Page 42

“ M iss Lytton?”

The soft voice from the doorway made Annabelle startle. Her teacup rattled against its saucer as she set it down with unsteady hands.

She had retreated to the morning room following Celia’s lesson because she was unable to bear another encounter with Florentia’s solicitous hovering or her father’s increasingly obvious machinations.

“Lady Celia.” Annabelle managed a smile that felt brittle as winter ice. “Is your lesson with Lady Oakley over? Shouldn’t you be departing now?”

“Oh, Papa is…is speaking with Miss Florentia about my progress,” Celia replied.

She stepped into the room with the quiet determination that reminded Annabelle so painfully of her father.

He was the same man who was currently in this very house, but she could not bear to see him.

“And I… I wanted to speak with you. Privately.”

Annabelle’s chest tightened. The girl’s perceptive eyes, so like Henry’s, seemed to see far too much. “Of course, dear. What troubles you?”

Celia moved closer. Her small hands were clasped before her in a gesture that spoke of careful consideration. “Something has happened between you and Papa, hasn’t it?”

The directness of the question stole Annabelle’s breath. She had underestimated the young woman’s ability to perceive the undercurrents that had transformed their once-comfortable dynamic into something strained and formal.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Annabelle replied carefully, though her voice lacked conviction even to her own ears.

“He’s unhappy,” Celia continued, undeterred by the weak deflection. “Truly unhappy, in a way I haven’t seen since… ever . He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. He stares out windows when he thinks no one is looking, and he’s forgotten to eat breakfast twice this week.”

That image of Henry sent a sharp pain through Annabelle’s chest. She pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to demand details so she might know how badly their separation was affecting him.

“Adults sometimes go through difficult periods,” she said weakly. “It doesn’t necessarily mean?—”

“That’s the same feeble excuse Papa keeps giving me. I know you’ve been avoiding us.” Celia’s observation was a matter of fact rather than accusatory. “You used to smile when we arrived and linger after my lessons to discuss my progress. Now I don’t even get to see you anymore.”

Annabelle felt her careful composure crack under the weight of the young woman’s unwavering attention. “Celia, I think perhaps?—”

“Did he break your heart?” The question was asked with such genuine concern that tears pricked at Annabelle’s eyes. “Because if he did, I could speak with him. Papa listens to me, usually.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” The endearment slipped out before Annabelle could stop it, and she saw Celia’s expression brighten at the familiar warmth.

“Your father has done nothing wrong. Sometimes… sometimes adults make difficult choices that seem hurtful but are meant to protect the people they care about.”

“Protect them from what?”

From society’s cruel judgment. From whispered speculation that could follow a young girl throughout her life. From the sort of scandal that could close doors before they even had a chance to open.

But how could she explain such complexities to a child who still believed the world was fundamentally fair?

“From disappointment,” Annabelle said finally. “From situations that might make life more complicated than it needs to be.”

Celia studied her with an intensity that was unsettling in someone so young. “But what if the people you’re protecting would rather face those complications together than be separated?”

The wisdom in the question made Annabelle’s throat constrict.

From the mouths of babes, indeed.

She reached out instinctively and smoothed a strand of Celia’s dark hair that had escaped its careful arrangement.

“Sometimes, my dear, love means making sacrifices that others might not understand.”

“Is that what this is, then?” Celia asked quietly. “A sacrifice?”

Annabelle didn’t know what answer to give her that would not reveal too much, but before she could even go through the rigors of thought, the morning room door opened to admit Florentia. She wore an expression that was bright with false concern.

“There you are, Lady Celia! Your father has been looking everywhere for you.” She turned to Annabelle with that practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes. “Anna, dear, you look pale. Perhaps you should rest some more.”

The dismissal was gentle but unmistakable. Annabelle watched as Celia was efficiently shepherded from the room. The young woman’s questioning gaze lingered on her until the door closed behind them.

Left alone with her churning thoughts, Annabelle sank back into her chair and pressed her fingertips to her temples.

The weight of maintaining this facade was becoming unbearable, but what alternative did she have?

She had made her choice—the right choice, surely—and now she must live with its consequences.

“My dear girl.”

Annabelle looked up to find her grandmother standing in the doorway. Her sharp eyes took in every detail of Annabelle’s disheveled state.

“Grandmother. I thought you were resting.”

“Nonsense. Rest is for the infirm and the guilty.” Lady Oakley entered the room with her usual brisk efficiency, then settled into the chair opposite Annabelle with the air of someone preparing for battle. “And while I may be advancing in years, I am neither of those things.”

Annabelle managed a weak smile at her grandmother’s characteristic bluntness. “Of course not, Lady Oakley.”

“That’s better.” The older woman’s expression softened slightly at the familiar affection in her granddaughter’s tone. “Now then, shall we discuss what has you looking like a wraith haunting her own drawing room?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“My dear child, I may be old, but I am not blind. Nor am I lacking in experience when it comes to matters of the heart.” Lady Oakley leaned forward.

Her gaze was intent. “You’ve been miserable for weeks, jumping at shadows and avoiding perfectly pleasant social engagements.

Your sister hovers about like a cat with cream on its whiskers, and that poor child who comes for lessons looks as though someone has stolen her favorite toy. ”

Annabelle felt her defenses crumbling under her grandmother’s relentless observation. “It’s complicated, Grandmother.”

“Affairs of the heart usually are. That doesn’t make them insurmountable.” Lady Oakley’s tone grew gentler. “Would it help to speak of it? I may be a relic of an earlier age, but I’ve seen enough of life to know that secrets fester like wounds when kept too close.”

The kindness in her grandmother’s voice nearly undid Annabelle completely. For weeks, she had carried the weight of her decision alone because she felt unable to confide in anyone the true nature of what she had given up.

“I’ve made such a mess of things,” she whispered.

“Have you? Tell me what troubles you so deeply that you’ve forgotten how to smile.” Lady Oakley reached across the space between them and covered Annabelle’s trembling hands with her own weathered ones.

The dam burst. Words poured from Annabelle in a torrent she couldn’t control—her growing feelings for Henry, their stolen moments of intimacy, the terrible choice she had made to protect Celia’s future at the cost of her own happiness.

She told her grandmother everything except the most intimate details.

Her voice broke with the weight of her pain.

When she finished, silence settled between them like a heavy blanket. Lady Oakley continued to hold her hands, and her expression was thoughtful rather than shocked.

“You love him,” the older woman said finally. It wasn’t a question.

“Desperately,” Annabelle admitted. The word was torn from somewhere deep in her chest. “But it doesn’t matter. I cannot—I will not —be the reason that sweet child suffers for her father’s choices.”

“And what of his choice in the matter? Does the Duke of Marchwood strike you as a man who makes decisions lightly?”

“Of course not, but?—”

“But you’ve decided that you know better than he does what risks are worth taking for love.” Lady Oakley’s tone carried a gentle reproach. “My dear girl, do you not see the arrogance in that position?”

Annabelle blinked. She was startled by the unexpected criticism. “I’m trying to protect them both.”

“Or are you protecting yourself from the possibility of being hurt again?” Her grandmother’s voice was kind but implacable. “Philip was a weak, selfish boy who chose the easier path when faced with difficulty. From what I’ve seen, the Duke of Marchwood is quite a different sort of man entirely.”

“But the scandal?—”

“Was not your fault. And it will pass, as all scandals do.” Lady Oakley squeezed Annabelle’s hands. “What matters is whether you’re willing to fight for what you want, or whether you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been.”

A commotion in the hallway announced new arrivals, breaking the moment. The morning room’s door burst open to admit Joanna, Marchioness of Knightley. Her usually immaculate appearance was slightly disheveled, and her spectacles sat askew.

“Annabelle, thank God you’re receiving visitors. I’ve been trying to call on you for days, but that sister of yours keeps insisting you’re indisposed.” Joanna paused. She took in Annabelle’s tear-stained face and Lady Oakley’s protective posture. “Good heavens, what’s happened?”

“Joanna.” Relief flooded through Annabelle at the sight of her friend’s familiar face. “I didn’t expect?—”

“Clearly not, considering your sister’s attempts to turn me away at the door.” Joanna settled into a nearby chair. “Fortunately, I’ve had experience dealing with officious gatekeepers. Now then, what has you looking as though the world has ended?”

Before Annabelle could respond, three small figures appeared in the doorway—Joanna’s triplets, their faces bright with curiosity and concern. The eldest, barely five years old, clutched a somewhat wilted daisy in her chubby fist.

“Mama said Miss Lytton was sad,” the child announced with the startling directness of the very young. “We brought her a flower to make her feel better.”

The simple gesture proved to be Annabelle’s complete undoing. Tears began to flow in earnest as the little girl toddled forward to present her offering with ceremony.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Annabelle managed through her tears. She accepted the daisy as though it were the finest gift she had ever received. “It’s beautiful.”

“Flowers always make Mama feel better when she’s crying,” Theodore offered solemnly. “Papa brings them all the time.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Lady Oakley murmured, while Joanna’s nurserymaid quickly gathered them and dispatched them to the nursery with promises of cakes and games.

When they were alone again, Joanna settled back into her chair with the determined air of someone preparing for a lengthy interrogation.

“Now then,” she said quietly, “who has broken your heart, and what are we going to do about it?”

The question, asked with such matter-of-fact concern, made Annabelle laugh despite her tears. Here were the women who knew her best. They saw through her careful facades to the wounded woman beneath. Perhaps it was time to stop carrying this burden alone.

“It’s the Duke of Marchwood,” she said quietly, watching as understanding dawned in Joanna’s intelligent eyes. “And I…I’m the one who broke his heart, I suppose.”

“Ah.” Joanna sat back, and her expression shifted to one of calculation. “I wondered about that. The way he’s been looking like a man attending his own funeral at social gatherings lately rather gave it away.”

“Oh? Has he?”

“My dear, half of London has noticed. The gossip mill is churning.” Joanna leaned forward, and her voice grew urgent. “Because if you love him—and it’s abundantly clear that you do—then you’re being an absolute fool to let him slip away without a fight.”

“But Celia?—”

“Children are far more resilient than we give them credit for, and that girl adores you. As for society…” She waved a dismissive hand. “Society will always find something to whisper about. The question is whether you’re going to let their whispers dictate your happiness.”

Annabelle looked between her grandmother and her dearest friend. She saw the same message reflected in both their faces. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps she had let fear masquerade as noble sacrifice for too long.

But even as hope began to flicker in her chest, she couldn’t quite silence the voice that whispered of all the ways this could go wrong and all the people who might be hurt by her choices.

Outside, the afternoon light was beginning to fade. The sun cast long shadows across the room. Somewhere across London, Henry was probably preparing for another evening of social obligations. His face would be carefully arranged in the mask of polite indifference she had forced him to wear.

The thought of him, alone and hurting, made her chest ache with longing.

Whatever the consequences, whatever society might say, surely their love was worth fighting for?

The daisy in her hands seemed to mock her with its simple beauty. It served as a reminder that sometimes the most precious gifts came without calculation or fear of consequence.