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“ M iss Florentia Lytton. I was just assuring your sister that the gardens are particularly lovely this time of year,” Henry stepped back smoothly, and his expression shifted to polite formality.

“Oh, they are indeed,” Florentia agreed brightly. “Though I do hope Anna isn’t feeling unwell? She seemed rather pale during our earlier conversation.”

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Annabelle replied stiffly.

“Of course you are,” Florentia smiled. “You always were the strongest of us.” She turned to Henry with practiced grace. “Your Grace, might I express how much I’ve enjoyed observing your daughter today? Such a delightful child. Lady Celia, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Henry’s response was carefully neutral and a tad dry.

“She’s quite charming. And so fortunate to have a father who lavishes so much devoted attention to her education. Grandmama has always been wonderful with children.”

The observation, seemingly innocent, carried undertones that made Annabelle’s stomach tighten. Henry’s expression remained unchanged, but she caught the slight tension in his shoulders.

“Lady Celia is indeed fortunate in that the Dowager Viscountess opted to teach her proper etiquette,” he replied formally. “If you’ll excuse me, I should return.”

After Henry departed with a meaningful glance toward Annabelle, Florentia moved closer, and her demeanor shifted subtly.

“That was foolish, Anna.” Her voice lacked its earlier musical quality.

Annabelle blinked once at her sister before blurting out, “I beg your pardon?”

“Standing here alone with the Duke. People notice these things. They talk.”

Of course, it seemed as though she was just looking out for her elder sister, but Annabelle couldn’t shake the feeling that something was strange. She just couldn’t bring herself to fully trust her younger sister, despite claiming to have forgiven her.

“People have always talked,” Annabelle replied wearily.

“Yes, but this is different.” Florentia’s tone carried an edge of warning. “You know what they’re saying about you, even now. Imagine what they’ll say if they realize His Grace is seriously interested in a woman with your… history.”

Annabelle stiffened. Of course, Annabelle already knew the complications, but she did not care for Florentia’s words. “My history is my own concern.”

“Is it? What about that sweet girl, his daughter? She’s just a child, Anna. Think about what whispers might follow her if you pursue this attachment.”

How dare she! Annabelle wanted to feel indignation, but the words struck home with devastating accuracy, nonetheless. Annabelle felt something cold settle in her chest as Florentia continued.

“They wouldn’t dare say anything about a child,” Annabelle protested weakly. She knew her argument was moot, and it was because even she herself did not believe it.

“They already are.” Florentia’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper.

“I’ve heard them myself. They say your proximity will somehow taint her prospects.

Even if the Duke were to propose—which, given society’s memory, is questionable—they’ll talk.

You know how this world works, Annabelle.

It doesn’t matter what you’ve actually done.

It only matters what they believe. And they never forget. ”

The truth of those words settled like lead in Annabelle’s stomach. She thought of Celia’s bright laughter, her innocent questions about love and marriage, and her trust in a world that Annabelle knew could be cruelly unforgiving.

“You’ve always been strong, Annabelle,” Florentia continued while placing a seemingly sympathetic hand on her arm. “But strength can’t change the rules of society. Just… be careful. For your sake. And hers.”

As they returned to the main gathering, Annabelle felt a familiar numbness descending—the same protective shell she’d cultivated during the darkest days following Philip’s betrayal.

The afternoon passed in a haze of forced smiles and mechanical responses as her mind churned over Florentia’s cold words.

When Monday arrived and it was time for Celia’s next lesson, Annabelle did not leave her room to greet them, even though she was keenly aware of Henry’s presence in the manor.

She knew he was waiting to meet with her as had become their custom. But she could no longer suffer this dalliance between them…no matter how much it felt as though her heart was rending to pieces.

Annabelle decided to avoid them altogether. She carried with her the weight of Florentia’s words and the growing certainty that perhaps her sister, for all her faults, had spoken a terrible truth.

“Your Grace, what are you doing here?”

Henry paused at the entrance to the conservatory. His hand gripped the ornate door handle. The familiar voice carried a note of formality that sent an unwelcome chill through him.

Three days had passed since Annabelle had failed to appear for Celia’s lesson, three days of increasingly stilted exchanges with the household staff who seemed as bewildered by her absence as he was troubled by it.

“Annabelle.” He turned slowly, drinking in the sight of her despite the obvious tension radiating from her rigid posture.

She stood framed by the afternoon light filtering through the glass panels.

Her golden hair was pulled back severely, and she kept her expression carefully composed.

Yet he could see the shadows beneath her eyes and the slight tremor in her hands that she tried to conceal by clasping them before her.

“I wondered when you might finally grant me an audience.” His tone was deliberately light, though his chest tightened with something that felt very much like… fear . “Celia misses you. She’s convinced she’s somehow offended you. Or…or that… I have.”

“She has done nothing wrong,” Annabelle’s voice was steady, but he caught the slight catch in her breath and saw the way she straightened her spine with a gall that boded nothing good. “And I cannot say that you have, either, Your Grace.”

Henry did not like the impersonal way she kept referring to him. It felt as though she was deliberately preparing herself for…something.

Something he most certainly would detest. He could feel it.

“I needed to speak with you about… about the arrangement we’ve maintained these past weeks,” she told him.

Henry stepped fully into the conservatory. The space felt intimate despite its grandeur. It was filled with the humid warmth of exotic blooms and the gentle trickle of the fountain at its center.

The coincidence was not lost on him. He remembered well the fact that this was the very place where they’d finally… consummated…and yet…

“What arrangement would that be?” he asked, though he suspected he knew the direction of this conversation.

The careful way she avoided his gaze, the formal distance she maintained between them… All spoke of a decision already made.

“You know very well what I mean.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes for the first time since entering. “These… meetings we’ve been having. The time we spend together after Celia’s lessons. It must end.”

Henry’s heart slammed against his ribs. His jaw clenched, breath hissing through his teeth as his hands curled into fists at his sides. Every muscle in his body felt pulled tight, as though he were holding back a shout.

But he did his best not to let it show.

“Must it?” He moved closer, noting how she stiffened at his approach. “And might I inquire as to why?”

“Because it’s inappropriate. Because people will begin to notice, and talk, and—” She stopped abruptly and pressed her lips together as if to prevent further words from escaping.

Henry wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, really. To think that she, the woman who’d stood up to him for the very reason of bowing to societal pressures, was now the very same saying these very words over and over?

“And what, exactly, would they say?” Henry kept his voice gentle, though something cold was beginning to coil in his stomach. “Or rather, have they said something already? What has someone said to distress you so thoroughly that you’ve taken to hiding in your chambers rather than face me?”

Annabelle turned away. Her attention was seemingly fixed on a cluster of orchids blooming near the fountain.

“It doesn’t matter what they’re saying,” she replied, “What matters is that I cannot… We cannot… continue as we have been.”

“I feel as though we keep flogging the same dead horse here, Annabelle.” Weariness seeped into his voice. “What will I have to say to get you to believe my words? My feelings?”

“It’s not about any of those things.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Henry, you must understand. Your daughter’s future depends upon her reputation remaining untarnished. If society believes that her father is… involved… with a woman of my particular circumstances…”

“Your circumstances?” He moved to stand beside her and got close enough that he could see the rapid rise and fall of her breath. “You speak as though you’re some sort of pariah, Annabelle. As though your past defines everything you might become.”

“It did to you, the very first moment we met.” She turned to face him then, and he was startled by the raw pain in her expression.

“Because I was a fool the first time we met,” he replied, and Annabelle shook her head.

“No, you were right. You were always right.” She exhaled, her voice filled with dejection.

“Society’s memory is also remarkably selective,” Henry replied firmly. “They forget what they choose to forget and remember what serves their purposes. But more importantly, their opinions need not dictate our choices.”

“Our choices?” Annabelle shook her head and backed away from him. “There is no ‘our’ in this, Your Grace. There cannot be.”

The formal address made him want to yell at the top of his voice. He was barely holding on as it was.

“You’re frightened,” he said quietly. “Someone has frightened you. Who was it? What exactly did they say to you?”