by Julia Quinn
“Has he been dropping hints?” Charlotte wanted to know. “Given you gifts?”
Annelise tilted her head to the side. She liked the way she looked when the light hit her pale skin just so. “He has not done anything so obvious. But there is such history behind the Midsummer Ball. Did you know his parents became engaged at the very same event? And now that George has turned twenty-five . . .” She turned to her sister with wide, excited eyes. “I overheard his father saying it was high time he married.”
“Oh, Annie,” Charlotte sighed. “It’s so romantic.” The Chervil family’s Midsummer Ball was the event of the year, every year. If ever there was a moment when their village’s most eligible bachelor would announce his engagement, this would be it.
“Which ones?” Annelise asked, holding up the two sets of earbobs.
“Oh, the blue, definitely,” Charlotte said before grinning. “Because I must have the green to match my eyes.”
Annelise laughed and hugged her. “I am so happy right now,” she said. She squeezed her eyes tight, as if she couldn’t possibly keep her feelings contained. Her happiness felt like a living thing, bouncing around inside of her. She had known George for years, and like every girl she knew, had secretly wished he would pay her special notice. And then he had! That spring she had caught him looking at her differently, and by the dawn of summer, he’d been secretly courting her. Opening her eyes, she looked at her sister and beamed. “I didn’t think it was possible to be so happy.”
“And it will only get better,” Charlotte predicted. They stood, hands clasped, and walked to the door. “Once George proposes, your happiness will know no bounds.”
Annelise giggled as they danced out the door. Her future was waiting, and she could not wait to reach it.
Annelise saw George the instant she arrived. He was the sort of man one couldn’t miss—brilliantly handsome with a smile that melted a girl from the inside out. Every girl was in love with him. Every girl had always been in love with him.
Annelise smiled her secret smile as she floated into the ballroom. The other girls might be in love with him, but she was the only who had been loved in return.
He’d told her so.
But after an hour of watching him greet his family’s guests, she was growing impatient. She had danced with three other gentlemen—two of them quite eligible—and George hadn’t once tried to cut in. Not that she’d done it to make him jealous—well, perhaps a little. But she always accepted invitations to dance, from anyone.
She knew she was beautiful. It would have been impossible to grow up with so many people saying so, every single day, and not know it. Annelise was some kind of throwback, people said, her glossy dark locks the result of an ancient Welsh invader. Her father’s hair had been dark, too, back when he’d had hair, but everyone said it hadn’t been like hers, with the shine and bounce and ever-so-gentle curl.
Marabeth had always been jealous. Marabeth, who actually looked quite like Annelise, but just not . . . as much. Her skin wasn’t quite as pale, her eyes not quite as blue. Marabeth was forever painting Annelise as a spoilt little shrew, and maybe it was for that reason that Annelise decided, on her very first foray into local society, that she would dance with every man who asked. No one would accuse her of reaching above her station; she would be the kindhearted beauty, the girl everyone loved to love.
Now, of course, every man did ask, because what man didn’t want to dance with the most beautiful girl at the ball? Especially with no risk of rejection.
This must be why George was showing no signs of jealousy, Annelise decided. He knew she had a kind heart. He knew that her dances with the other gentlemen meant nothing to her. No one could ever touch her heart the way he had.
“Why hasn’t he asked me to dance?” she whispered to Charlotte. “I will perish from the anticipation, you know that I will.”
“It’s his parents’ ball,” Charlotte said soothingly. “He has responsibilities as a host.”
“I know. I know. I just . . . I love him so much!”
Annelise coughed, feeling her cheeks grow hot with mortification. That had come out louder than she’d intended, but luckily no one seemed to have noticed.
“Come,” Charlotte said with the brisk determination of one who has just seized upon a plan. “Let us take a turn around the room. We shall walk so close to Mr. Chervil that he will expire from wanting to reach out and take your hand.”
Annelise laughed and linked her arm through Charlotte’s. “You are the very best of sisters,” she said, quite seriously.
Charlotte just patted her hand. “Smile now,” she whispered. “He can see you.”
Annelise looked up, and indeed, he was staring at her, his green-gray eyes smoldering with longing.
“Oh, my goodness,” Charlotte said. “Just look at how he watches you.”
“It makes me shiver,” Annelise admitted.
“We shall walk closer,” Charlotte decided, and they did, until there was no way they could not be noticed by George and his parents.
“Good evening,” his father boomed jovially. “If it isn’t the lovely Miss Shawcross. And another lovely Miss Shawcross.” He gave them each a tiny bow from his head, and they curtsied in return.
“Sir Charles,” Annelise murmured, eager for him to see her as a polite and dutiful young lady who would make him an excellent daughter-in-law. She turned to George’s mother with the same deference. “Lady Chervil.”
“Where is the other other lovely Miss Shawcross?” Sir Charles asked.
“I have not seen Marabeth in some time,” Charlotte replied, just as George said, “I believe she is over there, by the doors to the garden.”
Which gave Annelise the perfect opening to curtsy to him and say, “Mr. Chervil.” He took her hand and kissed it, and she did not think it was her imagination that he lingered longer than he needed to.
“You are as enchanting as ever, Miss Shawcross.” He released her hand, then straightened. “I am bewitched.”
Annelise tried to speak, but she was overcome. She felt hot, and tremulous, and her lungs felt funny, as if there was not enough air in the world to fill them.
“Lady Chervil,” Charlotte said, “I am so enamored of these decorations. Tell me, how did you and Sir Charles find just the right color of yellow to signify summer?”
It was the most inane of questions, but Annelise adored her for it. George’s parents immediately launched into conversation with Charlotte, and she and George were able to turn ever so slightly away from them.
“I haven’t seen you all night,” Annelise said breathlessly. Just being near him made her shiver with anticipation. When they had seen each other three nights earlier he had kissed her with such passion. It had burned in her memory, leaving her eager for more.
What he had done after the kiss hadn’t been quite as enjoyable, but it had still been exciting. To know that she affected him so deeply, that she could make him lose control . . .
It was intoxicating. She had never known such power.
“I have been very busy with my parents,” George said, but his eyes told her that he would rather be with her.
“I miss you,” she said daringly. Her behavior was scandalous, but she felt scandalous, as if she could take the reins of her life and chart her own destiny. What a grand thing it was to be young and in love. The world would be theirs. They had only to reach out and grasp it.
George’s eyes flared with desire, and he glanced furtively over his shoulder. “My mother’s sitting room. Do you know where it is?”
Annelise nodded.
“Meet me there in a quarter of an hour. Don’t be seen.”
He went off to ask another girl to dance—the better to deflect any speculation about their hushed conversation. Annelise found Charlotte, who had finally finished her discussion of all things yellow, green, and gold. “I’m meeting him in ten minutes,” she whispered. “Can you make sure that no one wonders where I am?”
Charlot
te nodded, gave her hand a squeeze of support, then motioned with her head toward the door. No one was watching. It was the perfect time to leave.
It took longer to reach Lady Chervil’s sitting room than Annelise had expected. It was clear across the building—probably why George had chosen it. And she’d had to take a circuitous route to avoid other partygoers who had also chosen to make their celebrations private. By the time she slipped into the darkened chamber, George was already there, waiting for her.
He was on her before she could even speak, kissing her madly, his hands reaching around to her bottom and squeezing with proprietary intimacy. “Oh, Annie,” he groaned, “you’re amazing. Coming here right in the middle of the party. So naughty.”
“George,” she murmured. His kisses were lovely, and it was thrilling that he desired her with such desperation, but she was not sure she liked being called naughty. That wasn’t what she was, was it?
“George?” she said again, this time a question.
But he didn’t answer. He was breathing hard, trying to lift her skirts even as he steered her to a nearby divan.
“George!” It was difficult, because she, too, was excited, but she wedged her hands between them and pushed him away.
“What?” he demanded, eyeing her with suspicion. And something else. Anger?
“I didn’t come here for this,” she said.
He barked with laughter. “What did you think was going to happen?” He stepped toward her again, his eyes fierce and predatory. “I’ve been hard for you for days.”
She blushed furiously, because she knew now what it meant. And while it was exciting that he wanted her so desperately, there was something discomfiting in it, too. She wasn’t sure what, or why, but she was no longer so sure she wanted to be here with him, in such a dark and secluded room.
He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him with enough of a jerk that she stumbled against him. “Let’s have a spot of it, Annie,” he murmured. “You know you want to.”
“No, I— I just—” She tried to pull away, but he would not let her go. “It’s the Midsummer Ball. I thought . . .” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t say it because one look at his face told her that he had never intended to ask her to marry him. He had kissed her, then seduced her, taking the one thing that should have been saved for her husband, and he thought he could take it again?
“Oh, my God,” he said, looking as if he might laugh. “You thought I would marry you.” And then he did laugh, and Annelise was sure that something inside of her died.
“You’re beautiful,” he said mockingly, “I’ll grant you that. And I had a fine time between your thighs, but come now, Annie. You have no money to speak of, and your family certainly will not enhance my own.”
She wanted to say something. She wanted to hit him. But she could only stand there in dawning horror, unable to believe the words that were dripping from his lips.
“Besides,” he said with a cruel smile, “I already have a fiancée.”
Annelise’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her, and she grabbed the side of his mother’s desk for support. “Who?” she managed to whisper.
“Fiona Beckwith,” he told her. “The daughter of Lord Hanley. I asked her last night.”
“Did she accept?” Annelise whispered.
He laughed. Loudly. “Of course she accepted. And her father—the viscount—declared himself delighted. She is his youngest, but his favorite, and I have no doubt that he will provide for us handsomely.”
Annelise swallowed. It was getting hard to breathe. She needed to get out of this room, out of this house.
“She’s quite fetching, too,” George said, ambling closer to her. He smiled, and it turned her stomach to see that it was the same smile he’d used when he’d seduced her before. He was a handsome bastard, and he knew it. “But I doubt,” he murmured, letting one of his fingers tickle down the length of her cheek, “that she will be as wicked a romp as you were.”
“No,” she tried to say, but his mouth was on hers again, and his hands were everywhere. She tried to struggle, but that seemed only to amuse him. “Oh, you like it rough, do you?” he said with a laugh. He pinched her then, hard, but Annelise welcomed the pain. It woke her from whatever shock-filled stupor she’d descended into, and from the center of her being, she roared, thrusting him away from her.
“Get away from me!” she cried, but he only laughed. In desperation she grabbed the only weapon she could find, an antique letter opener, lying unsheathed on Lady Chervil’s desk. Waving it in the air, she warned, “Don’t come near me. I’m warning you!”
“Oh, Annie,” he said condescendingly, and he stepped forward just as she waved wildly through the air.
“You bitch!” he cried, clutching his cheek. “You cut me.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I didn’t mean to.” The weapon fell from her hands and she scooted back, all the way to the wall, almost as if she were trying to get away from herself. “I didn’t mean to,” she said again.
But maybe she had.
“I will kill you,” he hissed. Blood was seeping through his fingers, staining the crisp snowy whiteness of his shirt. “Do you hear me?” he screamed. “I will see you in hell!”
Annelise shoved her way past him and ran.
Three days later Annelise stood before her father, and George’s father, and listened to them agree on oh-so-many points.
She was a trollop.
She could have ruined George’s life.
She might very well still ruin her sisters’ lives.
If she turned out to be pregnant it was her own bloody fault and she’d better not think George had any obligation to marry her.
As if he should have to marry the girl who had scarred him for life.
Annelise still felt sick about that. Not for defending herself. No one seemed to agree with her on that, though. They all seemed to feel that if she’d given herself to him once, he was right to believe she’d do it again.
But she could still feel the awful jolt of it, the wet, meaty resistance when the blade had plunged into his flesh. She had not been expecting it. She’d only meant to wave the thing in the air, to scare him away.
“It is settled,” her father bit off, “and you should get down on your knees to thank Sir Charles that he has been so generous.”
“You will leave this town,” Sir Charles said sharply, “and you will never return. You will have no contact with my son or any member of my family. You will have no contact with your family. It will be as if you never existed. Do you understand?”
She shook her head in slow disbelief. She did not understand. She could never understand this. Sir Charles, maybe, but her own family? Disowning her completely?
“We have found you a position,” her father said, his voice curt and low with disgust. “Your mother’s cousin’s wife’s sister needs a companion.”
Who? Annelise shook her head, desperately trying to follow. Who was he talking about?
“She lives on the Isle of Man.”
“What? No!” Anne stumbled forward, trying to take her father’s hands. “It’s so far. I don’t want to go.”
“Silence!” he roared, and the back of his hand came hard across her cheek. Annelise stumbled back, the shock of his attack far more acute than the pain. Her father had struck her. He had struck her. In all her sixteen years, he had never laid a hand to her, and now . . .
“You are already ruined in the eyes of all who know you,” he hissed mercilessly. “If you do not do as we say, you will bring further shame upon your family and destroy whatever chances your sisters still have at making any sort of marriages.”
Annelise thought of Charlotte, whom she adored more than anyone else in the world. And Marabeth, to whom she had never been close . . . But still, she was her sister. Nothing could have been more important.
“I will go,” she whispered. She touched her cheek. It still burned from her father’s blow.
&n
bsp; “You shall leave in two days,” he told her. “We have—”
“Where is she?”
Annelise gasped as George burst into the room. His eyes were wild, and his skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. He was breathing hard; he must have raced through the house when he heard that she was there. One side of his face was covered with bandages, but the edges had started to wilt and droop. Annelise was terrified they would simply fall away. She did not want to see what lay beneath.
“I will kill you,” he roared, lunging at her.
She jumped back, instinctively running to her father for protection. And he must have had some shred of love for her left in his heart, because he stood in front of her, holding up one arm to block George as he surged forward until Sir Charles pulled his son back.
“You will pay for this,” George railed. “Look at what you have done to me. Look at it!” He ripped the bandages from his face, and Annelise flinched at the sight of his wound, angry and red, a long, diagonal slash from cheekbone to chin.
It would not heal cleanly. Even she could see that.
“Stop,” Sir Charles ordered. “Get a hold of yourself.”
But George would not listen. “You will hang for this. Do you hear me? I will summon the magistrate and—”
“Shut up,” his father snapped. “You will do no such thing. If you call her up before the magistrate, the story will get out and the Hanley girl will cry off faster than you can say please.”
“Oh,” George snarled, waving his hand before his face in a gesture of grand disgust, “and you don’t think the story is going to get out when people see this?”
“There will be rumors. Especially when this one leaves town.” Sir Charles shot another scathing glance at Annelise. “But they will only be rumors. Bring in a magistrate and you might as well put the whole sordid mess in the paper.”
For several moments Annelise thought that George might not back down. But then he finally yanked his glare away, snapping his head so fast that his wound began to bleed again. He touched his cheek, then looked down at the blood on his fingers. “You will pay for this,” he said, walking slowly toward Annelise. “Maybe not today, but you will pay.”
