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“ A bsolutely not,” Henry stated firmly. His patience had worn thin after nearly an hour of what he considered increasingly frivolous discussion. “The notion of a masquerade ball for your debut is entirely inappropriate, Celia. I cannot imagine what has put such an idea into your head.”

They had gathered in Lady Oakley’s elegant townhouse library the following afternoon for Celia’s lesson, but what had begun as a practical discussion of debut arrangements had devolved into increasingly fanciful suggestions from his daughter.

“But Father, Lady Ashford had a masquerade for her coming out, and everyone still speaks of it as the most memorable event of that Season,” Celia protested. Her bright-eyed enthusiasm served only to deepen Henry’s frown.

“Lady Ashford’s circumstances were entirely different,” he replied coldly. “We shall have a traditional ball, as befits your station. These flights of fancy serve no purpose.”

Lady Oakley, seated near the window, cleared her throat delicately. “Perhaps a compromise might be reached? The traditional ball your father suggests, with perhaps some small, unique element to distinguish it?”

“What about flowers?” Miss Lytton suggested from her position near the bookshelf. “Not just the usual arrangements, but something more elaborate. A particular theme or color scheme that would make the evening distinctive without breaching propriety?”

Henry shot her a look, irritated at her intervention yet unable to find legitimate fault with the suggestion. She met his gaze steadily, and he felt that now-familiar jolt of awareness course through him, like lightning crackling through his bloodstream.

Celia brightened immediately. “Oh yes! Perhaps something inspired by Shakespeare? A Midsummer Night’s Dream with wildflowers and fairy lights and?—”

“This is precisely the problem,” Henry interrupted, his voice sharper than he’d intended.

“You persist in viewing your debut as some theatrical entertainment rather than the serious social milestone it represents. This is not a game, Celia. Your entire future depends upon making the right impression with the right people.”

“I’m aware of that,” Celia replied, her voice cooling to match his own. “I simply thought that perhaps my debut might reflect something of who I am, rather than merely what society expects.”

“Who you are is the daughter of the Duke of Marchwood,” Henry stated flatly. “That identity carries responsibilities that supersede personal whims. I had hoped Lady Oakley’s instruction would have impressed that reality upon you by now.”

The hurt that flashed across Celia’s face sent an unexpected pang through his chest, but he hardened himself against it.

Better she learn these harsh realities now, in private, than discover them through public humiliation.

“I understand perfectly, Father,” she said, her voice suddenly small and controlled in a way that somehow wounded him more than any outburst might have.

“As we have previously established, my identity exists solely to serve the Marchwood legacy. My own thoughts and feelings are merely inconvenient complications.”

“Celia—” he began, but she was already rising, her movements precise and controlled as she gathered her shawl.

“I’m trying my best,” she said, her voice slightly despite her evident effort at composure. “But it seems nothing I do is ever enough to meet your expectations.”

She did not wait for him to respond before she swept from the room, the door closing behind her with a decisive click that somehow carried more rebuke than any slam might have.

“Well,” Lady Oakley observed after a moment of heavy silence, “that could have been handled with greater diplomacy.”

Henry sighed. “She needs to understand the realities of her position.”

“She understands them all too well,” Miss Lytton replied, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “And that is why I think her father’s overbearing nature bothers her so. I had thought you realized that you are?—”

Yes, Henry knew he was being a heartless bastard. But he did not know how to be anything else. He intended to make sure Celia had the best life in society and that heartlessness was what would help him achieve that.

So, he turned toward her with his sense of irritation flaring. “You overstep, Miss Lytton. I would have thought that you would understand me by now.”

“Perhaps I do understand you,” she acknowledged, meeting his gaze directly. “But I think it is you who refuses to understand her . I speak as someone who recognizes the look in her eyes. She fears disappointing you above all else. You choke her with your rigid expectations, Your Grace.”

Those words momentarily robbed him of response. A maid appeared at the doorway at that moment, wearing an anxious expression.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, Your Grace, but Lady Celia has locked herself in the small library and refuses to respond to our knocking.”

Lady Oakley rose immediately. “I shall speak with her.”

Twenty minutes later, however, they had made no progress. Celia remained barricaded behind the solid oak door despite Lady Oakley’s increasingly firm entreaties and Henry’s eventual commanding tone.

“This is childish behavior,” Henry declared. His frustration mounted as the standoff continued. “She cannot simply hide away when faced with unpleasant truths.”

“With respect, Your Grace,” Miss Lytton said quietly from where she had been observing their efforts, “perhaps your daughter requires a different approach.” She stepped forward hesitantly. “Might I attempt to speak with her?”

Henry sighed, knowing fully that she might indeed be the only one to get through to his daughter.

“Very well,” he said finally, stepping aside even as nervousness danced under his skin, heart pounding in his throat.

Miss Lytton approached the door with calm and deliberate movements. Rather than knocking forcefully as they had done, she simply placed her palm against the polished wood.

“Celia?” she called softly. “It’s Annabelle. I wonder if I might join you for a moment? I’ve always found that difficult conversations are easier with tea, and I’ve asked our housekeeper to prepare a tray.”

Silence greeted her words, but Miss Lytton continued undeterred, keeping her voice gentle but not condescending. “You needn’t speak if you don’t wish to. I would simply appreciate the opportunity to sit with you for a while. Sometimes silence shared is better than solitude, don’t you think?”

Henry watched, and something tightened in his chest as Miss Lytton continued her quiet entreaty, speaking of inconsequential matters even though profound silence followed her words.

But then, so quietly they nearly missed it, came the soft click of the lock turning.

The door opened just enough for Annabelle to slip through before Celia closed it firmly behind her.

“I don’t wish to speak with my father,” Celia said immediately in a trembling voice.

“I haven’t come to persuade you otherwise,” Annabelle replied. “May we sit?”

Celia hesitated, then they settled on the thick carpet with their backs against plush footstools, allowing the flames to cast dancing shadows across their faces.

“He doesn’t understand me at all,” Celia burst out after a moment of shared silence. “Or rather, he simply refuses to. Everything must be exactly as he dictates.” Her fingers plucked restlessly at her skirts.

Annabelle hummed. “Is that the reason you both haven’t been on speaking terms lately?” She said, and Celia snapped her head to look at her with wide eyes.

“How did you?—?”

But Annabelle just smiled, her lips curving gently. “Oh, come now. I know a sulking teenage girl when I see one.”

Celia harrumphed. “Well, it’s all his fault. Why should I waste my breath talking to him if he refuses to listen to me? A masquerade isn’t even particularly scandalous these days! Lady Milicent had one, and her father is a bishop, for heaven’s sake.”

“True,” Annabelle conceded while stretching her arms out in front of her. “Though I wonder if perhaps your father’s resistance stems from something beyond mere propriety.”

Celia glanced at her sideways. “What do you mean?”

“Fear,” Annabelle said simply. “Not of scandal or impropriety, but of losing you.”

“Losing me?” Celia’s brow furrowed. “That’s absurd. I’m merely suggesting a thematic ball, not running away to join a theatrical troupe.”

“To you, yes. But to a man who lost his wife suddenly and has raised you alone ever since…” Annabelle let the words trail off meaningfully.

“Your debut marks the beginning of your independent life in society. The start of courtships, marriage proposals, and eventually a household of your own. For sixteen years, you’ve been the center of his world. ”

“He has a peculiar way of showing affection, then,” Celia muttered, though Annabelle noticed the subtle softening of her expression and the light brush of pink dusting her cheeks.

“Most men do,” Annabelle replied with a wry smile. “Particularly those who’ve never learned to express tenderness directly. They translate love into protection, guidance, and preparation for life’s challenges. All valuable but often delivered with all the delicacy of a charging bull.”

That earned her a reluctant smile from Celia. “He does charge rather spectacularly, doesn’t he?”

“Like a bull who’s spotted a particularly offensive shade of red,” Annabelle agreed, relieved to see the girl’s tension beginning to ease. “That doesn’t excuse his dismissal of your feelings, mind you. He was unnecessarily harsh.”

“He always is when he feels his authority challenged,” Celia sighed and pulled her knees to her chest in a gesture that reminded Annabelle how young she still was, despite her poise. “Sometimes I wonder if he truly cares for me at all, or merely the idea of a proper daughter.”