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“ L adies, I do believe Lord Ashworth’s technique is rather… thorough,” Lady Egerton declared, fanning herself vigorously with her lace handkerchief as she clutched the leather-bound volume to her ample bosom. “Though I must confess, I’ve never quite understood the appeal of a stable until now.”

A chorus of scandalized gasps and delighted giggles erupted throughout the Dowager Viscountess Oakley’s sitting room, where the Athena Society had gathered for their weekly meeting.

The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, casting golden light across the circle of ladies who had arranged themselves on the plush settees and chairs. Each one clutched her copy of The Duke’s Wicked Ways with varying degrees of propriety and enthusiasm.

“Oh, Penelope, you shocking creature!” Lady Witherspoon exclaimed, pressing her hand to her heart in mock horror while her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Still, the author’s description of his… prowess… is remarkably detailed. One wonders where she acquired such knowledge.”

“From experience, I should hope,” Annabelle Lytton replied with a grin, settling more comfortably in her chair as she observed her fellow book club members. “After all, what good is fiction if it bears no resemblance to reality? Though I suspect most of us shall have to rely on our imaginations.”

Lady Egerton clutched her pearls, and her cheeks flamed as if on command. “Miss Lytton! Such talk! Whatever would your dear grandmother say?”

“She would likely ask for my copy when I’ve finished,” Annabelle replied without missing a beat, earning another round of laughter from the assembled ladies. “Grandmama may preach propriety, but she’s hardly immune to a well-written romance. But let us pretend not to know that.”

Annabelle’s grandmother had departed for afternoon tea with Lady Trentford, leaving her granddaughter to host the Athena Society’s gathering.

“Speaking of literary merit,” Lady Witherspoon said, adjusting her spectacles as she flipped through the pages of her book, “I must say this author has quite the imagination. The scene in the library?—”

“Oh, the library scene!” interrupted Miss Theodora Banks, a spinster of forty-three who had joined the club six months prior and proven to be surprisingly enthusiastic about their racier selections. “I’ve read it thrice, and I still find myself quite… affected by the descriptions.”

“Affected?” Annabelle raised an eyebrow. “My dear Theodora, if a book doesn’t affect you, then what’s the point of reading it at all? Literature should stir the soul, quicken the pulse, and make one question the very foundations of their existence.”

“Here, here!” called out Lady Primworth. She raised her teacup in a mock toast. “Though I do think young Lord Ashworth could benefit from a lesson or two in patience. All that rushing about… no wonder the poor heroine was left breathless.”

“Patience is a virtue rarely exhibited by heroes in gothic novels,” Lady Egerton observed with the air of one who had read extensively in the genre. “They’re all brooding intensity and passionate declarations. Though I confess, it does make for riveting reading.”

Annabelle leaned forward. “But that’s precisely what makes these stories so compelling, don’t you think?

In real life, we’re expected to be demure, dutiful, and decidedly uninteresting.

These heroines, they may swoon and flutter, but they also speak their minds, pursue their desires, and refuse to accept the first offer of marriage that comes their way. ”

“Unlike some of us,” muttered Lady Witherspoon, though not without affection. “I accepted poor Lord Witherspoon’s proposal before he’d even finished asking the question. Thirty years married, and I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I’d been a bit more… discerning.”

“You’d have ended up like me,” Annabelle replied cheerfully, “thoroughly ruined and completely content with spinsterhood. Still, the freedom is rather liberating. No husband to disapprove of my reading choices, no children to scandalize with inappropriate literature. Just me, my books, and all of you delightful ladies to share them with.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence as the women absorbed her words.

“You know,” Miss Banks said thoughtfully, “I sometimes think we should be grateful to the authors who write such books. They give us permission to imagine lives beyond our drawing rooms; to consider possibilities we might never dare voice aloud.”

“Precisely!” Annabelle exclaimed, gesturing enthusiastically with her copy of the novel. “Emma and I founded this club specifically to create a space where women could explore literature without judgment and discuss ideas that polite society might find unseemly.”

“Speaking of Her Grace,” Lady Primworth inquired, “when do we expect the Duke and Duchess of Westmere to return from Cornwall? The club feels rather incomplete without our founding member.”

Annabelle smiled. “I received a letter from them yesterday. They’re having a wonderful time. Apparently, little Eleanor is absolutely fascinated by the sea, and Tristan has developed a passion for collecting shells.”

“How long do they plan to stay?” Lady Egerton asked, carefully marking her place in the novel with a silk ribbon.

“Another fortnight, I believe. Emma mentioned something about visiting some ancient ruins that Victor is eager to explore. You know how he is about history. Give him a crumbling castle or mysterious stone circle, and he’s perfectly content.”

Soon enough, the conversation drifted back to their current literary selection, with Lady Witherspoon launching into an animated critique of the hero’s declaration of love.

“I find it rather convenient that Lord Ashworth suddenly realizes he’s been in love with Miss Lewitt all along,” she said, adjusting her spectacles as she referred to the book.

“After spending the first half of the novel treating her abominably, he has one passionate encounter in a thunderstorm, and suddenly she’s the love of his life? It strains credibility.”

“Oh, but Charlotte,” Miss Banks protested, “that’s the beauty of the gothic romance! Love strikes like lightning: sudden, overwhelming, and completely transformative. Real love doesn’t follow the careful courtship rules our mothers taught us.”

“Real love,” Annabelle said, “is rather overrated, if you ask me. I much prefer the fictional variety. It’s far more reliable and significantly less likely to abandon you.”

An uncomfortable silence descended over the group. Though Annabelle typically spoke of her past with levity, these ladies knew better than to probe too deeply into old wounds.

“Well,” Lady Egerton said briskly, clearly intent on steering the conversation back to safer waters, “fictional or not, Lord Ashworth certainly knows his way around a love scene. The chapter where he and Miss Lewitt are caught in the rain?—”

Crash .

The ladies froze with teacups suspended halfway to their lips. All eyes turned toward the tall windows that opened onto the terrace from where the loud noise had come.

“Damn and drat it all!” a muffled hiss pierced through the windows.

Annabelle narrowed her eyes. She quickly rose from her chair, moving cautiously toward the French doors that stood partially open to admit the afternoon breeze.

The voice had come from the terrace, though she couldn’t imagine who might have caused such a disturbance. Her grandmother’s staff were far too well-trained to be clattering about in such a manner.

“Perhaps a cat knocked over one of the potted plants,” she suggested, though she wasn’t so sure of it at all.

Before anyone could respond, the sitting room door opened to admit Hodgins, one of her grandmother’s footmen, looking mortified.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Lytton,” he said, trying to sound neutral, “but there’s been a slight… incident on the terrace.”

“An incident?” Annabelle raised an eyebrow, and Hodgins’s gaze carefully avoided meeting hers directly. “What sort of incident, pray tell?”

The footman cleared his throat delicately. “It appears we have an uninvited guest. A young lady who seems to have been… well, that is to say…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hodgins,” Annabelle said with growing amusement, “just say what you mean. What young lady?”

As if summoned by her words, a figure appeared beside the flustered footman. There stood a girl of perhaps sixteen with dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders and the most striking blue-grey eyes Annabelle had ever seen.

The girl wore riding clothes that were clearly meant for a lady. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and exertion, and she was breathing rather hard, as though she had been running.

The girl stepped forward and offered a curtsy that was both graceful and properly executed.

“Miss Lytton,” she said, her voice clear despite her evident nervousness, “I do apologize for the intrusion. I fear I’ve made rather a mess of things.”

The assembled ladies of the Athena Society stared in stunned silence at this unexpected visitor. Lady Egerton’s mouth had fallen open in a most unladylike manner, while Lady Witherspoon had dropped her teacup. Fortunately, it landed on the thick Persian carpet rather than the hardwood floor.

“And you are?” Annabelle inquired, though something about the girl’s striking features and imperious bearing suggested aristocratic breeding of the highest order.

“Oh, erm, pardon me. Lady Celia Blakesley,” the girl replied, “I’m afraid I was… that is, I didn’t mean to…”

“She was listening at the French doors, miss,” Hodgins cut in. “Knocked over the large planter when she tried to move closer.”

Lady Celia Blakesley was the daughter of the Duke of Marchwood, one of the most powerful and feared men in the county.

A collective gasp rose from the assembled ladies, though whether it was due to the impropriety of eavesdropping or the revelation of their uninvited guest’s identity was unclear.

What on earth was the daughter of a duke doing lurking about Oakley Hall?