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“ I barely understand it myself,” Henry admitted, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration that was entirely unlike his usual composed demeanor.

His carefully styled hair fell across his forehead, making him look younger and less controlled.

“All I know is that I cannot stop thinking about you. About how you felt in my arms, how you tasted when I kissed you.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened as her lips parted on a soft gasp that seemed to echo in the quiet library.

His manhood jerked beneath his codpiece at the sight and sound.

“Do you want to know what I thought when I saw you in that gown?” He continued while taking another step toward her and moving close enough now to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes.

“I thought about peeling it off you, inch by inch, until there was nothing left between my eyes and your body. I thought about kissing every inch of you, about making you cry out my name in pleasure as you came undone in my arms.”

“Your Grace,” Annabelle whispered, though she made no move to retreat. If anything, she seemed to sway slightly toward him.

“Henry,” he corrected roughly, his voice hoarse with want. “When we’re alone like this, I want to hear you say my name. Say it.”

“Henry,” she breathed, and the sound of his name on her lips nearly undid him entirely. Her voice was soft and wondering like a prayer or a secret shared in the darkness.

It made him want to get on his knees and worship at the altar between her thighs.

He closed the distance between them until he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and smell the lavender on her skin.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, reaching up to trace the line of her jaw with one finger.

Her skin was silk-soft beneath his touch, and he felt her shiver in response.

Her breath caught audibly, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her face up toward his. Her eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, and her lips parted slightly in an unconscious invitation.

Henry leaned down. His lips were a mere breath away from hers, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath against his mouth. He could taste the anticipation in the air between them, could feel the moment stretching taut like a bowstring?—

The half-muffled sound of his daughter’s laughter crashed against his senses. Reality flooded back over him like a wave of ice water.

What am I doing?

This was Lady Oakley’s library, and his daughter was waiting in the next room. If he were to start anything right now, he knew he would be unable to stop. And he didn’t want to have to stop.

With tremendous effort that felt like tearing away part of himself, he stepped back. He acknowledged just how ragged his breathing had become.

“The books are acceptable,” he said hoarsely, moving to gather them in his arms with hands that trembled slightly. “But I’m leaving that here.”

He nodded toward the package before striding toward the door. He kept his movements sharp and controlled, pausing only when his hand touched the handle.

“Your Grace—” she started to speak, no doubt to protest.

“Keep it, Annabelle,” he said without turning around, afraid that if he looked at her again, his resolve would crumble entirely. “I gave it to you because you look breathtaking in it.”

He left her standing there, knowing that if he remained even a moment longer, his control would shatter entirely, and he would take her like a rabid beast.

“Papa, these are rather advanced texts,” Celia observed later that evening as she examined the books Henry had placed on the table in their drawing room.

The leather volumes seemed to glow in the lamplight, their gold lettering catching the flames from the fireplace.

“Bacon, Descartes, Newton’s Principia … I’m surprised you approved them. ”

Henry settled into his chair by the fireplace, attempting to project an air of casual indifference despite the way his pulse still quickened at any mention of the afternoon’s events. “Miss Lytton assured me they were suitable for someone of your intellectual capacity.”

“Did she indeed?” Celia’s tone carried that same teasing quality that had become so familiar, and Henry found himself wondering when his daughter had become so adept at reading between the lines. “How very thoughtful of her to consider my education so thoroughly.”

“Quite,” Henry replied tersely, hoping to discourage further commentary while knowing it was probably a futile effort.

“And did you have an opportunity to properly…thank her for her consideration?” Celia pressed, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

What a hellraiser he had on his hands.

Henry cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “Miss Lytton was appropriately thanked for her efforts on your behalf.”

“I hope you speak true,” his daughter murmured, “since you have a habit of saying all the wrong things?—”

“Celia,” Henry warned her once, his tone sufficiently stern.

He had no intention of speaking about his personal life with his sixteen-year-old daughter, no matter how quick-witted she might be.

“Oh fine!” She sighed then gave a low harrumph, but that expression quickly washed away in favor of a bright look as the sound of footsteps approached from the hallway. “Oh, that must be Lord Southall!”

Indeed, when Everett appeared in the doorway moments later, his usually immaculate appearance was slightly disheveled. His hair was tousled from the wind, his cravat slightly askew, and there was mud on his boots that spoke of hard riding.

Henry noted with amusement how Celia immediately straightened in her chair, her hands smoothing her skirts with unconscious vanity, and a becoming blush spread across her cheeks.

“Lord Southall!” she exclaimed with perhaps more enthusiasm than the occasion warranted as her voice pitched slightly higher than usual.

“My dear,” Everett replied with an elegant bow that somehow managed to be both formal and playful. “You grow more lovely each time I see you. That shade of blue becomes you remarkably well.”

Celia’s blush deepened prettily, and Henry rolled his eyes at his friend’s shameless charm. Even knowing about his daughter’s crush on him, the miscreant kept unleashing that rakish appeal on her. The fact that he had no qualms doing so was entirely predictable and mildly concerning.

“Everett,” Henry acknowledged with a nod. “I trust your journey from the country was uneventful?”

“Tediously so,” Everett replied while settling into a chair with characteristic elegance, somehow managing to make even his travel-worn appearance look fashionable. “Though I bring news that may interest you both.”

“Oh?” Celia leaned forward eagerly, but Henry just arched a brow at her. She frowned. “Oh, come, Papa! Surely it isn’t news too scandalous for me to hear!”

Henry narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Very well. Keep your words clean, Southall.”

Everett laughed. “I’m flattered by the faith you show me, my friend.

Don’t you worry. I’ve merely come here to tell you that I’ve decided to host a ball,” Everett announced with the air of someone revealing a particularly delicious secret.

“Nothing too elaborate, merely an intimate gathering of London’s finest society. ”

Henry felt his shoulders tense as a familiar dread settled in his stomach. “And you expect me to attend.”

“Of course you must attend,” Everett responded. “You’re the Duke of Marchwood, and my friend to boot. Your presence would lend the occasion considerable gravitas, as you well know.”

When Henry went to open his mouth, Everett raised a hand immediately. “Ah. I will hear no excuses. You think I do not know that you have been going about attending one event or the other? Surely, you do not think you can get out of attending my event now when I need you. So that’s settled.”

“How exciting!” Celia exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “When will it be held? Will there be dancing?”

“Next week,” Everett replied, clearly delighted by her enthusiasm. “I’ve already begun sending invitations to the most interesting members of society. And yes, my dear, there will be dancing. Until dawn, even, if the mood strikes.”

Henry sank deeper into his chair, feeling trapped. “I suppose this means I’ll be subjected to an evening of vapid conversation.”

“Perhaps,” Everett said with a sly smile that immediately put Henry on guard, “though I believe you’ll find some of the guest list particularly… engaging.”

“What do you mean?” Henry asked suspiciously.

“Well,” the Marquess drawled, clearly enjoying himself, “I’ve naturally invited Lady Oakley, given her position in society.

A woman of her standing lends any gathering considerable respectability.

Of course, her granddaughter will be accompanying her.

I doubt Lady Oakley will leave her granddaughter behind. ”

“An—Miss Lytton?” Henry asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the way his heart had begun racing.

“The very same,” Everett confirmed, though his eyes seemed to spark—he’d clearly caught Henry’s mistake. “I thought you might appreciate the effort.”

“Papa,” Celia interjected, her voice carefully innocent in a way that immediately aroused Henry’s suspicions, “you simply must ask Miss Lytton to dance. It would be the polite thing to do, given how much she’s helped with my studies.”

Henry cleared his throat and attempted to regain his composure while his mind raced with images of Annabelle in an evening gown, of holding her in his arms for a waltz, and of the opportunity he would get to be able to speak to her without the pretense of discussing Celia’s education.

Especially after how things had…ended between them this afternoon.

Henry had no intention of leaving things that way. Oh no. He’d started it, and now he fully intended to pursue it to the end.

To pursue her.

“Celia,” Henry said, his tone strict, “if you’d excuse us, please.”

“But Papa, I’ve barely spoken to Lord?—”

“Now, Celia.”

His daughter rose with obvious reluctance, offering both men a curtsy that managed to convey her disappointment at being excluded from what promised to be an interesting conversation.

“Good evening, Papa. My Lord.” She paused at the door and looked back with that mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You will tell me all that happens at the ball, won’t you, Lord Southall?”

To which his friend immediately grinned like the annoying imp he was. “Of course, my dear Celia. You can count on me.”

And, despite himself, Henry found his mind already racing ahead to next week, to the prospect of seeing Annabelle in an evening gown, of perhaps…claiming a dance.

“When did you say this ball was to be held?” he asked, attempting to sound casual while his heart hammered against his ribs.

Everett’s smile was triumphant, the expression of someone who had just won a particularly satisfying victory. “Next Thursday. I will personally come to drag you out by the hair and make sure you attend.”

Henry nodded slowly. His pulse quickened at the thought of seeing her again and of perhaps having the chance to finish what they’d started in that library.

“I will make an appearance.”

Everett arched a brow. “Oh?” His grin was positively impish. “Are you finally going to admit your attraction to Miss Lytton?”

Henry’s lips curved slightly as he said, “I think we both know I have gone past the point of admission.”

His friend’s eyes widened before he raised his own glass in a toast. “Delightful. I have the distinct feeling it will be an evening to remember.”