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“Oh, he cares,” Annabelle said with quiet certainty. “I’ve seen how he watches you when you’re engaged in conversation, the pride in his eyes when you demonstrate your accomplishments. That’s not the look of a man merely satisfied with his possession. That’s a father who adores his child.”

Celia’s eyes filled with fresh tears, though these seemed different from the angry ones she’d shed earlier. “Then why can’t he ever say so? Why must everything be rules and expectations and disappointment?”

“Because he’s afraid,” Annabelle repeated gently. “Afraid of failing you, afraid of the world hurting you. Fear makes men do terribly foolish things, Celia. Especially proud, powerful men like your father.”

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, watching the flames dance in the grate. Finally, when Celia spoke, her voice was small but steadier.

“Do you have a sibling, Miss Lytton? A brother or a sister, perhaps? You speak as though you do.”

The question caught her off guard and sent a sharp pang through her chest. “I do,” she said carefully. “A…sister. She lives in America now.”

“You must miss her terribly.”

Annabelle swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. “We… correspond infrequently.”

“I wish I had a sister,” Celia murmured while gazing into the fire. “I should be lucky to have one like you.”

Annabelle felt her smile falter and was grateful that Celia’s attention was not currently on her face. Otherwise, she would have seen the blatant discomfort there.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Annabelle managed, her voice admirably steady despite the turmoil beneath. She gently changed the subject. “Do you think you might be ready to speak with your father now? He’s quite worried, you know.”

Celia sighed deeply, then nodded. “I suppose I can’t hide in here forever. Though the prospect is tempting.” She glanced at Annabelle. “Will you stay? When I speak with him?”

“If you wish it,” Annabelle replied, surprised by the request.

“I do,” Celia said firmly. “You seem to understand us both. Perhaps you might translate when we inevitably begin speaking different languages again.”

Annabelle couldn’t suppress a laugh at the apt description. “Very well. Shall we venture forth, then?”

The Duke stood as they entered the main library. His rigid posture betrayed the tension he’d been under. His gaze moved swiftly from his daughter to Annabelle, carrying something that looked remarkably like gratitude before he masked it with his usual reserve.

“Celia,” he began stiffly, “your behavior was?—”

“What your father means,” Annabelle interrupted smoothly, ignoring his sharp glance, “is that he was concerned when you locked yourself away.”

The Duke opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He paused. Then, he nodded.

“Indeed,” the Duke agreed, his voice softening. “Your welfare is always my foremost consideration.”

“And what Papa means by that,” Celia said with newfound confidence, “is that he loves me, though he finds the actual word rather terrifying to pronounce.”

Annabelle bit her lip to contain her smile as the Duke’s eyes widened slightly.

“I… that is to say…” He cleared his throat. “Your characterization is not entirely inaccurate.”

“Which means ‘yes, precisely so’ in Duke-speak,” Celia translated as a hint of mischief entered her eyes. “And when I suggested a masquerade, I wasn’t rejecting tradition so much as hoping to make my debut uniquely memorable.”

The Duke’s expression suggested he was navigating unfamiliar and treacherous territory. “Your debut will be memorable regardless of such embellishments.”

“Because I am the daughter of the Duke of Marchwood,” Celia supplied, “and that identity carries certain responsibilities.”

“Yes,” he agreed, seeming relieved that she understood.

“But I am also Celia,” she continued more softly, “your daughter, who sometimes wishes her father would see her as more than merely his offspring.”

Something shifted in the Duke’s expression then. There was a subtle softening around his eyes that transformed his entire countenance.

“You have never been merely anything, Celia,” he said quietly. “Everything I have done—every rule, every expectation—has been to ensure your future happiness and security. How I wish you would know this?—”

“—I know, Papa,” she replied. “But sometimes happiness exists in smaller moments, too. Like a beautiful ball that reflects something of who I am, not just who I’m expected to be.”

The Duke glanced at Annabelle, who stood silently observing their exchange. Something in his gaze made her heart beat faster: a vulnerability, a question, perhaps even a plea for guidance.

“Perhaps,” she suggested gently, “Shakespeare might provide a compromise. His works are both classical and beloved. A midsummer theme would allow for elegant decorations while remaining comfortably within the bounds of propriety.”

The Duke considered this for a long moment, his gaze never leaving Annabelle’s face.

“A reasonable suggestion,” he conceded finally. “Though I draw the line at masks.”

“No masks,” Celia agreed immediately as her face brightened with hope. “Just flowers and lights and perhaps some suitable quotations on the dance cards?”

“Very well,” the Duke nodded, and the barest hint of a smile touched his lips. “Though the guest list shall remain as originally planned.”

“Of course, Papa,” Celia beamed, throwing propriety to the winds as she rushed forward to embrace him.

The Duke’s expression of shock nearly made Annabelle laugh aloud, but then his arms came around his daughter with gentle hesitation. His expression relaxed into a deep relief that made something in her chest tighten at the sight.

Over Celia’s head, his eyes met Annabelle’s, carrying something that looked remarkably like gratitude.

She nodded once, acknowledging the silent thanks, then quietly slipped from the room to give father and daughter a moment of privacy.

And she wondered, despite knowing that she was indeed courting flames, how his arms would feel around her.