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“ K eep your chin parallel to the ground, Lady Celia,” Lady Oakley instructed as they strolled through Hyde Park the following afternoon. “A proper lady neither looks down in uncertainty nor up in arrogance. The world meets her gaze directly.”

“Yes, Lady Oakley,” Celia replied while adjusting her posture with an ease that came with surviving countless lessons at the Dowager Viscountess’ hands.

The park bloomed with late summer splendor. Well-dressed couples and families traversed the carefully maintained paths while children sailed miniature boats upon the Serpentine.

London’s fashionable set had thinned considerably with the Season’s conclusion, yet enough remained to provide an appreciative audience for Lady Celia’s public debut.

“Your steps should be measured and even,” Lady Oakley continued, demonstrating the perfect gliding motion that had been the envy of debutantes during her own youth. “Neither too hasty, which suggests unbecoming eagerness, nor too languid, which implies indolence.”

Celia mimicked the movement with remarkable precision. The gentle sway of her skirts created a vision of effortless grace. “Like this, Lady Oakley?”

“Precisely so.” The Dowager approved with a nod. “You possess a natural elegance, my dear. We merely refine what Providence has already bestowed.”

“She’s adapted remarkably well to Lady Oakley’s instruction,” Annabelle observed, walking alongside the Duke several paces behind his daughter and her grandmother.

“She respects Lady Oakley,” he replied as his gaze fixed upon his daughter’s retreating figure.

Annabelle recalled her suspicion that both father and daughter were in a stalemate of sorts and had yet to reconcile. She supposed his words confirmed it now.

“You have raised her remarkably well for a man alone,” she offered, surprising herself with the sincerity of the compliment.

He glanced at her, surprise evident in the slight lifting of his brow. “High praise indeed, coming from one who has previously found so much to criticize in my methods.”

“I am capable of revising my opinions when presented with new evidence,” she replied, meeting his gaze directly.

The afternoon sunlight caught the subtle flecks of blue in his grey eyes, softening their usual stormy aspect into something more akin to fog lifting from a summer lake.

“Perhaps you were simply trying your best to instill discipline in her the best way you knew how.”

There was a short silence.

“Thank you,” he said simply, the words carrying a weight that transcended their brevity.

The silence returned for several moments. The unexpected truce between them created a curious sense of companionship that Annabelle found simultaneously unsettling and oddly comfortable.

The steady rhythm of their steps, the shared observation of Celia’s progress, and the occasional brush of his sleeve against hers when the path narrowed, all created a sense of intimacy that both frightened and exhilarated her.

“Lady Oakley,” Celia called back suddenly, breaking their reverie, “might I walk ahead with Miss Lytton for a while? There’s a matter upon which I would value her perspective.”

Lady Oakley glanced back at them. Her shrewd eyes missed nothing as they traveled from Annabelle’s flushed cheeks to the Duke’s uncharacteristically relaxed posture.

“Of course, my dear. His Grace will escort me while you and Miss Lytton explore the path ahead.”

The Duke hesitated momentarily and his gaze met Annabelle’s with a flicker of uncertainty. She read the silent war in his mind and saw the moment he acquiesced.

“Very well,” he said finally, inclining his head. “Though do remain within sight.”

“Don’t fret, Your Grace,” Annabelle couldn’t resist adding as a teasing light entering her eyes when she moved to join Celia. “We’ll restrict ourselves to only the most mildly indecent topics. Courtship, corsets, and the occasional French novel.”

His eyes narrowed at her provocative words and his jaw tightening visibly, but it was not the hostility with which he’d once viewed her.

No. The flash of heat in his gaze now sent an unexpected shiver of awareness down her spine, a reminder of the magnetic currents that seemed to flow between them whenever propriety’s barriers momentarily lowered.

“Miss Lytton—” he began, his tone carrying a warning edge that both irritated and thrilled her all at once.

“Come along, Your Grace,” Lady Oakley interjected smoothly. “You must tell me about the improvements you mentioned for the hospital committee. I find myself quite fascinated by modern medical advances.”

As they moved ahead, Annabelle caught Lady Oakley’s quietly murmured observation: “You enjoy poking the bear a bit too much, my dear.”

Annabelle could not suppress her grin.

Linking arms with Celia, Annabelle led her down the sunlit path, quietly pleased to see the girl come back to life now that they were free of her father’s watchful eye. With each step, Celia’s natural spirit returned like a butterfly finally freed from its chrysalis.

“You’re having a pleasant time in London, then?” she inquired, genuinely interested in the girl’s experience.

They passed a small gathering of children flying kites. Their colorful creations danced against the azure sky like fragments of captured rainbows.

“Oh, yes,” Celia replied with undisguised enthusiasm. “Lady Oakley is so wonderfully knowledgeable about everything. Not just deportment and social niceties, but art and music and history. And she never makes me feel foolish for asking questions.”

“That’s always been her gift,” Annabelle agreed, warmth suffusing her voice as she thought of her grandmother’s patient guidance throughout her own tumultuous youth. “She believes curious minds deserve nurturing, not constraint.”

“It’s been so lovely having a woman’s guidance,” Celia confessed, her voice softening with sudden vulnerability. “I mean, the housekeeper and my governesses have been kind, but it’s not the same as…”

Annabelle felt a pang of sympathy. Behind the polished facade of the Duke’s daughter, she recognized the lonely child who had grown up in a household dominated by masculine influence, however well-intentioned.

“I imagine it’s been difficult, growing up without your mother.”

“I was so young when she died that I scarcely remember her,” Celia admitted while glancing back to ensure her father remained out of earshot.

The melancholy that briefly shadowed her features added years to her countenance, transforming her from a carefree girl to a thoughtful young woman in the space of a heartbeat.

“Father hired the best governesses, of course, but they came and went. And the female staff, while kind, must maintain a proper distance.”

The quiet loneliness in her voice struck a responsive chord in Annabelle’s heart.

She thought of her own mother, lost too early, though not before imparting a foundation of love and confidence that had sustained her through later trials.

The acute pain of that absence had softened over time into a gentle ache, but she remembered all too well the bewildering sense of navigating life’s complexities without maternal guidance.

“Does your father speak of her often?” she asked gently while steering them toward a shaded bench overlooking a particularly picturesque vista of the Serpentine.

In the distance, swans glided across the water’s surface with serene dignity, their white forms stark against the deeper blue of the lake.

Celia shook her head, and her expression grew somber.

“Never. Not once in all these years. I’ve seen her portrait in the gallery, of course, but whenever I ask questions about her, Father changes the subject immediately.

It’s as though he cannot bear to revisit the past, even to share memories with me. ”

Annabelle considered this revelation thoughtfully and allowed her perception of the Duke to shift yet again.

Perhaps his rigid control extended beyond mere social propriety.

Perhaps it was the only defense he had found against overwhelming grief.

To lose the woman one loved, to be left alone with an infant daughter and a dukedom’s responsibilities…

The weight of such burdens might indeed forge a man into something harder, more unyielding than he might otherwise have become.

“Sometimes,” she said carefully, choosing her words with deliberate precision, “the deepest wounds are the ones we protect most fiercely from view. Your father may find it difficult to speak of your mother precisely because her loss affected him so profoundly.”

Celia considered this for a moment as her brow furrowed pensively. A gentle breeze stirred the loose tendrils of hair that had escaped her bonnet, framing her young face with delicate wisps that caught the dappled sunlight.

“I never considered that possibility,” she admitted quietly. “I always assumed his silence meant he had simply… moved beyond her memory.”

“I rather think,” Annabelle replied, glancing back to where the Duke walked with Lady Oakley, his tall figure silhouetted against the afternoon light, “that some people shape our lives so fundamentally that moving beyond them proves impossible. We simply learn to carry their absence as part of who we have become.”

“She certainly has a natural ease about her,” Lady Oakley remarked. Her shrewd eyes followed Celia across the Harborough drawing room. “One might almost forget this is her first formal introduction to London society.”

Henry’s gaze tracked his daughter as she leaned over to whisper something into Miss Lytton’s ear.

“She has been adequately prepared,” he replied, though inwardly he couldn’t deny a flicker of pride at her composure.

“Indeed,” Lady Oakley agreed, “though I believe her natural grace owes as much to inheritance as instruction.”

Henry didn’t respond immediately because his attention was drawn inexorably to the graceful curve of Miss Lytton’s nape.

The afternoon light caught in her honey-blonde curls, illuminating her animated features as she spoke.

Even walking in front of him as they were, he could perceive the genuine warmth in her expression, and he was suddenly jealous that she’d never turned any of it his way.

Although, of course, he’d done nothing to deserve her warmth thus far.

“Your daughter and my granddaughter appear to have developed quite the rapport,” Lady Oakley observed as she followed his gaze with knowing eyes.

Henry stiffened slightly but quickly regained himself. “Indeed. Miss Lytton has a way of encouraging excessive familiarity.”

“Perhaps,” Lady Oakley replied mildly, “or perhaps she simply treats Celia as a person rather than merely a duke’s daughter. Young women of spirit recognize kindred souls, Your Grace.”

Celia laughed then, and Henry felt his face soften. The careful mask of decorum she’d worn around him slipped to reveal genuine animation as they spoke. The sound, so rarely heard, was like a balm to his otherwise austere existence.

How long had it been since he heard his daughter laugh?

Guilt spread over his chest like a set of rotten vines, circling around his ribcage and tightening mercilessly.

“You’ve done remarkably well with her, you know,” Lady Oakley said quietly, bringing his focus back to her. “Raising a daughter alone is no small feat, particularly for a man of your position.”

The rotten vines loosened slightly, and Henry felt like his breath came more easily now.

Indeed, he had sacrificed much. Countless evenings spent at council meetings or lavish social gatherings abandoned, despite Everett’s several attempts to drag him to a hunt or a card game. Each refusal was met with good-natured teasing, but Henry’s focus never wavered.

It was all for Celia. All for the quiet duty of overseeing her education and upbringing.

Invitations to London’s finest balls and dinners were declined without hesitation if they conflicted with her lessons or well-being.

Even matters of estate management were occasionally delegated to trusted stewards so he might devote himself to preparing her for society.

The society that would judge her harshly without the shelter of a mother’s care.

And though such devotion earned whispers of reclusiveness and excessive protection, Henry welcomed the solitude, knowing it was a small price to pay. Anything to ensure that Celia would never lack guidance or security.

He hesitated before replying to the dowager, “It is good to hear her laugh like that.”

Lady Oakley smiled gently. “Do not be so hard on yourself, Your Grace. You’ve given her a solid foundation despite lacking a mother’s guidance. She will do quite well.”

Henry merely nodded, his gaze drawn back to the subtle way Miss Lytton supported his daughter with a gentle touch to her elbow and a twinkle in her eye.

Unbidden, his mind conjured an entirely different image of those delicate hands. In his thoughts, Miss Lytton’s hands rested against his skin, and her lips were curved in a more… private pleasure.

Henry clenched his teeth.

His improper dreams about Miss Lytton only seemed to be growing in frequency since their fragile truce. Still, he found that even now, with her grandmother walking beside him, he had to fend off thoughts of imprinting his handprints into Miss Lytton’s titillating backside?—

“Your Grace?” Lady Oakley’s voice broke through his decidedly improper reverie. “Are you quite well? You appear rather flushed.”

Bloody idiot, losing focus again , he scolded himself.

“Merely the warmth of the day, my lady,” he managed, forcing his thoughts back to propriety with ruthless determination. “Nothing of consequence.”

“If you say so,” Lady Oakley replied, her tone suggesting she believed nothing of the sort but was willing to overlook it. “Though I’ve always found that acknowledging the source of one’s discomfort is the first step toward addressing it.”

Henry gave her a sharp glance, but her expression remained serene, betraying nothing beyond polite concern.

But the woman was right. The only thing stopping him from acknowledging the source of his discomfort was the fact that acknowledgement would inevitably lead to him losing his composure.

And he could certainly not afford that. Absolutely not.