Page 26

“ P apa, you’re fidgeting again,” Celia observed with the sort of directness that Henry had come to both appreciate and dread in his daughter.

Now, she glanced up from her embroidery hoop as their carriage rolled through the fashionable streets toward Lady Oakley’s townhouse.

“One might think you were the one requiring instruction in proper stance,” his daughter added.

Henry stilled his restless fingers against his knee before shooting his daughter a look that carried both reproach and reluctant amusement. He couldn’t say her attempt at humor hadn’t caught.

“I am merely contemplating the day’s affairs, nothing more,” he responded.

“Indeed?” Celia’s eyes widened. “Would it do you such harm to defer such thoughts for a few hours when you’re with me?”

Henry offered a tight smile. “A man’s mind is always working, as you see,” he said, but at her slightly falling expression, he quickly added, “But of course, I will not fail to pay close attention to you or your lessons, Celia.”

At his words, his daughter beamed and puffed up like a bird of paradise, in fact. “You must, Papa.”

Their carriage drew to a halt before the familiar facade of Lady Oakley’s residence, breaking the short, intimate moment between them.

The footman hastened to lower the steps, and Henry handed his daughter down with practiced efficiency, though his mind was already occupied with the prospect of seeing Annabelle again.

It had been three days since his foolish episode at the gaming hell.

Three days of restless nights and increasingly futile attempts to banish Annabelle from his thoughts.

Now, he could not believe his heart shook inside his chest at the inevitability of coming face to face with the woman who’d undone him with a kiss.

“Your Grace, Lady Celia,” Lady Oakley greeted them warmly as they were shown into her drawing room. “How delightful to see you both again.”

Henry’s gaze immediately sought Annabelle, and he found her seated near the window with a book in her lap. The afternoon light caught the golden hues of her hair, and he felt that familiar tightening in his chest that had become his companion over the last few weeks.

“Lady Oakley,” he acknowledged with a bow, though his attention remained fixed on Annabelle as she rose to curtsy.

The curve of her hips, in particular, caught his eye, and he had to restrain himself from recalling how delectable she’d felt against him when they?—

“Your Grace,” she murmured, her voice carefully modulated, though he caught the slight flutter in her composure. “Lady Celia.”

But of course, his dreams already supplied him with enough details to wreak such havoc on even his waking thoughts!

“Miss Lytton.” He bowed to her as well, even as he battled with his twitching manhood within the confines of his codpiece.

Control yourself , he told himself firmly.

“Oh, Miss Lytton!” Celia exclaimed, crossing to her with obvious pleasure. “I must thank you for lending me that wonderful volume. I was thoroughly captured by it!”

“I’m so pleased you enjoyed it.” She said, “I knew reading Shakespeare would work for you.”

“Indeed, it did!” Celia agreed enthusiastically. “I instructed one of our footmen to give it to your butler. Thank you, sincerely.”

“There’s no urgency,” Annabelle assured her. “I’m simply glad it brought you pleasure.”

Lady Oakley clapped her hands together with evident satisfaction. “How lovely! But come, my dears, I have a rather special lesson planned for today. I thought we might venture to Madame Bouchard’s establishment for a practical demonstration in selecting appropriate fabrics and styles.”

Henry’s stomach sank. They were heading to a modiste’s shop where he would be surrounded by feminine fripperies. He would watch as Annabelle sifted through fabrics, or even glanced at chemises and silk stockings that would hug her delicious thighs?—

Good God. He had to avoid this.

“Perhaps it would be more appropriate if I remained here,” he suggested hopefully.

“Nonsense!” Lady Oakley declared with the sort of authority that brooked no argument. “A father’s approval is essential in such matters.”

Resignation settled over Henry like a familiar coat. “Very well.” He agreed, even as he found himself looking forward to watching Annabelle with this idle time he suddenly found on his hands.

The short journey to Madame Bouchard’s shop passed in a blur of feminine chatter about colors, cuts, and the latest fashions from Paris.

Henry found himself studying Annabelle’s profile as she engaged warmly with his daughter’s enthusiastic questions, noting the way her eyes lit up when discussing topics that interested her.

He wanted to join in—but he didn’t quite know what to say.

He was sure his own interests would bore both ladies to death, and he didn’t want to shatter the lively atmosphere between his daughter and Annabelle.

He would much rather continue hearing her voice tickle his ears, so he kept his mouth shut and burned with longing.

Madame Bouchard’s establishment was everything Henry had expected and dreaded.

The shop was a temple to feminine vanity filled with bolts of silk and satin, lace trim, and the sort of elaborate confections that transformed women into walking works of art.

The proprietress herself was a sharp-eyed Frenchwoman who assessed each customer with the calculating gaze of a general surveying a battlefield.

“Ah, Lady Oakley!” Madame Bouchard exclaimed as she swept forward with practiced grace. “And what brings you to my humble establishment today?”

“Education, my dear Madame,” Lady Oakley replied with a meaningful glance toward Celia. “Lady Celia requires instruction in the art of selecting appropriate attire for a young lady of her station.”

“But of course!” The modiste’s eyes gleamed with professional interest as she studied Celia with the sort of thoroughness that made Henry distinctly uncomfortable. “Such lovely coloring—we shall make her a diamond of the first water, non?”

As Lady Oakley launched into an extensive discussion of fabrics, weaves, and the subtle language of color that every well-bred young woman must master, Henry found himself gravitating toward Annabelle, who stood somewhat apart from the animated group.

“…Miss Lytton,” he said quietly, moving to stand beside her near a display of kid gloves.

When she turned toward him, her eyes were wide with shock, and he was struck anew by the clarity of her blue eyes. “Your Grace?”

Her pulse was fluttering ever so seductively at the base of her throat, casting his mind back to far more… inappropriate thoughts and desires that he had to rein back by the skin of his teeth.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, keeping his voice low enough that their conversation would remain private.

Because that wasn’t quite right. What he wanted to do was pull her somewhere private where he could kiss those pretty lips sore, and drink in every moan she would make for him. His dreams ever since that first kiss were full of nothing else.

Now, he cleared his throat again. “For what you did the other day—for…for Celia and me. Whatever it is you said to her that day…has clearly changed her.”

A soft smile touched her lips, and his heart throbbed in time with his rousing member.

“And you. I am so happy that you both are closer now.” Her smile faltered slightly, and for a moment, he glimpsed a vulnerability that she usually kept carefully hidden. “Not all daughters are so fortunate with their fathers.”

The frank admission hung between them. Henry felt the urge to comfort her and demand the details of whatever pain lay behind that carefully neutral expression.

“Annabelle,” he began, forgetting propriety in his desire to know more about her, whatever crumbs she was willing to give him right now.

“Papa!” Celia’s voice cut through their moment of connection. “Madame Bouchard has selected several gowns for me to try. May I?”

Henry turned toward his daughter, noting with some dismay how the modiste’s selections seemed designed to emphasize Celia’s transition from child to young woman. The implications of her approaching debut season suddenly felt overwhelmingly real.

“If you wish,” he said, though his voice carried a note of reluctance.

As Celia disappeared into the dressing room with Madame Bouchard and an armful of gowns, Lady Oakley continued her educational monologue about the importance of proper fit and the subtle messages conveyed by various necklines and hemlines.

When Celia emerged in the first gown—a confection of pale blue silk that transformed his little girl into something perilously close to a woman—Henry’s chest constricted with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.

“Oh, Celia,” Annabelle breathed with genuine admiration in her voice. “You look absolutely lovely.”

Indeed, she did, and that was precisely the problem. The gown’s cut emphasized her emerging figure while maintaining perfect propriety, but Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching his daughter slip away from him with each passing moment.

“What do you think, Papa?” Celia asked as she spun to show off the gown’s elegant lines.

“Beautiful,” he managed.

Three more gowns followed, each more sophisticated than the last, and with each transformation, Henry felt himself confronted with the reality of his daughter’s approaching womanhood.

When she finally selected her favorites—naturally, the most expensive of the lot—he found himself nodding agreement without even inquiring about the cost.

“Excellent choices, mademoiselle,” Madame Bouchard pronounced with satisfaction. “And now,” she continued, turning toward Annabelle with a speculative gleam, “perhaps we might attend to Miss Lytton? I have just the thing! A gown that would complement your coloring beautifully.”

Annabelle shook her head with a polite smile. “Thank you, but I have no need of new gowns at present.”

“Nonsense!” Celia exclaimed with the enthusiasm of youth, her eyes bright with excitement. “You simply must try it, Miss Lytton. Madame Bouchard has such exquisite taste.”

“Indeed,” Lady Oakley added her voice to the campaign. “It would be educational for Celia to observe how different styles complement different figures.”

Henry found himself holding his breath as Miss Lytton wavered visibly under their combined persuasion.

“Very well,” she capitulated with a sigh. “But only to try it on.”

Madame Bouchard’s smile was triumphant as she led her toward the dressing room and returned moments later with a gown that made Henry’s mouth go dry with anticipation.

And when Annabelle finally emerged, Henry felt his world shift on its axis.

The gown was a masterpiece of deep emerald silk that brought out the hidden depths in her eyes and complemented her complexion with a stunning effect.

More significantly, the cut was considerably more revealing than her usual attire; not immodest by any means but displaying the elegant lines of her figure in a way that made Henry’s entire body burn with sudden, fierce desire.

He had such vivid visions of peeling that gown off her, inch by blessed inch, to expose her soft, full breasts?—

“Oh!” Celia gasped in delight. “Miss Lytton, you look absolutely stunning!”

“Ahem.” He coughed under his breath, and his cheeks warmed as he dragged his eyes away from her bosom and met her gaze directly.

Henry’s heart slammed in his chest as their eyes met and held.

She was watching him—no, in fact, she’d caught him watching her.

He watched her cheeks flush rather becomingly, and he clenched his jaw, finding it harder and harder to restrain the beast inside him that wanted her flushed and under him?—

“ Magnifique ,” Lady Oakley agreed warmly. “That color is perfection on you, my dear.”

Stop it . Shame spread through his chest.

“Papa?” Celia’s voice carried a note of expectation that made Henry realize that she’d noticed him staring for several moments. “Don’t you think Miss Lytton looks beautiful?”

Henry cleared his throat roughly for the third time as he fought to regain his composure.

“Indeed,” he managed, even with his heart beating in his throat.

“Though I trust you won’t be selecting anything quite so…

” he searched for an appropriate word that wouldn’t insult while making his point clear, “sophisticated for your own wardrobe.”

The dismissive tone was intentional and a desperate attempt to maintain some distance from the overwhelming desire that threatened to unmask him completely. He saw Annabelle’s face fall slightly at his lukewarm response and immediately regretted his cowardice.

“Of course not, Papa,” Celia replied, though her tone suggested she found his response somewhat lacking.

Annabelle retreated to the dressing room with silent composure, though Henry caught the slight stiffness in her shoulders that betrayed her.

Henry clenched his fists. Oh, how he longed to tell her what he truly thought of her in that gown—but none of the things in his head in that moment were fit for public decency. None.

If only she knew …

“Such a pity,” Lady Oakley mused as they waited for her granddaughter to change back into her day dress. “That gown was made for her. I believe I shall purchase it for her myself.”

“That’s very kind, Grandmama,” came Annabelle’s voice from behind the curtain, “but I truly have no use for such a gown.”

“Surely there will be occasions?—”

“No,” her voice was firm. Final. “I appreciate the gesture, but it would be impractical.”

Lady Oakley looked as though she might argue further, but something in her granddaughter’s tone seemed to discourage additional persuasion from her.

And Henry held his tongue.