Page 9

“ D o stop fidgeting, Annabelle,” Lady Oakley murmured as they were announced at the entrance to the drawing room. “One would think you were facing the guillotine rather than a simple evening of music.”

Even though Annabelle typically avoided most of the ton’s events in Hampshire, the musicale at Thornfield House would be a pleasant reprieve. Joanna and Nathaniel would attend, not to mention that Lord Thornfield had been a very good friend of Annabelle’s late grandfather.

“The guillotine might be more merciful,” Annabelle replied under her breath, though she immediately straightened her posture and arranged her features into a mask of polite interest as they entered the crowded room.

Her gaze swept across the assembled guests, cataloguing familiar faces until—unbidden—it caught on the tall figure standing near the pianoforte.

The Duke of Marchwood looked as imposing as ever. His broad shoulders were emphasized by the precise cut of his evening coat, and his expression was one of polite restraint as he conversed with Lord Thornfield.

A small constellation of elegantly dressed ladies hovered nearby, each strategically positioned to catch his attention should he glance in their direction.

The spectacle was so predictable it bordered on comedic, and Annabelle found herself rolling her eyes before she could check the impulse.

“Your lack of subtlety does you no credit, my dear,” Lady Oakley observed dryly.

“I was merely observing the curious phenomenon of intelligent women reduced to simpering decoration in the presence of a title,” Annabelle replied, though she felt a peculiar twist of unpleasantness as one particularly beautiful young woman stepped closer to the Duke.

“Come,” her grandmother said, guiding her toward a cluster of ladies gathered near the refreshment table. “Let us make the rounds before the performance begins.”

Annabelle moved obediently through the social choreography of greetings and pleasantries. Her mind stayed only half-engaged until she found herself momentarily alone because her grandmother was drawn into conversation with an elderly countess some feet away.

“Miss Lytton,” came a voice like poisoned honey, and she turned to find herself facing Lady Harriet. “How surprising to see you here. I wouldn’t have thought these gatherings would interest you.”

“Lady Harriet,” Annabelle acknowledged with a precise curtsy, neither too deep nor too shallow. “I find beauty in many forms of artistic expression.”

“How progressive of you,” Lady Harriet replied, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Though I suppose when one’s social circle consists primarily of spinsters and widows, one must seek entertainment where it can be found.”

The women flanking her tittered dutifully. Their gazes were sharp with malice, poorly disguised as sympathy.

“I understand your little book club has become quite the talk of the county,” Lady Harriet continued, her voice pitched just loudly enough to carry to nearby ears. “So much reading. Though I suppose when one has resigned oneself to spinsterhood, vicarious experiences are all that remain.”

Annabelle felt her cheeks grow hot, but she maintained her composure by maintaining the dignity she had hard-won through years of similar encounters.

“The Athena Society values intellectual exploration,” she replied evenly with a tight smile. “Something I find infinitely more stimulating than gossip.”

Lady Harriet’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Is that what sustained you after your wedding day? When your fiancé?—”

“Harriet!” Lady Musgrave, Harriet’s mother, cut through the exchange like a chilling winter breeze. “There you are. Lord Thornfield is asking after your sister’s performance this evening.”

Lady Harriet’s mouth snapped shut.

“We mustn’t keep him waiting,” Lady Musgrave continued, casting an apologetic glance toward Annabelle before steering her daughter away.

Annabelle drew a steadying breath before smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled only slightly. Five years had passed, yet the wound still ached when prodded. It was a bruise that never quite healed.

“Annabelle, my dear,” Lady Oakley materialized at her side. Her keen eyes missed nothing. “Lord Hatley has been asking after you. Come.”

Her grandmother guided her across the room, taking her directly to where Lord Thornfield stood in conversation with the Duke of Marchwood.

Annabelle stilled for a moment.

“Ah, Lady Oakley, Miss Lytton,” Lord Thornfield exclaimed with genuine warmth. “How delightful to see you both. Your Grace, may I present the Dowager Viscountess Oakley and her granddaughter, Miss Annabelle Lytton?”

The Duke’s gaze found Annabelle’s, and she felt that now-familiar jolt of awareness course through her veins. It was an unwelcome reminder that her body seemed determined to betray her mind’s firm dislike of the man.

“We are already acquainted,” he said, his deep voice carrying that precise note of controlled courtesy that somehow managed to seem both impeccably polite and entirely aloof.

“Indeed,” Annabelle agreed, dropping into a curtsy. “Though under rather more contentious circumstances.”

A flicker of amusement passed across the Duke’s features before he schooled them back to their usual impassiveness.

“I trust Lady Celia’s lessons continue to progress satisfactorily?” he asked, his tone measured.

It was the first time he’d spoken to the dowager without his daughter present since they’d begun their lessons. An opportunity to hear an unvarnished opinion.

“Most satisfactorily,” Lady Oakley replied with a knowing smile. “Your daughter has a remarkably quick mind, Your Grace.”

“A quality that requires proper guidance,” he observed, his gaze sliding meaningfully to Annabelle.

Lord Thornfield, sensing the undercurrent of tension, hastily intervened. “I was just discussing with the Duke the evening’s program. We’re fortunate to have secured Lady Eliza to perform Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’”

“A rather predictable choice,” Annabelle observed, unable to resist the small provocation. “Though I suppose one cannot fault tradition.”

The Duke’s eyebrow arched slightly. “You find Beethoven lacking, Miss Lytton?”

“Not lacking,” she clarified, warming to the topic despite herself. “Merely… safe. There are composers pushing music in far more expressive directions now. Chopin, Liszt, Berlioz. Art should evolve, should it not? Challenge us rather than merely comfort?”

“There is wisdom in tradition,” the Duke countered. “Newer compositions often sacrifice discipline for emotion, mistaking chaos for innovation.”

“And some mistake rigidity for wisdom,” Annabelle retorted as her cheeks flushed with the thrill of intellectual engagement, even though she wished to remain unmoved by his presence. “Music, like life, requires both structure and passion to be truly meaningful.”

“An interesting philosophy,” he spoke lowly, his voice so husky it resonated somewhere beneath her ribs. “Though I wonder if you apply it consistently.”

Lord Thornfield cleared his throat, blinking a few times in alarm at the intensity of their exchange. “I should perhaps announce the commencement of the performance,” he said hastily and bowed before making his retreat.

Lady Oakley’s hand settled firmly on Annabelle’s arm. “We should find our seats, my dear.” The gentle pressure of her fingers conveyed a clear warning. “Your Grace.”

After they’d curtseyed to the Duke and he’d responded with a brief bow, they moved toward the arranged chairs.

There, Annabelle felt the weight of the Duke’s gaze following her like a hand hovering against the small of her back. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder and instead focused on maintaining a measured pace.

As it was, her heart pounded inside her chest. The adrenaline from their short discourse sizzled through her veins like the crackle of wildfire.

By God, had she… Had she enjoyed their back and forth that much?

No. It couldn’t be.

The man was infuriating, and that was what this thrum in her veins was: frustration. That was the only answer she was willing to accept.

Once seated, however, her treacherous eyes sought him of their own accord.

The Duke had taken a position near the far wall, his imposing figure drawing attention despite his evident desire to remain unnoticed. As though sensing her scrutiny, he looked up. His gaze locked with hers across the crowded room.

For one breathless moment, the space between them became charged with something Annabelle could not name. Heat bloomed across her skin as though he had touched her, though they stood separated by a room full of people.

The intensity of her reaction startled her and she tore her gaze away from him. Resolutely, she focused on folding her hands in her lap.

What has come over you? She chastised herself even as she found, to her mounting dismay, that she did not know the answer to that question.