Page 6

Annabelle bit her lip to suppress a smile, recognizing all too well the frustration of a spirited young woman chafing against the arbitrary rules of polite society.

“The countess might not notice,” Lady Oakley replied crisply, “but her mother certainly would. And the Dowager Countess of Harborough has been known to cut promising debutantes from her guest lists for far less significant transgressions. Again, if you please.”

Lady Celia sighed dramatically before attempting the curtsy once more. This time, her foot placement was correct, but her balance wavered, causing her to grasp wildly at a nearby chair to prevent herself from toppling over.

“Perhaps we should have begun with the basic elements of standing properly,” the Dowager observed dryly. “Shoulders back, chin level, weight distributed evenly. You cannot hope to execute a proper curtsy if you cannot first achieve equilibrium.”

“I achieved perfect equilibrium in Miss Harrington’s lessons,” Lady Celia muttered, though not quite quietly enough.

The duke cleared his throat ominously. “Celia,” he warned, his voice carrying that quiet authority that seemed to fill the room.

“Sorry, Lady Oakley,” Celia apologized hastily. “I shall try again.”

Annabelle’s heart went out to the girl. She remembered all too well the tedious hours spent practicing such social niceties under her own mother’s exacting tutelage.

The absurdity of it all had never quite left her…

that a young woman’s worth could be measured in the precise angle of a curtsy or the delicacy with which she poured tea.

“Tea, my lady,” Mrs. Pike announced while appearing at Annabelle’s elbow with a laden tray. “Shall I serve it in the blue parlor?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Pike. I shall take it myself,” Annabelle replied, seizing the opportunity to observe the lesson more directly.

She entered the blue parlor with the tea tray; her expression arranged in a mask of perfect politeness.

“Grandmama, I thought perhaps a brief respite might be welcome. Lady Celia must be quite fatigued from all that curtsying.”

“How thoughtful, my dear,” the Dowager replied, though her sharp eyes suggested she was not fooled by Annabelle’s sudden solicitude. “Your Grace, Lady Celia, shall we pause for refreshment?”

The Duke rose from his chair with fluid grace. “Thank you, Lady Oakley.”

As Annabelle arranged the cutlery on the small table, she was acutely aware of his gaze upon her. The intensity of it raised gooseflesh along her arms, though whether from irritation or something far more disquieting, she could not say.

“Lady Celia, perhaps you might accompany me to view the roses in the garden,” the Dowager suggested, rising with remarkable agility for a woman of her years. “I believe some fresh air would be beneficial before we continue.”

Before either the Duke or Annabelle could protest, Lady Oakley ushered the girl from the room, leaving them in a silence charged with unspoken tension. Annabelle busied herself with the tea set, painfully aware of the Duke’s towering presence mere feet away.

“Your grandmother’s methods are… effective, Miss Lytton,” he observed after a moment, his deep voice breaking the silence like a stone dropped into still water.

“The General rarely fails to achieve her objectives,” Annabelle replied, risking a glance at him.

The Duke knit his eyebrows together, then tilted his head to the side. “The General?”

“Oh, pardon me. That is a term of endearment of mine for her,” she clarified and swore she saw the corner of his lip inch upward ever so slightly. “As I was saying, my grandmother’s tactics might be somewhat familiar to a military man such as yourself.”

His eyebrow arched. “You seem well-informed about my past, Miss Lytton.”

“One hears things,” she replied with deliberate vagueness. “The county has a long memory for interesting tales, Your Grace.”

“You find my history particularly diverting?” There was an edge to his voice now, a warning that prudence dictated she should heed.

Prudence, however, had never been Annabelle’s strong suit.

“I find it curious,” she said, meeting his gaze directly, “that a man who once defied convention to pursue his own path now seeks to deny his daughter even the smallest freedoms.”

The duke’s expression hardened. “You know nothing about me or my daughter, Miss Lytton. Or what freedoms would serve her best.”

“I know that caging a bird only makes it long more desperately for flight,” Annabelle countered, abandoning all pretense of arranging the tea. “Your daughter is intelligent, curious, and yes, spirited. Those qualities should be channeled, not suppressed.”

“Like your little Society channels the baser appetites of its members?” he inquired with dangerous softness. “Reading material that would make a courtesan blush?”

Annabelle felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Literature is not the enemy, Your Grace. Ignorance is. Would you rather your daughter learns about life from books or from the whispers of her peers?”

“I would rather she learn at a pace and in a manner appropriate to her station,” he replied, stepping closer. “Not through the reckless influence of a woman who clearly defies every convention of proper behavior.”

The accusation stung more than Annabelle cared to admit. “Because I speak my mind? Because I refuse to simper and agree with everything a man says simply because he happens to possess a title?”

“Do not think to project your prejudices upon me, Miss Lytton.” The Duke’s words caused Annabelle’s eyes to widen.

“I said nothing of the sort. My issue with you is that you encourage impressionable young women to follow your example without consideration for the consequences.” His voice dropped so low that an involuntary shiver raked down her spine.

“Not everyone can afford the luxury of dancing so close to ruin, Miss Lytton.”

The words struck with precision, finding the tender place where her own painful history lay. She drew in a sharp breath, and her hand tightened around the teapot handle.

“You know nothing about me,” she said quietly, fury and hurt warring in her voice.

“I have seen enough to understand,” he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.

For a moment, they stood locked in silent combat. The air between them crackled with tension. His nearness, the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather, the way he towered over her, his broad shoulders and a wide chest filling her view…

Heavens, she could hardly breathe.

The sound of laughter from the garden snapped her back to reality, and she stepped back. Her pulse raced traitorously beneath her skin.

“Your tea, Your Grace,” she said stiffly, thrusting a cup toward him with unsteady hands.

Before he could respond, the door opened to admit Lady Oakley and Celia, their cheeks flushed from the garden air.

“Ah, tea! How delightful,” the Dowager exclaimed, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud. “Lady Celia has been telling me the most amusing story about her riding lessons. Your daughter has quite a talent for narrative, Your Grace.”

The duke’s gaze lingered on Annabelle for a moment longer before he turned to his daughter, and his expression softened almost imperceptibly.

“Indeed? Which story?”

As they resumed their places for tea, Annabelle retreated to the edge of the room with her heart feeling both anger and interest.

It was a discomforting sensation because the Duke of Marchwood was clearly the most infuriating, arrogant, insufferable man she had ever encountered in all her life!

And yet, as she watched him listen attentively to his daughter’s animated recounting, Annabelle could not suppress the treacherous thought that he was also quite the contradiction.

Contradictions were challenges in her eyes. And Annabelle had a weakness for challenges.