Page 33

“ O h, for heaven’s sake, Lady Celia!” Lady Oakley’s exasperated voice carried across the parlor as Annabelle approached the doorway. “You must lead with confidence, not merely shuffle about like you’re avoiding stepping on eggs!”

Annabelle paused at the threshold, clutching Emma’s letter and the small painted beach scene that had arrived that morning. Through the doorway, she observed Henry attempting to guide his daughter through what appeared to be the most torturous waltz in London’s recent memory.

“Papa, I’m sorry!” Celia’s voice was tight with mortification as she stumbled backward, her slippers finding his polished boots with unerring accuracy. “I don’t know why my feet won’t cooperate!”

“Perhaps,” Henry said through gritted teeth, his jaw visibly clenched as he maintained his composure, “we might consider a different approach to this particular lesson.”

Lady Oakley threw her hands up in theatrical despair.

“Different approach? My lord, dancing is not a mathematical equation to be solved through alternative methods. It requires grace, rhythm, and—oh!” Her sharp eyes caught sight of Annabelle hovering in the doorway.

“Annabelle! Perfect timing, my dear. Come in, come in.”

Annabelle stepped reluctantly into the room, keenly aware of Henry’s immediate attention shifting to her presence. The memory of their last encounter flooded her senses—his mouth on hers and then…on her most intimate place.

“Grandmama,” she managed, her voice carefully neutral. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Nonsense! You’re precisely what we need.

” Lady Oakley gestured toward the father and daughter who had mercifully ceased their awkward attempts at choreography.

“Lady Celia requires a proper demonstration of how a waltz should appear when performed correctly. Perhaps you would be so kind as to partner with His Grace?”

“I’m certain Lady Celia would benefit more from your expertise,” Annabelle deflected, though her pulse quickened at the suggestion. “Surely you could demonstrate?—”

“My joints are positively screaming today,” Lady Oakley declared while pressing a dramatic hand to her lower back. “The dampness, you understand. Besides, you and His Grace danced so beautifully at the Southall ball, did you not? I heard several ladies remarking upon it.”

Celia’s eyes widened with sudden excitement. “You danced together? At Lord Southall’s ball?” She turned to her father with an expression of pure delight. “Papa, you didn’t tell me anything of the sort!”

Henry straightened. His posture became even more rigid than usual, but Annabelle could see his ears begin to turn red.

“Must I tell you every single thing I do?” he said simply, though his gaze never left Annabelle’s face and his eyes intently tracked her every move.

“Miss Lytton was kind enough to accept my invitation.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Celia clapped her hands together. “Was it terribly romantic? Did you?—”

“Perhaps,” Annabelle interrupted quickly, stepping forward before the girl could launch into more enthusiastic inquiries, “we should focus on the lesson at hand.” She set Emma’s letter carefully on a nearby table and turned to face Henry. “Shall we demonstrate the basic steps?”

The Duke was ever so eager to comply with her request, and Annabelle willed herself to ignore the memory of that night at the ball as it kept pushing itself to the forefront.

She could not lose her senses here.

But the moment his hand touched her waist, Annabelle felt her carefully constructed defenses begin to crumble.

The warmth of his palm seemed to burn through the fabric of her dress, and when his other hand captured hers, the memory of those same fingers touching her in far more intimate places made her breath catch.

“Remember,” Lady Oakley instructed from her position near the window, “the gentleman must lead with authority while the lady responds with grace. Watch how they move together—see how natural it appears when done properly.”

Henry’s eyes never left hers as they began to move, and Annabelle found herself lost in the familiar rhythm of the waltz.

But this was different from that night at the ball, more intimate somehow and perplexing.

There was something about the way he held her, the subtle pressure of his fingers, and the heat radiating from his body as they turned together in perfect synchronization that awakened all her senses.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, so quietly that only she could hear. “You’re beautiful.”

The compliment sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. She could feel herself melting into his embrace. Her body remembered the exquisite pleasure he had given her just nights before.

The way his mouth had worshipped her, the things he had whispered against her skin, and the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly consumed by him…

But then Celia’s delighted giggle penetrated the haze of desire, and reality crashed back with brutal force.

This was Henry’s daughter watching them, learning from them. This was the girl whose future could be destroyed if anyone discovered what had transpired between Annabelle and her father.

Annabelle stiffened abruptly and pulled back from Henry’s embrace with such sudden force that he nearly stumbled.

“There,” she said, her voice admirably steady despite the chaos in her chest. “You see how it’s done, Lady Celia. The key is to trust your partner and allow the music to guide your movements.”

Henry’s frown was immediate and pronounced, but he said nothing as Annabelle stepped aside.

“Now then,” she continued, gesturing toward father and daughter, “why don’t you try again? Remember what you observed, and don’t think so hard about your feet. Let the rhythm carry you.”

Celia nodded eagerly and moved to take her father’s hand once more. This time, perhaps inspired by the demonstration she had witnessed, her movements were noticeably more fluid. She still stumbled occasionally, but there was a marked improvement in her confidence and grace.

“Much better!” Lady Oakley proclaimed. “You see what a proper example can accomplish?”

“Indeed,” Henry said, though his attention remained fixed on Annabelle rather than his daughter’s progress. “Miss Lytton is quite an accomplished dancer.”

“Yes, well,” Annabelle said, already moving toward the door, “I’m certain Lady Celia will master it with continued practice. If you’ll excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to.”

“Of course, my dear.” Lady Oakley waved her away absently as her focus returned to Celia’s footwork. “Thank you for the assistance.”

Henry executed a formal bow, though his eyes held an intensity that made Annabelle’s pulse race. “Miss Lytton,” he said simply, but there was a wealth of unspoken meaning in those two words.

She curtsied in return, not trusting herself to speak, and fled the parlor with as much dignity as she could muster.

Only when she reached the safety of her own room did she allow herself to breathe freely again. Her back pressed against the closed door as she fought to regain her composure.

The memory of his touch lingered on her skin like a brand, and she closed her eyes against the wave of longing that threatened to overwhelm her carefully constructed resolve.

This could not continue. She would not allow it to continue, no matter how desperately her body craved his attention.

But as she retrieved Emma’s letter from where she had abandoned it in the parlor, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Henry would not be so easily discouraged.

Because she could feel his eyes following her even as she left the room.

“Marchwood, you’re distracted this evening,” Everett observed as he accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman. “The Countess of Westfield has been practically batting her eyelashes at you for the past quarter hour, and you haven’t so much as acknowledged her existence.”

Henry’s gaze swept across Lord Fitzwilliam’s crowded drawing room, searching faces with barely concealed desperation. “Have I? How terribly rude of me.” His response was automatic because his attention was elsewhere entirely.

Where is she?

The soirée was in full swing. The usual collection of London’s political elite gathered to discuss the pressing matters of the day over fine wine and careful observation of social hierarchies.

Henry had attended out of obligation rather than interest. His mind was consumed with thoughts of taste and touch and of Annabelle’s breathless moans echoing in his memory.

“Indeed,” Everett continued, seemingly oblivious to his friend’s distraction. “Lord Fitzwilliam was just discussing the proposed reforms to the electoral system. Rather progressive thinking, actually. You might find his perspective enlightening.”

“Enlightening,” Henry repeated absently as his eyes finally located Lady Oakley across the room. She stood near the refreshment table, engaged in animated conversation with Lady Fitzwilliam, but notably alone. His frown deepened as he scanned the immediate vicinity.

No sign of Annabelle.

“She’s not here,” he said to himself while clenching his jaw.

“Are you quite well?” Everett’s tone carried a note of genuine concern now. “You are moping at a social event. Being too much of a downer, really.”

Henry forced his attention back to his friend. “I’m perfectly well. Perhaps we should pay our respects to Lady Oakley. I notice she’s arrived this evening.”

Without waiting for the Marquess’s response, Henry made his way through the clusters of guests, nodding politely at those who greeted him while his thoughts remained fixated on one glaring absence.

Three days. It had been three days since that afternoon in the parlor, three days since he had held Annabelle in his arms during that torturous dance demonstration. Three days since she had fled from him as though he carried the plague.