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“ F or a woman who claims to despise theatrics, you performed rather admirably today, Grandmama,” Annabelle remarked while pacing the length of her grandmother’s sitting room. “But I cannot fathom why you would subject yourself to the company of that insufferable man a second time.”

Her grandmother’s face held the serene patience of one who had weathered greater storms than any naval captain.

“The Duke of Marchwood may be severe, my dear, but he is hardly the tyrant you paint him to be,” Lady Oakley replied while pouring herself a cup of tea with steady hands. “A father’s concern for his daughter, however overbearing it may appear, comes from a place of love.”

Annabelle released an unladylike snort. “Love? That man wouldn’t recognize love if it marched up and introduced itself with a formal calling card. He treats that poor girl like a possession.”

“Oh, I think you’re letting your anger color your judgment, my dear,” the Dowager observed mildly, and Annabelle bristled.

“She still managed to escape his watchful eye and find her way to our doorstep. She has a spirit that proves it was nurtured and encouraged by him, not stifled. Although I rather think her spirit might be more than her father bargained for.”

“She does have spirit, doesn’t she? Though what good it will do her under his thumb, I cannot imagine.

” Annabelle collapsed dramatically onto the settee opposite her grandmother.

“He threatened our club, Grandmama. Our club! As though we were some den of criminals rather than a gathering of ladies discussing quality literature.”

“Literature with rather explicit illustrations within its pages,” Lady Oakley reminded her, and Annabelle scoffed, folding her arms. “While I appreciate your championing of female intellectual freedom, my dear, perhaps selecting somewhat… milder volumes for the next few meetings might be prudent.”

Annabelle heaved a sigh. “And where should we meet? The man threatened to inform the vicar.”

“I believe Lady Egerton’s home would serve admirably. Her husband is away in London for the next month, and her drawing room is quite spacious.” The Dowager sipped her tea thoughtfully. “And do consider something by Miss Austen. At least until this unfortunate incident fades from memory.”

“Miss Austen.” Annabelle perked up instantly as an idea took root in her mind. “I do believe a second reading of Pride and Prejudice is in order.”

Lady Oakley’s eyes twinkled with barely suppressed amusement. “There is more passion in a glance between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy than in all the heaving bosoms of your modern novels,” she said. “Although I have a premonition that is not the reason why you are open to that book.”

“Austen has a way of teaching young women all the appropriate ways to build a spine. It is not out of line for our club now, is it?”

Lady Oakley shook her head tiredly. “It would do you good not to act out too much, my dear,” she said. “The Duke was not out of line for wanting to keep his daughter away from such topics.”

Annabelle couldn’t refute her grandmother’s words. But… Heavens, he was such a brute!

“I still maintain that the Duke’s reaction was wholly disproportionate. The way he looked at me, as though I were personally responsible for corrupting his daughter.”

“And were you not?” the Dowager inquired innocently, and Annabelle fought her hardest not to pout.

“I had hardly spoken three words to the girl before he burst in like a scandal-sniffing bloodhound!” She protested. “Besides, I rather liked Lady Celia. She is courageous. And quite clever.”

Lady Oakley studied her granddaughter with knowing eyes. “Hmm, of course you would. I dare say, she reminds me of someone else I know. A certain young lady who, at Lady Celia’s age, climbed out of her window to attend a village dance against her mother’s express wishes.”

“That was entirely different, Grandmama,” Annabelle insisted, though her cheeks warmed a little.

The Dowager harrumphed. “Not by much.”

Annabelle pointedly ignored that bit. “The Duke should count himself fortunate to have a daughter with a mind of her own.”

“Indeed,” the Dowager agreed. “And perhaps, with a few lessons in channeling that independence appropriately, Lady Celia might avoid the more dramatic consequences that can befall spirited young women.”

Annabelle’s expression sobered. The ghost of her own scandal whispered in her mind before she straightened her skirts.

“Well, I wish you luck with her, Grandmama,” she said with forced lightness. “I suspect you’ll need it if she’s anything like her father.”

Two days later, Annabelle found herself standing before her mirror, fussing unnecessarily with her hair. She was staring at her dress, a modest but becoming gown of pale lavender that complemented her fair complexion.

Why was she fussing over her appearance?

She was most certainly not doing this because she was attracted to the Duke of Marchwood. Certainly not . He was overbearing, judgmental, and entirely too convinced of his own importance.

The fact that he possessed the most striking pair of blue-grey eyes she had ever encountered was entirely irrelevant , as was the way his perfectly tailored coat had clung tightly to his wide, muscular shoulders.

She was being absurd. The man had practically accused her of moral corruption. And for that, she was not going to forgive the brute.

“His Grace, the Duke of Marchwood, and his daughter, Lady Celia,” Hodgins announced as Annabelle reached the bottom of the staircase. “For the Dowager Viscountess.”

The Duke of Marchwood’s gaze snapped to her immediately, as though some sixth sense had alerted him to her presence. His eyes narrowed fractionally. His expression was as forbidding as a winter storm.

“Miss Lytton,” he acknowledged her with the barest incline of his head.

Annabelle straightened her spine and lifted her jaw slightly. She hoped her expression was as unfriendly as his own.

“Your Grace,” she returned, dropping into a proper curtsy, but not too deep, not to give him the satisfaction of showing deference. “Lady Celia. How lovely to see you again.”

The young woman, however, deserved a smile, and so, Annabelle gave her one.

The girl brightened visibly. “Miss Lytton! I was hoping I might encounter you. I’ve been thinking about what you said regarding literature and?—”

“Celia,” the duke interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “Lady Oakley is expecting us.”

And just like that, the girl’s mouth snapped shut, even though her dissatisfaction was clear on her face.

What an ogre .

But Annabelle smiled sweetly. “Of course. My grandmother is waiting in the blue parlor, Your Grace. I believe she mentioned you might join them, correct? To observe the lesson?”

“Indeed,” he replied coldly. “I intend to monitor my daughter’s instruction most carefully.”

The implication hung in the air between them. He did not trust either Annabelle or her grandmother to provide suitable guidance without his oversight.

Annabelle’s smile tightened ever so slightly.

“How fortunate that my grandmother’s lessons in propriety can benefit both father and daughter,” she remarked, unable to resist the small barb.

The duke’s jaw tightened visibly. “Your grandmother’s reputation for decorum is well-established. It is a quality that appears to have skipped a generation.”

Ha! What an infuriating man he was!

Before Annabelle could formulate a suitably cutting response, the Dowager Viscountess appeared in the doorway of the blue parlor.

“Your Grace, Lady Celia,” she called, beckoning them forward with a gracious smile. “Do come in. We have much to accomplish today.”

With a final glare at Annabelle that no doubt sought to sting, the duke ushered his daughter forward.

Does he think I would want to be in the same space with him, either? Good riddance!

Whirling around, Annabelle made to retreat toward the library, but her grandmother’s voice stopped her.

“Annabelle, dear, would you ask Mrs. Pike to prepare tea at four? I believe we shall require refreshment after our first hour of instruction.”

“Of course, Grandmama,” Annabelle replied, casting a triumphant glance at the duke’s rigid back as he disappeared into the blue parlor.

At least now she had a legitimate reason to hover in the vicinity. Admittedly, she was curious about what her grandmother was going to teach Lady Celia.

“The art of the curtsy,” Lady Oakley declared moments later while standing before Lady Celia with the erect posture of a military commander, “is far more complex than a mere bending of the knees. It is a silent language that communicates volumes about breeding, education, and one’s social discernment. ”

From his position near the window, the Duke of Marchwood observed the proceedings with hawkish intensity.

Annabelle, ostensibly arranging flowers in the adjoining room with the door conveniently ajar, found herself equally absorbed in the lesson, though her attention was divided between Lady Celia’s efforts and the duke’s reactions.

“Now, demonstrate a curtsy appropriate for greeting a countess at a morning call,” Lady Oakley instructed.

Lady Celia, to her credit, made a valiant attempt. She gathered her skirts with practiced fingers, bent her knees with reasonable grace, and inclined her head in what might have been mistaken for appropriate deference.

“No, no, no,” the Dowager interrupted with a sharp tap of her cane against the floor. “Your right foot should be positioned behind the left, not alongside it. You appear to be preparing for a country dance rather than acknowledging your social superior.”

“Does it truly matter?” Celia asked, her tone bordering dangerously on impertinence. “The countess would hardly notice such a minor detail.”

The duke shifted in his chair, his expression darkening at his daughter’s tone. He looked rightfully frustrated.