretched wings, the Blakesley family crest.

“From Marchwood Hall, my lady,” he announced, with a deferential bow.

Annabelle’s pulse skipped at the mention of the Duke’s residence, though she maintained a carefully neutral expression as her grandmother broke the seal and perused the contents.

“Well,” Lady Oakley declared after a moment while folding the letter, “it appears our plans must shift somewhat. The Duke writes that he has pressing business in London and must forgo Celia’s lesson tomorrow.”

“How unfortunate,” Annabelle murmured, ignoring the curious mixture of disappointment and relief that washed through her.

The prospect of facing the Duke again after his admission had filled her with equal parts anticipation and dread, emotions she’d thought herself long above feeling.

“Indeed.” Lady Oakley placed the letter beside her plate with nonchalance. “However, this presents a rather fortuitous opportunity. I have been contemplating a brief sojourn to London myself. The timing seems propitious.”

“London?” Annabelle repeated, her brow furrowing as she set down her teacup. “Whatever for? The Season’s almost over.”

“Precisely why it’s the perfect moment,” her grandmother replied with the satisfied air of one revealing a particularly clever stratagem. “The crush has diminished, yet society remains sufficiently engaged to provide adequate observation opportunities for Lady Celia.”

“Lady Celia?” Annabelle’s confusion deepened, but then her eyes widened as she quickly caught on to her grandmother’s intentions. “But surely His Grace would never?—”

“His Grace,” Lady Oakley interrupted smoothly, “has already agreed. I shall escort Lady Celia to an intimate tea gathering hosted by the Dowager Countess of Harborough. A perfect rehearsal for her formal debut next year. The guest list is exceedingly select and impeccably proper, comprising only the most respected dowagers and their protégées.”

Annabelle stared at her grandmother with blatant astonishment. The Duke of Marchwood allowing his precious daughter to venture into the periphery of London society, even under Lady Oakley’s formidable chaperonage, seemed utterly contrary to everything she had observed of his controlling nature.

“And the Duke has consented to this arrangement? Willingly?”

“With predictable reluctance, but yes.” Lady Oakley’s smile held the satisfaction of a chess master who had successfully anticipated her opponent’s moves several plays in advance.

“He can hardly object when he himself will be in London attending to his affairs. Besides, what better preparation for society than carefully supervised exposure to its most refined elements? The Dowager Countess has been shaping young ladies for advantageous matches for many years.”

“I see.” Annabelle returned her attention to her neglected breakfast and attempted to quell the sudden flutter of nerves in her stomach. “I wish you a pleasant journey, then.”

“Oh, my dear,” Lady Oakley said with a quiet laugh that immediately raised Annabelle’s suspicions like a warning flag, “surely you don’t imagine I intend to travel without you? You shall accompany me as my companion, naturally.”

The piece of toast Annabelle had been lifting to her lips paused midway. “Grandmama, I couldn’t possibly—the Athena Society is scheduled to meet, and I’ve promised Joanna that I would help with the children’s summer fête, and?—”

“The Athena Society shall survive your brief absence,” Lady Oakley declared with the unassailable authority that had cowed generations of footmen and even the occasional bishop.

“As for Lady Knightley, I’ve already dispatched a note explaining that your presence is required in London.

Besides, I require your assistance with the preparations for Lady Celia’s introduction to select society. ”

“But—” Annabelle began, though she recognized the futility of her protest even as it formed on her lips.

When Lady Oakley adopted that particular tone, resistance became an exercise in futility.

“It is decided,” her grandmother pronounced with quiet finality. “We depart tomorrow morning. Do ensure the maid packs your blue silk for the Dowager Countess’s tea. The color brings out your eyes most advantageously.”

With that pronouncement, Lady Oakley rose from the table with the regal grace that belied her years, leaving Annabelle to contend with her own pounding heart and the insidiously persistent memory of the Duke’s words slithering about in her mind.

“Lady Celia carries herself remarkably well,” Lady Oakley observed with quiet approval as they watched the duke’s daughter navigate a conversation with the Dowager Marchioness of Westfield.

The Dowager Countess of Harborough’s drawing room exemplified the understated elegance that characterized London’s most exclusive social gatherings.

“One would scarcely believe this is her first formal introduction to London society.” She finished with a smile in her tone.

“She has natural grace,” Annabelle agreed as her gaze followed the young woman’s poised movements.

Despite her initial misgivings about the excursion, she found herself genuinely impressed by Celia’s composure. The girl had absorbed Lady Oakley’s lessons with remarkable aptitude, transforming into a poised young lady with seeming effortlessness.

In her elegant afternoon gown of pale rose silk and her dark hair arranged in a becoming style that emphasized her delicate features, Celia appeared every inch the well-bred daughter of a duke.

Yet Annabelle caught occasional glimpses of the spirited girl beneath the polished exterior. There was a certain animation in her expressions when particularly engaged, and a subtle quickness in her responses that suggested keen intelligence navigating the complex currents of social interaction.

“Nature refined by nurture,” Lady Oakley corrected gently. “The Duke has not been entirely remiss in her upbringing, despite your criticisms of his methods. I believe he truly does want a very good life for his daughter.”

Annabelle’s gaze shifted involuntarily to where the Duke of Marchwood stood conversing with Lord Harborough near the fireplace.

Even in these elegant surroundings, he still carried that distinctive aura of restrained power that distinguished him from other gentlemen.

His dark coat highlighted the breadth of his shoulders and shielded a chest Annabelle did not want to admit she’d feasted upon countless times… in her dreams, of course.

As though sensing her regard, he glanced in her direction, and their eyes met across the crowded room. Annabelle’s cheeks warmed as his gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer than propriety dictated before he returned his attention to Lord Harborough.

“Ahem.” She coughed as demurely as she could manage into her handkerchief, hoping to use it as a prop to cover her burning cheeks.

Of course, she should not have expected it to escape her grandmother’s keen notice.

“The Duke appears particularly attentive today,” Lady Oakley remarked, missing nothing as usual. “I daresay he finds London society less tedious than anticipated.”

“He merely watches over his daughter,” Annabelle replied, reaching for her teacup to conceal the betraying flutter of her pulse.

The delicate porcelain trembled slightly in her grasp, an external manifestation of the inexplicable loss of composure that had plagued her since that moment in Lady Carmichael’s garden.

“Indeed?” Her grandmother’s tone carried delicate skepticism that told her that the woman simply did not believe her. “Then one wonders why his gaze seems more frequently directed toward you than Lady Celia.”

The Dowager Countess of Harborough approached them then, saving Annabelle any attempts to defend herself with lies she had no doubt her grandmother would see right through.

“Lady Oakley, your protégée is absolutely charming,” she declared with aristocratic authority. “Such refined conversation, one would never suspect she was raised without maternal guidance.”

“The Duke has been most conscientious,” Lady Oakley replied diplomatically.

“Yes, well, a father can only do so much,” the Countess said, her gaze drifting toward where Henry stood.

“Though I must say, His Grace has surprised us all. After the tragic circumstances of his wife’s passing, many expected him to remarry immediately for the child’s sake.

His devotion to raising the girl himself speaks well of his character. ”

Annabelle’s heart beat hard and fast in her chest as she considered these words. She had been so fixated on the Duke’s rigidity and obsession with control that she had scarcely considered the challenges he must have faced as a widowed father.

To lose one’s spouse and then undertake the raising of a daughter alone…it could not have been easy, particularly for a man of his position and temperament.

Especially for one of his temperament , she thought.

“I understand the Duchess of Marchwood’s death was quite sudden,” Lady Oakley remarked with careful neutrality, though Annabelle detected the subtle inflection that indicated her grandmother’s curiosity had been piqued.

“Dreadful business,” the Countess confirmed, lowering her voice to the particular register employed by society ladies when exchanging delicate information. “A carriage accident on her return from visiting family, I believe. It was said to be a robbery. The child was scarcely two years old.”

Annabelle found her gaze drawn once more to the Duke.

She saw him with fresh eyes. Had his rigid control and insistence on propriety emerged from that crucible of loss?

Was his fierce protection of Celia motivated not merely by patriarchal authority, like she’d thought, but by the desperate fear of failing the only family remaining to him?

As though conjured by her thoughts, the Duke approached their small circle with his daughter at his side.

“Lady Harborough,” he acknowledged with a precise bow. “I must express my gratitude for including my daughter in today’s gathering. It has proven most educational.”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” the Countess replied with evident pleasure. “Lady Celia has been a delightful addition. Her manners do you credit.”

“The credit belongs primarily to Lady Oakley’s instruction,” he said, his gaze flickering briefly to Annabelle before continuing, “and Miss Lytton’s careful attention has not gone unnoticed.” Then he returned his eyes to the Dowager Viscountess. “Her guidance has proven invaluable.”

“You are too generous, Your Grace,” Lady Oakley replied with a modest inclination of her head. “Lady Celia has been a most receptive pupil.”

As the conversation continued along these conventional lines, Annabelle observed the subtle interplay between father and daughter—the quiet pride in his eyes as Celia demonstrated her newly polished social graces, the girl’s occasional glance toward him seeking approval.

But she also noticed the tension between them, as though they’d had a fight of some sort and had yet to see eye to eye on it.

Knowing the Duke’s personality, that was certainly a possibility.

And yet, there was genuine affection in his eyes when he looked at his daughter, beneath the formal exterior he presented to the world.

It softened something within Annabelle’s perception of him, rounding the sharp edges of her previous judgment.

And it made the sizzling yearning she hid deeply within easier to bear.