Page 7

“ Y ou look as though you’ve wrestled with a lion and lost,” Everett observed while sliding into the opposite chair at their usual table in the shadowed corner of The Crown and Anchor.

The tavern’s amber glow cast flickering shadows across his weathered features as he signaled the barmaid for two tankards of ale.

Henry raised his eyes from the untouched glass of whiskey before him. “Perhaps I have.”

“Ah,” Everett said, settling back with evident amusement, “and here I thought you’d merely attended your daughter’s propriety lesson. How terrifying could the Dowager Viscountess Oakley possibly be?”

“It wasn’t Lady Oakley who proved challenging.”

The barmaid appeared with their drinks, and Everett dismissed her swiftly. The Marquess took a generous sip of his ale while studying Henry closely.

“Let me hazard a guess,” Everett said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “The infamous granddaughter was present?”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “Miss Lytton was indeed there. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” Everett’s eyebrows rose. “How intriguing. I would have thought you’d barely notice a spinster, given your general disdain for the fairer sex.”

“She is insolent,” Henry bit out, then lifted his whiskey to his lips.

The amber liquid burned, but not as much as the memory of Annabelle Lytton’s fiery blue eyes.

“Completely lacking in proper deference. She spoke to me as though we were engaged in some parliamentary debate.”

“How absolutely shocking,” Everett replied dryly. “A woman with opinions. Whatever will happen next?”

Henry shot him a warning look that would have silenced lesser men. Everett, however, merely grinned and continued his gentle provocation.

“Tell me, what precisely did this terrifying bluestocking do to earn such ire?”

“She encouraged my daughter to read salacious novels,” Henry snapped. “Books filled with inappropriate content. When I pointed out the impropriety, she had the audacity to question my authority as Celia’s father.”

“Question your authority?” Everett’s tone carried mock horror. “The nerve! Did she also suggest that sixteen-year-old girls might be curious about the world beyond embroidery hoops and watercolor painting?”

Henry’s grip tightened around his glass. “This is not amusing, Southall. My daughter’s reputation?—”

“Will survive her reading a novel or two,” Everett interrupted smoothly. “Good God, Henry, half the ladies in London devour such books behind closed doors. At least Miss Lytton’s club discusses them openly rather than pretending they don’t exist.”

“That’s precisely the problem,” Henry countered. His voice rose slightly before he caught himself and lowered it to its usual controlled register. “She disregards convention and encourages rebellion in young women who should be learning proper deportment.”

Everett leaned forward, and his expression suddenly grew more serious. “Or perhaps you find that rather refreshing.”

Henry’s eyes widened. “I didn’t ask you.”

“No, but it does seem that you are preoccupied with Miss Lytton’s opinions, considering you claim to find her so objectionable.” Everett took another sip of his ale, but his gaze never left Henry’s face. “Tell me, what does Miss Lytton look like? I’ve heard varying descriptions.”

“That’s hardly relevant?—”

“Humor me.”

Henry hesitated, then spoke with deliberate indifference. “Tall. Blonde. Blue eyes. Reasonably attractive, I suppose.”

“Reasonably attractive,” Everett repeated, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “How diplomatic of you. And her figure?”

“Southall—”

“Come now, Henry. You’re a man, not a monk. Surely you noticed whether she’s built like a scarecrow or possesses more appealing attributes.”

Heat crept up Henry’s neck at the memory of Miss Lytton’s blue gown and her decidedly feminine curves. “She’s…adequately proportioned.”

“Adequately proportioned,” Everett mused. “Good Lord, you sound as though you’re describing a broodmare. Was she beautiful, Henry? It is a simple enough question.”

Beautiful?

The word seemed inadequate to describe the way Annabelle Lytton had looked when passion had flushed her cheeks and her eyes had blazed with conviction as she’d defended her stances.

“Beauty is subjective,” he said finally.

“A politician’s answer, if I ever heard one.” Everett’s grin widened. “Which means she’s absolutely stunning, and you’re trying very hard not to admit it.”

“I’m trying very hard to focus on the matter at hand,” Henry corrected sharply. “My daughter’s education and proper guidance toward her debut.”

“Ah, yes, the debut.” Everett’s expression grew thoughtful. “Celia is nearing seventeen, no? She’ll be eighteen next year, and old enough to marry, should she find a suitable gentleman.”

His hands curled into fists before he realized it. “She’s nowhere near ready for marriage. She requires considerable work on her behavior, her understanding of social proprieties?—”

“Her willingness to submit to masculine authority without question?”

Henry drew in a sharp breath. He let it out slowly. “She needs to understand her place in society and the expectations that come with her position.”

“As the daughter of a duke or as a woman?”

“Both.”

Henry felt Everett’s gaze linger. He kept his expression neutral, but the tightening behind his eyes gave him away. Whatever mask he wore, it hadn’t fooled his friend.

“You know,” Everett said casually, “I’ve heard a bit about Miss Lytton over the years. Apparently, she opted to stay with her grandmother these last few years. And for a spinster, people say that she carries herself with remarkable grace.”

“Remarkable grace?” Henry’s voice dripped skepticism. “She’s established herself as a bluestocking who flouts convention at every opportunity.”

“She’s created a life for herself rather than retreating into bitter seclusion,” Everett countered. “Rather admirable, actually. Not many women would have the courage to face society after opting out of the marriage mart. Then again, I hear that the Dowager is quite protective of her.”

Henry said nothing, but his jaw worked as though he were grinding his teeth.

“Of course,” Everett continued with studied nonchalance, “her situation does afford her certain freedoms. She can speak her mind without fear of consequences.”

“Exactly,” Henry said grimly. “She has no understanding of responsibility and flouts the need to consider how one’s actions affect others.”

“Or perhaps she simply refuses to be cowed by the opinions of those who would judge her.” Everett’s tone grew more pointed. “Rather like someone else I know. Someone who also tends to say exactly what he thinks, consequences be damned.”

Henry shot him a sharp look. “We are nothing alike.”

“Are you not?” Everett smiled knowingly. “Two strong-willed individuals, accustomed to getting their own way, neither particularly tolerant of opposition…”

“She is a managing female with no respect for proper authority,” Henry interrupted curtly.

“And you are an autocratic male with no patience for anyone who dares question your pronouncements,” Everett replied smoothly. “Quite a combination, I imagine. Rather explosive, one might say.”

A flicker of memory stirred. There had been a crackle in the air when Miss Lytton stepped close, kept her head held high and dared him. He still felt the heat of it.

“There is no explosion,” he said carefully.

“No?” Everett’s grin returned full force. “Then why do you look as though you’ve been struck by lightning?”

Henry drained his whiskey in one harsh swallow, welcoming the burn that momentarily distracted him from more uncomfortable sensations. “I look irritated because the woman is irritating.”

“Irritating enough to occupy your thoughts for the entire afternoon following your encounter?”

“I’ve been concerned about Celia’s proper education?—”

“Henry.” Everett’s voice carried a note of gentle warning. “We’ve been friends for twenty years. I know when you’re lying to yourself.”

Henry met Everett’s gaze across the scarred wooden table. Too much history sat between them. He looked away first.

“Perhaps,” Everett said quietly, “it’s time you considered that not all women are?—”

“Don’t.” Henry’s voice cut through the tavern’s ambient noise. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.”

Everett raised his hands in surrender, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Very well. But… avoiding half the human race isn’t living, my friend. It’s merely existing.”

Henry rose abruptly and tossed coins onto the table with more force than necessary. “I should return to Celia. She requires supervision to ensure she doesn’t disappear again.”

“Of course,” Everett agreed mildly, watching as Henry shrugged into his coat. “Though I suspect your daughter isn’t the only one who might benefit from a bit more supervision.”

Henry paused at the door with his hand on the worn brass handle. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that the most dangerous rebellions often begin when we least expect them.” Everett’s smile was full of knowing and pity. “Even in the most controlled households.”

Without another word, Henry stepped into the gathering dusk, leaving behind the tavern and his friend’s too-perceptive observations.

As he mounted his horse and turned toward Marchwood Hall, he found he couldn’t quite escape the memory of blue eyes blazing with passion, or the uncomfortable realization that Miss Lytton had managed to unsettle him in ways he’d thought himself long past feeling.

“Truly, Joanna, you cannot imagine the sheer audacity of the man,” Annabelle declared while pouring tea with perhaps more vigor than the delicate porcelain warranted. “He stands there pronouncing judgment as though appointed by God Himself to determine what constitutes proper female behavior.”

The late afternoon sun cast a honeyed glow across Oakley Hall’s garden, where Annabelle had arranged for tea with her dear friend, Lady Joanna Godric, the Marchioness of Knightley.