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“ A unt Annabelle!”

The chorus of young voices greeted her before she had even properly stepped through the threshold of the Knightley townhouse. Three small bodies launched themselves at her skirts with the enthusiasm that only children possessed, their faces bright with the joy of unexpected company.

“My darlings,” Annabelle laughed, steadying herself against their collective embrace. “Have you grown taller since I last saw you? Surely you cannot be the same children I left in the countryside.”

“We are! We are!” chorused little Clara, her golden curls bouncing as she nodded vigorously. “Papa says we’re getting quite grown up now that we’re in London.”

“Indeed, you are,” Annabelle agreed, ruffling the girl’s hair before turning her attention to Theodore and Rose.

“Aunt Annabelle,” Theodore began, his tone serious despite his tender years, “Papa received something quite extraordinary in the post yesterday.”

“Did he indeed?” She glanced over their heads to where Nathaniel stood in the doorway of his study. His expression was warm with paternal pride and genuine affection for her.

“Victor sent a postcard,” Nathaniel explained, moving forward to embrace her properly. “From wherever he and Emma have taken themselves off to this time. The Mediterranean, I believe. Emma painted a rather charming miniature of a beach scene on the back.”

“How perfectly like her,” Annabelle smiled, accepting his kiss on both cheeks. “I do hope they are enjoying their extended honeymoon phase.”

“Eternally, it would seem,” The Marquess of Knightley chuckled. “Though I suspect you’ll find a similar correspondence waiting for you at home. Westmere mentioned sending one to each of his favorite ladies.”

The warmth that spread through her chest at being included in such a category was both comforting and bittersweet. These connections, these bonds of chosen family, had become more precious to her than any of the formal relationships dictated by society.

“Come now, my little scholars.” Knightley addressed his children and clapped his hands together. “I believe the garden is calling for your attention. The sun is particularly fine today, and I have it on good authority that Cook has prepared some rather special biscuits for your outdoor adventure.”

“Biscuits!” Rose exclaimed.

“And jam?” Clara added hopefully.

“And jam,” their father confirmed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Off with you all. Your Aunt Annabelle and your mama have grown-up matters to discuss.”

As the children scampered away, their voices fading into the cheerful chaos of play, Annabelle found herself alone with Joanna in the morning room.

“Tea?” Joanna offered, already moving toward the service that had been arranged on the small table between them.

“Please.” Annabelle settled into one of the chairs, arranging her skirts with automatic precision while her mind wrestled with the weight of what she had come here to discuss.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she began, accepting the delicate porcelain cup, “about this Athena Society business. Who has taken charge of organizing our literary endeavors?”

Joanna’s lips curved in what could only be described as a knowing smile. “Lady Witherspoon. You know how she is quite opinionated about the direction our discussions should take.”

“Ah,” Annabelle nodded sagely, “then I know the club is in formidable hands!” She laughed. “The ladies will tear through more than half of all the banned books before we get back.”

“Precisely.” Joanna’s laugh was bright.

Annabelle’s mind soon wandered after that, practically hauling her back to the night of Lord Southall’s ball. And instantly, color flooded her cheeks.

Joanna’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the reaction. “Annabelle.” Her voice carried that particular tone that told her she had no choice but to reveal all. “What has happened?”

Annabelle set down her teacup with unnecessary slowness, buying herself a moment to gather her courage.

“I kissed him,” she said finally. The words emerged in a rush. “Rather, he kissed me. Last night, after the ball. In the Southall’s anteroom, of all places.”

“The Duke of Marchwood,” Joanna said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Annabelle’s voice was barely above a whisper. “And it was… it was not merely a kiss.”

At that, Joanna’s interest was piqued. “Oh, do tell!” She leaned forward in her seat.

After telling Joanna the essence of what had happened between her and Henry, she threw her hands over her face to cover her eyes.

For goodness’ sake, she’d never thought she would be one to feel so embarrassed about something like this, given how open she was about her reading preferences and just how explicit they were. Still, experiencing it was terribly different from merely reading about it.

“Goodness!” Joanna was not satisfied with that alone. “Do tell more.”

“I… I mean… I can barely wrap my head around it myself, Joanna.” She defended herself while her cheeks still scorched. “You…you weren’t there. You didn’t see the way he looked at me… didn’t hear the things he said?—”

“Ha!” Joanna laughed then and leaned back in her chair. When Annabelle looked at her askance, she supplied, “It’s always the repressed ones who end up being rather enthusiastic.”

“Joanna!” Annabelle’s voice rose slightly with indignation.

“What? It’s true!” Joanna defended, although she was laughing. “My dear friend, I have been watching you both for weeks now. I am surprised only that it took this long for something to occur.”

“That is hardly comforting,” Annabelle muttered.

“Tell me,” Joanna continued, her tone serious now, “how do you feel about what happened?”

The question pierced through all her carefully constructed defenses, leaving her exposed and uncertain. How did she feel? The emotions churned within her like a tempest, defying easy categorization.

“Confused,” she admitted finally. “Terrified. Exhilarated.” She paused, then added in a voice so quiet it was almost lost, “Wanting more.”

“And the Duke?”

“I thought…” Annabelle began, then stopped, pressing her fingers to her temples as if she could massage away the confusion. “I thought I couldn’t stand him. His arrogance, his certainty about everything, and how authoritative he is. But now…”

“Now?”

“Now I find I cannot stand being away from him.” The confession felt torn from her very soul. “When he touches me, when he looks at me with that intensity of his, it’s as if the rest of the world simply ceases to exist. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Joanna was quiet for a long moment. She studied her friend’s face with the careful attention of someone who understood the weight of such revelations.

“It sounds as though you are experiencing something quite powerful,” she said finally. “But I must ask you this: is it worth the risk?”

“If we are discovered…” she began.

“If you are discovered,” Joanna pressed gently, “what will happen?”

Annabelle closed her eyes, envisioning the catastrophe that would unfold. “It would ruin Celia’s debut.”

“And what of your own reputation?”

“What reputation?” Annabelle laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I am already a spinster with a questionable past. But even I have limits, and this… this would cross every conceivable line.”

“And marriage?” Joanna asked quietly. “Have you considered that possibility?”

The suggestion hung in the air like incense, heavy and complex. Annabelle shook her head slowly; her movements deliberate and final.

“I cannot marry him. I will not marry anyone. I have fought too hard for my independence to surrender it now, even for…” She trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

“Even for love?”

“Especially for love,” Annabelle said firmly. “Love is what makes women foolish.”

“And yet,” Joanna observed, “you speak of him with something that sounds remarkably like affection.”

“Affection,” Annabelle repeated as if testing the word.

“Yes, perhaps that is what this is. But affection and marriage are entirely different propositions. Besides,” she added with a bitter smile, “who would marry a spinster past her prime? Even if I were inclined toward such folly, which I am not.”

“My dear friend,” Joanna said, rising from her chair to move closer, “you are barely thirty. Hardly in your dotage.”

“In society’s eyes, I am practically ancient,” Annabelle countered. “And with my reputation…”

“Your reputation is that of an intelligent, independent woman who has chosen her own path. Some might find that attractive rather than deterrent.”

“Some might,” Annabelle agreed, “but the Duke of Marchwood needs a wife who will improve his standing, not complicate it.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but she forced herself to speak them. It was better to face the truth now than allow herself to indulge in impossible fantasies.

“I think it is your fears that are speaking now, Annabelle, and not your reason,” Joanna said. Annabelle swallowed once as her fingers fisted in her skirts.

“It is better to do this than allow myself to be carried away on something I know will not last.”

“And so, what will you do?” Joanna finally asked after a short silence while she settled back into her chair.

“I will be sensible,” Annabelle said, though even as she spoke the words, she wondered if she truly meant them. “I will not allow myself to be caught in such a situation again.”

No matter how much her body craved it. Especially because her body craved it. Craved for more. Craved for everything.

“And if the Duke has other ideas?”

The question sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Because that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Henry—the Duke—had made his intentions quite clear. This was far from over, as he had put it.

The memory of his words, of his touch, of the way he had looked at her as if she were something precious and necessary, threatened to undo all her careful resolutions.

“Then I will have to be stronger than my desires,” she said finally.

Joanna reached across the space between them and squeezed her hand. “Whatever you decide, whatever happens, you know that I will be here for you. You are not alone in this, Annabelle. Whatever comes, we will face it together.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice grew thick with unshed tears. “I fear I may need that support more than I care to admit.”