Page 23

“ T he salmon is particularly fine this evening,” Lord Wexford declared as he gestured expansively with his fork. “Caught fresh from my own stream, of course. Nothing compares to the flavor of fish raised in Wexford waters.”

“Indeed, though I confess a preference for the Scottish salmon myself,” Lady Egerton replied, delicately patting her lips with her napkin. “The colder waters produce a firmer flesh, don’t you find?”

Annabelle suppressed a sigh, wondering how much longer the dinner party would drag on.

She had accompanied her grandmother to what had been described as an intimate gathering at Lord Wexford’s London townhouse, only to discover a carefully orchestrated seating arrangement that had placed her directly across from the Duke of Marchwood.

His unexpected presence had sent her pulse racing embarrassingly, though she’d managed to maintain her composure through the first three courses.

Now, as the conversation drifted from salmon breeding to horse racing to the deplorable state of the modern novel, she found her attention repeatedly drawn to the Duke despite her best efforts.

“…wouldn’t you agree, Miss Lytton?” Lord Wexford’s voice penetrated her wandering thoughts.

“Pardon me, my lord. What did you say?” she replied, mortified to be caught inattentive.

“I was remarking that these modern novels with their focus on sentiment and passion do young ladies a disservice by creating unrealistic expectations of marriage,” he repeated, his tone suggesting he was doing her a great favor by including her in the conversation at all.

“On the contrary,” Annabelle replied, unable to resist the bait, “I believe fiction serves society by allowing us to explore emotional truths that might otherwise remain unacknowledged. Jane Austen, for instance, offers remarkably clear-eyed views of marriage despite her romantic plots.”

Lord Wexford’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “You speak as though fiction might offer genuine insight rather than mere entertainment.”

“The best fiction does precisely that,” Annabelle countered, warming to her subject. “It holds a mirror to society’s pretensions and hypocrisies, often more effectively than the most earnest sermon.”

“How charming to witness such… enthusiasm,” Lady Carmichael remarked with a tight smile. “Though perhaps better suited to a literary salon than the dinner table?”

“I found Miss Lytton’s observation quite astute,” the Duke interjected unexpectedly.

All eyes turned to him in surprise as he continued, “Austen, in particular, demonstrates remarkable insight into the economic and social forces that shape marriage decisions. Her work is far more than mere sentiment.”

“You’ve read Austen, Your Grace?” Lord Wexford asked with evident disbelief.

“I read widely,” the Duke replied with that cool authority that brooked no further questioning. “As does Miss Lytton.”

Their eyes met across the candlelit table. Was he truly defending her opinions? The thought was as unsettling as it was thrilling. For a moment, something wordless passed between them: a silent acknowledgment of mutual respect that she would never have thought possible weeks ago.

“Well,” Lady Wyndham interjected with a brittle laugh that shattered the moment, “one must admire Miss Lytton’s continued intellectual pursuits, given her circumstances. Not every woman would maintain such spirit after being so publicly jilted at the altar.”

The table fell silent. Annabelle’s fingers tightened around her cutlery until her knuckles whitened. The casual cruelty of the remark struck with precision at her oldest wound.

Seven years had passed, yet society never truly allowed her to forget her humiliation. The familiar shame washed over her—hot, then cold—as every eye at the table turned toward her, some with pity, others with barely concealed curiosity.

“I believe,” the Duke said into the charged silence, his voice carrying a dangerous edge that made several guests shift uncomfortably in their seats, “that true courage lies in rising above life’s disappointments with dignity rather than allowing them to define one’s character, as you no doubt seem to believe. ”

The quiet force of his words seemed to vibrate through the air like the aftermath of thunder.

Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at him, unable to mask her astonishment.

His eyes, when they met hers briefly, held something she’d never seen there before.

Not merely approval, but a fierceness that sent an unfamiliar warmth spreading through her chest.

Lady Wyndham’s cheeks flamed. “I merely meant?—”

“I understood precisely what you meant, madam,” the Duke interrupted, his tone arctic enough to freeze the Thames in midsummer. “And I find it both unkind and unworthy of this company.”

Annabelle could not tear her gaze from him. Had the Duke of Marchwood, the same man who had once implied her life choices reflected poor character, truly just defended her honor in front of London’s most notorious gossips?

Lady Oakley, seated at the opposite end of the table, caught Annabelle’s eye with a raised brow that spoke volumes.

Her grandmother had missed nothing. Neither Lady Wyndham’s cruel comment, the Duke’s surprising defense, nor, Annabelle suspected with a flush of embarrassment, her own transparent reaction to both.

However, the remainder of dinner passed in stilted conversation punctuated by her grandmother’s diplomatic redirections.

Annabelle managed to respond appropriately when addressed, but her thoughts remained in turmoil.

Each time she dared glance in his direction, she found his gaze already upon her, intent in a way that made her pulse quicken traitorously.

She’d never been looked at like that before, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit. There was nothing idle or careless about his gaze; it was steady, assessing, as though he were stripping back each layer of her composure and cataloguing what he found beneath.

Annabelle forced herself to focus on her plate, though the food tasted of nothing. Her fork trembled slightly in her hand, but she refused to set it down.

By the time the final course was cleared, she’d all but convinced herself she must have imagined it. Surely, it was nothing more than the peculiar trick of a candlelit evening and a too-vivid imagination.

And yet, when she risked one last glance across the table, his eyes met hers once again.

Calm, unreadable, and still watching.

When the ladies finally withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars, Annabelle seized the first opportunity to slip away. She found refuge on a small balcony overlooking the garden, and the cool night air provided a blessed relief against her flushed cheeks.

Annabelle leaned forward and gripped the stone balustrade, fighting against the tears that threatened to spill despite the fact that she’d managed to maintain her composure all throughout dinner.

“Stop crying,” she whispered fiercely to herself, dashing away a tear that had escaped despite her resolve. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

That was a lie. The words had struck at the very core of her carefully constructed independence and the life she had built from the ashes of that public humiliation.

Lady Wyndham had reduced her entire existence to a single moment of rejection, as though nothing she had accomplished since—the Athena Society, her intellectual pursuits, the respect she’d earned from women like her grandmother—counted for anything.

“It clearly does,” came a deep voice from behind her, “or you wouldn’t be hiding out here like this.”

Annabelle whirled to find the Duke standing in the doorway. His broad shoulders were silhouetted against the light from within. Her pulse leapt traitorously at the sight of him, and she hastily wiped away any remaining evidence of tears.

“I’m not hiding,” she lied, straightening her shoulders with dignity she did not feel. “I merely needed some air. Please, leave me be.”

“No. I’m afraid I cannot do that,” he said simply while stepping onto the balcony and closing the door behind him with quiet deliberation.

The soft click of the latch seemed unnaturally loud in the silence that followed.

Henry watched as indignation flashed across Miss Lytton’s face, momentarily displacing the hurt he’d glimpsed before she’d composed herself. Even in the dim light, he could see the traces of tears on her cheeks and realized how much he did not like seeing her cry.

Oh, he did not like it at all. In fact, he had half a mind to go back into the building and track Lady Wyndham down himself?—

“This is highly improper,” she said stiffly. “If you’ve come to offer pity?—”

“I’ve come to ensure you’re well,” he interrupted, moving closer to her despite himself. “Lady Wyndham’s remark was unconscionable.”

“And yet entirely accurate,” she replied with brittle brightness. “I was indeed jilted at the altar. It happened. I survived. I have no need for your concern, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps not,” he acknowledged, “but you have it nonetheless.”

She turned away from him, her profile etched against the night sky like a divine painting. “How generous of you to spare such consideration for a woman you’ve previously described as a corrupting influence.”

“I admit I was wrong,” he said quietly.

Those simple words hung in the air between them. Miss Lytton turned slowly to face him.

“Wrong about what, precisely?” she asked.

“About many things,” he admitted, moving closer still. “About your character. About your influence on Celia. About my own…” He hesitated and searched for the right word. “Reactions to you.”

As her own grandmother had said, it was time to acknowledge the source of all these feelings that flared whenever she so much as looked at him.

“Your Grace—” She started to say, and Henry found that he did not like that, either.