Page 29

“ A nnabelle, my dear, surely you don’t intend to wear that to Lord Southall’s ball?” Lady Oakley’s voice carried across the bedchamber with unmistakable disapproval as she observed her granddaughter smoothing the skirts of a modest grey silk gown.

Annabelle paused in her preparations and met her grandmother’s gaze in the looking glass. “What’s wrong with this dress? It’s perfectly suitable for the occasion.”

“Suitable, perhaps, but hardly inspiring,” Lady Oakley replied, moving closer with the measured steps. “Tell me, child, what became of that emerald gown that arrived earlier this week?”

Heat bloomed across Annabelle’s cheeks, and she turned away from the mirror entirely. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, Grandmother.”

“Oh, but I think you do. The package that bears the mark of Madame Bouchard’s establishment, wrapped in paper so fine it could only have come from someone of considerable means and impeccable taste.”

Annabelle’s hands stilled on her gloves. “You know about that?”

“My dear girl, very little escapes my notice in this household.” Lady Oakley settled herself in the chair beside the dressing table. Her silver hair gleamed in the lamplight. “The question is not whether I know of its existence, but why you refuse to acknowledge such a thoughtful gift.”

“Because it’s inappropriate,” Annabelle said firmly, though her voice wavered slightly. “I cannot accept such an expensive present from His Grace. It suggests… implications that I’m not prepared to address.”

Lady Oakley was quiet for a long moment. “And what implications might those be?”

“That there is something between us that extends beyond Celia’s education.” The words tumbled out before Annabelle could stop them, carrying all the confusion and longing she’d been trying so desperately to suppress.

“Ah.” Lady Oakley’s expression softened. “And is there?”

Annabelle sank into the chair beside her dressing table, suddenly feeling the weight of the past few days settling heavily on her shoulders. “I don’t know. That is, I think… perhaps there might be. But it’s impossible, isn’t it? He’s a duke, and I’m…”

“You’re the granddaughter of the Dowager Viscountess of Oakley. You’re educated, accomplished, and possessed of more wit and beauty than most women your age,” Lady Oakley interrupted sharply. “Do not diminish yourself in such a manner. It ill becomes you.”

“But the scandal with Philip and Florentia?—”

“Is in the past, where it belongs.” Lady Oakley rose and moved to the wardrobe with purpose.

“Now, shall we discuss the real matter at hand? A gentleman of His Grace’s standing does not purchase gowns for ladies without considerable thought and intention.

To dismiss such a gesture would be both foolish and discourteous. ”

Annabelle watched as her grandmother withdrew the emerald silk from its careful storage. The fabric shimmered even in the subdued lighting.

“I cannot wear that tonight. People will whisper about me. They will say I’m a spinster clawing at an attempt for attention.”

She immediately cringed at her own words. Since when did she care about what the people of the ton thought of her? She cared for the thoughts of only one man…

I gave it to you because you look breathtaking in it.

Annabelle’s heart thundered in her ears.

“Let them whisper whatever they please,” Lady Oakley replied with satisfaction. “Now, shall I ring for the maid, or will you make me force you into this gown myself?”

The ballroom at Southall House blazed with the light of a thousand candles. Their warm glow reflected off mirrors and crystal until the entire space seemed to dance with golden fire.

The cream of London society had assembled in their finest attire, creating a sea of silk and satin that rustled with each movement, each whispered conversation.

Annabelle stood at the entrance beside her grandmother, acutely aware of the way conversations seemed to pause as they were announced. The emerald gown fit her like a second skin, its rich color bringing out the depth of her eyes and the warm undertones of her complexion.

She had never felt more beautiful, nor more exposed.

It irritated her how self-conscious she’d become merely because she knew there was a man who would be watching her with a certain hunger in his gaze?—

“Lady Oakley, Miss Lytton,” Lord Southall appeared at their side with his characteristic charm, bowing over each of their hands in turn. “You grace my humble gathering with your presence. Miss Lytton, may I say you look absolutely radiant this evening?”

“Thank you, Lord Southall. It is truly an honor to be invited to your ball,” Annabelle replied.

Right after her response, she found herself scanning the crowd even as she spoke, searching for a particular tall figure among the assembled guests. Henry was Lord Southall’s friend. He had to be here.

The Marquess’s eyes were bright with mischievous excitement when he bowed. “Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Miss Lytton. I have been dying to meet the woman who can put an iceberg like Marchwood in his place.”

“You have heard of me?” She said as a slight smile curved her lips, though her cheeks tingled with heat.

He chuckled. “Well, I have not heard much, my lady,” Everett whispered, taking her hand so he could press a kiss to the back of her hand, “but I have seen the effect you have on my friend. I’ve never seen him so… alive.”

Without realizing it, Annabelle’s eyes strayed up and across to find Henry’s gaze fixed directly on her.

Her heart began pounding harder.

“Well, thank you for inviting us to your event, my lord,” she said, looking away immediately, even as her heart pounded in her chest.

“I do hope you enjoy your evening.” The Marquess flashed a rakish grin her way before stepping back with another bow. “If you would excuse me.”

When he left, Annabelle chanced another look across the room, only to find the spot where the Duke had been standing empty.

She made to take a step but was quickly sidetracked.

“There you are, my dear Annabelle.” The voice behind her made her blood freeze in her veins, and her body tensed almost immediately.

And yet, she found herself turning slowly. Her heart sank as she faced the man she had hoped never to see again.

“Father.” The word felt foreign on her tongue after so many years of estrangement.

Benjamin Lytton, the Viscount Oakley, stood before her in an immaculate evening suit, his graying hair perfectly styled, and his pale eyes cold as winter frost. At fifty, he remained handsome in an austere way, but there was something about his presence that seemed to drain warmth from the very air.

“You look… well,” he said, though his tone suggested he found the fact somehow disappointing. His gaze swept over her gown with obvious disapproval. “Rather like your mother in that color. She always did favor dramatic displays.”

Lady Oakley stepped forward, her voice carrying the authority of her years and position. “Benjamin. How unexpected to see you here.”

“Mother.” He acknowledged her with a stiff nod. “I thought it prudent to make an appearance, given recent… developments in our family’s circumstances.”

Annabelle felt her chest tighten then. “What developments?”

“Surely you’ve heard that Florentia has returned to London?” he responded.

Annabelle’s heart skipped a beat. “Florentia?”

“Yes. She’s quite recovered from her youthful indiscretions, I’m pleased to report.” Lord Oakley carried on, and now there was a delighted smile in his voice. “She’s become everything I hoped she might be.”

The implication hung in the air between them, and Annabelle knew he meant everything she had failed to become. She lifted her chin, refusing to show how deeply the barb had struck.

“How delightful for her,” she managed, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest.

“Indeed. She’s become rather practical about many things.

Unlike some members of our family who persist in foolish pursuits that only manage to taint our family name.

” His gaze flicked meaningfully around the ballroom.

“I trust you haven’t forgotten the lessons of the past, my dear Annabelle.

Some mistakes cannot be repeated without permanent consequences. ”

Annabelle’s hands clenched into tight fists at his dismissive words; words that erased the very cause of the scandal that persisted in tainting her name, even this many years later?—

“That is quite enough,” Lady Oakley interjected, her voice carrying decades of authority. “This is neither the time nor the place for such discussions, Benjamin. Perhaps you should seek out your gentleman friends.”

He smiled thinly but stepped back. “Of course, Mother. Dear Annabelle…” His tone proved that he did not find anything dear about her at all.

“Do give some thought to what I’ve said.

The family reputation is a precious thing.

Not to be squandered on flights of fancy.

And now that we are reunited, it’s best to return to some semblance of propriety. ”

As he melted back into the crowd, Annabelle found herself trembling. Lady Oakley’s hand found her arm and steadied her.

“Come, dear,” her grandmother murmured. “Let us not allow him to spoil what promises to be a lovely evening.”

As they moved deeper into the ballroom, Annabelle’s attention was immediately captured by a commotion near the far wall. A cluster of London’s most eligible ladies had formed around Henry. Their fans fluttered like butterfly wings as they vied for his attention.

He stood at the center of the group, resplendent in a perfectly tailored black evening suit that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame.

His dark brown hair was styled to perfection, and from where she stood, Annabelle could see the way his presence seemed to command attention from every woman in his vicinity.

“Your Grace, surely you remember me from Lady Egerton’s soirée?” Miss Evangeline Brathwaite pressed closer to him. Her blonde ringlets were perfectly arranged to frame her porcelain features. “You promised me the honor of a dance.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, my lady,” Henry replied with a polite bow, though Annabelle could see the frustrated furrow between his brows. “I rarely make such commitments.”

“Oh, but surely just one short dance?” Miss Evangeline Brathwaite simpered, placing her gloved hand on his arm with practiced ease. “I’ve been so looking forward to it.”

At that moment, as if sensing her attention, Henry’s gaze snapped up and his eyes locked with Annabelle’s. The effect was immediate and devastating. She watched as his expression transformed. His eyes widened slightly before darkening with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.

Even surrounded by London’s most beautiful women, his attention was completely focused on her.

A sharp pang of something unpleasant, like jealousy, twisted in her chest as she watched the women around him continue their attempts to capture his attention, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was no longer listening to a word they said.

“My, my,” came a voice from beside her, dripping with false sweetness. “If it isn’t the infamous Annabelle Lytton.”

Annabelle turned to find herself facing Lady Estelle Howard and two of her closest companions. Their expressions were carefully arranged to convey polite interest while their eyes glittered with malice.

“Lady Howard,” Annabelle replied evenly, though she could feel her grandmother tensing beside her.

“What an interesting choice of gown,” Lady Howard continued, her gaze raking over the emerald silk with obvious disdain. “So very vibrant for someone of your circumstances. One might think you were trying to attract attention.”

“One might think many things,” Annabelle replied coolly. “Though one would be wise to consider whether such thoughts reflect more on the observer than the observed.”

Lady Howard’s smile sharpened. “How amusing. Though I confess, I find it rather presumptuous for a spinster of your advanced years to dress as though she were still on the marriage mart. Surely such displays are best left to those who might actually benefit from them?”

Before Annabelle could formulate a suitably cutting response, a familiar deep voice spoke from behind her.

“Miss Lytton.” Henry’s voice was smooth as silk, though she could detect an underlying edge that suggested he had heard at least part of the exchange. “I believe you promised me the honor of the next dance.”