Page 27

“ B egging your pardon, my lady,” the girl said with a curtsy, “but this package was delivered for you.”

That evening, as twilight painted the London sky in shades of rose and gold, a maid knocked softly on the door of Annabelle’s room.

Annabelle paused in her occupation of brushing her hair. She turned slightly from her vanity to face the maid. “A package?”

The maid nodded, and that was when Annabelle noticed that her expression was one of barely restrained excitement. “Yes, my lady.”

Annabelle wanted to question the girl further, but she supposed that that would only give the maid more fuel for the gossip she was already aching to spread.

“I see,” she said instead. “You may leave now.”

“Yes, my lady.” The young maid curtsied again before hurriedly exiting, no doubt skipping down the corridor to spread the gossip to the other maids in the house.

She supposed it was rather novel. Ever since being jilted at the altar, she couldn’t say that she was popular with the noblemen of the ton . If she had been, it was likely she’d no longer be a spinster.

Now, Annabelle eyed the parcel with suspicion, noting the expensive paper and silk ribbon that suggested its contents were valuable indeed. She knew the pattern of the wrapping paper and understood that it came from Madame Bouchard.

The contents of this package have to be that dress.

Annabelle sighed while rising from her vanity. She’d told her grandmother that she had no intention of wearing the dress anywhere. There was no need for it. After all, she was a woman on the shelf—what would advertising her body bring her but reproach?

“Since when did you care about what other people thought?” She scoffed at herself.

But that wasn’t quite right. She really didn’t care what other people thought. But she cared about what he thought.

With her cheeks flaming, Annabelle flung her comb back down on the vanity. “That insufferable man!” She hissed, more out of embarrassment than anything.

Memories of the way he’d watched her when she’d stepped out in the gown continued to play in her mind’s eye. The way his gaze had tracked every inhale and exhale of her bosom…

And then what had he to say about it? He hoped his daughter’s dresses wouldn’t be quite so…what, sophisticated , was it? As if she hadn’t known what he’d truly meant by those words.

“What an infuriating man,” she huffed. “Hot one moment and cold the next! If that’s what he truly thinks of me, then why did he kiss me like that?”

Now, her cheeks scorched as she remembered the kiss, the very one that had haunted her dreams every night since then, leaving her to wake with scorching desire that overtook her entire body, aching for more.

Annabelle let out a long breath, forcing her attention back to the package currently resting on the stool in front of her, her curiosity overcoming her. She did have suspicions of what it was, but she could…she could make sure, couldn’t she?

When she opened it, her breath caught in her throat.

The emerald gown lay nestled in tissue paper like a jewel. The silk folds of fabric gleamed in the candlelight. Beneath it lay a note, written in what she instinctively knew to be Henry’s hand—short and efficient strokes that were straight to the point.

You are mistaken if you believe you have no use for beautiful things. Because you are far more exquisite than any handcrafted treasure . — H .

She sank onto her narrow bed, clutching the note in her fist as her heart started to pound so hard she thought she might pass out.

Why is he doing this to me?

Outside her window, London continued its evening rituals, but in her small room, Annabelle felt as though the world had shifted in some fundamental way.

A way that told her that she’d just opened a door she had no idea how to shut.

“Papa, are you quite alright today?” When Celia spoke from beside him, Henry immediately caught himself as they approached the familiar entrance to Lady Oakley’s townhouse.

Of course, it has been two days since the visit to the modiste’s shop, and Henry had spent those two days wondering if Annabelle had gotten his gift. He’d tortured himself with dreams of her in that dress, or rather, of him ripping it off her, his lips closing in on her pale breasts?—

His daughter’s voice nipped that thought in the bud before it could overtake him, and he was thankful she could not read his thoughts.

“You are walking too fast. Is there perhaps something you wish to discuss with Lady Oakley?”

Henry glanced down at his daughter and noticed the questioning glint in her eyes. She possessed an unsettling ability to see through him so thoroughly. He detested it at moments like these, because it was a talent that both impressed and unnerved him.

“Oh, I…I suppose so,” he replied, his voice carrying that measured tone he’d perfected over the years.

“Oh, I see,” Celia replied with that knowing tone that had become increasingly frequent of late, her lips curving in a smile that was far too cheeky.

Henry narrowed his eyes at his daughter. “And what, exactly, is it that you see?”

Celia giggled and looked him right in the eye before she said, “I saw you. Back at the modiste’s. When you said there was a mistake on the invoice for my dresses? I saw Madame Bouchard showing you the dress Miss Lytton tried on. You bought it for her, didn’t you?”

His eyes flew wide then, and Henry felt his jaw tighten involuntarily. Had she known about his gift all this while?

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat, irritated at the way he felt his cheeks heating up. “I just thought it would be a nice gift for the lady. Her grandmother has been helping you quite a bit. There’s nothing to it.”

Celia, however, did not look like she believed him one bit. “Ah, Papa, you really should take some lessons on how to woo a lady because you’re ever so terrible at it!”

“ Excuse me? ” He sputtered, snapping his head down to glare at his daughter.

“I think you should have just told her how beautiful she looked in the dress,” She continued as her nose turned up in the air and her lips curved in an amused line.

Henry scoffed. So, was he now to be subjected to receiving advice from a teenager? His daughter, no less?

As he was about to open his mouth to deliver a suitably repressive response that wouldn’t encourage his daughter further, the butler admitted them into the drawing room where Lady Oakley waited. The elderly woman’s face lit up at the sight of them.

“Your Grace, Lady Celia,” she greeted them as she rose from her chair with the grace of someone who had spent decades navigating society’s intricacies.

“How lovely to see you both again today. I do hope you’re prepared for today’s lesson on the philosophical implications of natural science.

Annabelle has prepared the most fascinating discussion on?—”

“Ah, about that,” came Annabelle’s voice from the doorway, and Henry felt his entire body tense at the sound.

“Forgive the interruption, Grandmother. Your Grace, might I have a word? I’ve selected some additional reading materials for Lady Celia, but I thought it prudent to seek your approval first.”

Henry turned toward her, and his breath caught despite his best efforts to remain composed.

She was wearing a simple cream dress that emphasized the elegant line of her neck and the graceful curve of her waist. He noted how she kept her gaze carefully averted from his and allowed her dark lashes to cast shadows on her cheeks.

God, but she was beautiful in a way that made his chest tight.

His mind, traitorous as it was, immediately supplied vivid memories of how she’d looked in that emerald gown at the shop—the way the silk had clung to her curves, how the low cut seemed to offer her breasts up to him like a full course buffet.

Those memories had plagued his dreams for the past two nights, leaving him restless and aching.

“Of course,” he managed, and his voice came out rougher than intended. The simple words seemed to scrape against his throat. “Celia, I shall return shortly.”

“Oh, take your time, Papa,” Celia replied with barely concealed amusement while settling herself beside Lady Oakley with the air of someone preparing for an entertaining show. “I’m sure you and Miss Lytton have much to… discuss.”

Henry shot his daughter a warning look that promised a serious conversation about propriety later, before trailing Annabelle from the room. He couldn’t prevent his gaze from following the sensual sway of her hips beneath her dress and exciting his baser desires.

When they reached the library, Annabelle moved to a table where indeed a stack of books waited, their spines bearing the names of respected philosophers and natural scientists.

Henry’s attention was immediately drawn to the package beside them. The same expensive wrapping had contained his gift, and it was still unopened, sitting there like an accusation.

“You have the books ready, I see,” he said quietly, though his gaze remained fixed on the unopened package.

The sight of it sitting there, rejected and untouched, stirred something uncomfortable in his chest.

“Yes,” Annabelle replied in a voice that was carefully modulated and suggested she was working hard to maintain her composure.

“I thought Lady Celia might enjoy these treatises. Bacon’s essays on empirical observation and Descartes on the nature of scientific inquiry.

They’re quite advanced, but her mind is clearly capable of grasping complex concepts. ”

She was speaking too quickly, Henry realized, as the words tumbled over each other in a way that suggested nerves. Or perhaps she simply wanted to be rid of him as quickly as possible.

That did not sit well with him at all. “Why haven’t you opened it?” He interrupted, nodding toward the package.

A flush bloomed across her cheeks, and she straightened up and raised her chin at him. “Because I don’t require charity from you, Your Grace.”

The formal address stung more than he cared to admit. “It was not meant as charity,” Henry said, stepping closer despite himself, drawn by some force he couldn’t resist.

“I don’t understand what game you’re playing,” Annabelle said, finally meeting his eyes.

Her own were narrowed in naked suspicion.

“One moment you’re dismissive of how I looked in that gown, and the next you’re purchasing it for me.

I do not appreciate your games, Your Grace.

If you want me to thank you for something, then you should probably?—”

Henry felt something snap inside him at her words. All the careful control he’d maintained for days suddenly crumbled. “You think you know what I want?” he demanded as his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “You believe you have the faintest notion of what I desire?”

“Then show me,” she challenged, though her voice trembled slightly.