Kiss Me, Annabel

by Eloisa James

  Tess’s eyes narrowed. “She was considering Mayne?”

  “Yes, Mayne,” Annabel confirmed. “I believe she had some quixotic idea of punishing him for leaving you at the altar.”

  “That’s foolish,” Tess said. “Mayne punishes himself quite enough.” She turned to Griselda. “Did he come tonight?”

  “Of course,” Griselda said, startled. “He was just inside the gaming room, last time I looked. But—”

  Tess was already gone, heading like an arrow to the room where the men sat around their cards, hoping their wives wouldn’t drag them onto the ballroom floor.

  “I was going to say,” Griselda added, “that I believe he intended to leave for his club. I barely have a chance to see my own brother now that he has given up philandering. He won’t stay at a ball over a half hour.”

  Annabel looked back at Imogen. Would this waltz never end?

  But at that moment Rafe shouldered his way onto the floor. Before Annabel could take a breath, the redhaired Scotsman was bowing, and Rafe had swept Imogen away.

  Imogen was as surprised as her sister. One moment she was gliding around the ballroom with Ardmore, thoroughly enjoying every scandalized glance directed at her, and the next she was jerked from his arms by her exguardian. “And just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, holding her body as far from Rafe’s as was possible.

  “Saving your miserable little ass,” he snapped back. “Do you have any idea what a disgrace you’re making of yourself?” Rafe’s hair was standing up on end and his normally brown eyes were black with rage.

  Imogen raised an eyebrow. “Just remind me again where your authority over me lies?”

  “What do you mean?” He swung her into a brisk turn and began back up the ballroom floor.

  “What right have you to interrogate even the smallest aspect of my behavior? I ceased to be your responsibility the moment I married Draven.”

  “I only wish that were the case. As I told you when you broached that ludicrous idea of renting a house, I consider myself still your guardian, and you’ll live with me until you marry again. Or grow old enough to govern yourself, whichever comes first.”

  She smiled at him, a movement of her lips belied by her angry gaze. “This may surprise you, but I don’t agree with your assessment of my situation. I’m planning to set up my own establishment in the very near future.”

  “Over my dead body!” Rafe snapped.

  Imogen glared at him.

  “I don’t know what you’re playing at with Ardmore,” Rafe said, “but you’re ruining yourself for nothing. The man is looking for a bride, not a flirtation with a silly widow with no plans to marry.”

  Suddenly he looked sorry for her, as if his anger were draining away. The last thing Imogen wanted was sympathy from her drunken oaf of a guardian. “For nothing?” she said, taunting him. “You must be blind. Ardmore’s shoulders, his eyes, his mouth…” She gave a little shiver of supposed delight.

  Which turned into something quite different, although it took her a moment to realize it. He was shaking her! Rafe had dropped her hand and given her a hard shake, as if she were a child in the midst of a tantrum. “How dare you!” she gasped, feeling pins slide from her hair.

  “You’re lucky I don’t drag you out of here and lock you in your chambers,” he snapped. “You deserve it.”

  “Because I find a man attractive?”

  “No! Because you’re a liar. You said you loved Maitland.”

  She flinched. “Don’t you dare say that I didn’t.”

  “It’s a pretty way you’ve chosen to honor his memory,” Rafe said flatly. He had dropped his hands from her shoulders.

  A wash of shame tumbled over Imogen’s body. “You have no idea—”

  “No, none,” he said. “And I don’t wish to know. If I ever have a widow, I certainly hope she doesn’t mourn me in your fashion.”

  Imogen swallowed. Thankfully, they were at the end of the room, because she could feel the tears swelling in her throat. She turned on her heel without another word and walked through the door. Rafe came behind her, but she ignored him, heading blindly for the front door.

  At the side of the room, Annabel sighed. Her little sister had always been passionate to a fault, and unfortunately Rafe, comfortable Rafe who liked everyone, had taken a sharp dislike to Imogen almost from the first. As the two of them left the room, the storm of gossiping voices around them reached a high cackle, like hens experiencing a visit from the neighborhood fox.

  “If Rafe wanted her to marry that Scot,” Griselda remarked, “he couldn’t have done more to force the match.”

  “She won’t marry Ardmore,” Annabel said.

  “She may not have a choice,” Griselda said darkly. “After Rafe put on such a paternal performance, Ardmore will likely guess that given a modicum of scandal, Rafe will force a marriage, and he could use her estate, if the tales are true.”

  “She won’t marry him,” Annabel repeated. “Have you seen Rosseter tonight?”

  Griselda’s eyes brightened. “Ah. All that land in Kent and no mother-in-law. I approve, my dear.” Griselda was always to the point.

  “He’s a nice man,” Annabel reminded her.

  Her chaperone waved her hand. “If you believe that silence is golden.”

  Annabel settled her scrap of gold silk around her shoulders. “I see nothing wrong with his lack of verbosity. I can talk enough for both of us, should the need arise.”

  “He’s dancing with Mrs. Fulgens’s spotty daughter,” Griselda said. “But have no fear. Rosseter is not a man to overlook imperfections, is he?”

  Annabel looked in the direction of Griselda’s nod to find Rosseter leaving the ballroom floor. He wasn’t the sort of man who immediately struck you as handsome: certainly he was no big, burly man who tossed women around the ballroom as if they were bags of wheat. In his arms one floated around the floor. He had a narrow, pale face with a high forehead and gray eyes. He tended to look expressionless and rather detached; Annabel found that a refreshing change from the puppies who begged her for dances and sent her roses with rhyming poems attached.

  Rosseter had sent her only one bouquet: a bunch of forget-me-nots. There was no poem, only a scrawled note: These match your eyes, I believe. There was something deliciously offhand about his note. She had made up her mind on the spot to marry him.

  Now he dispensed with Daisy, as Griselda had predicted, and drifted in their direction. A second later he was bowing in front of Lady Griselda, kissing her hand and saying in his unemotional way that she was looking particularly lovely.

  When he turned to Annabel he didn’t bother with a compliment, simply kissed the tips of her fingers. But there was a look in his eye that warmed her heart. “Madame Maisonnet?” he asked, indicating her costume with one slim hand. “A superb choice, Miss Essex.”

  Annabel smiled back. They didn’t speak as they danced. Why should they? As far as Annabel could tell—and she could always tell what men were thinking—they were in perfect harmony. Their marriage would be riven by neither tears nor jealousy. They would have beautiful children. He was extremely wealthy and so her lack of a dowry would not bother him. They would be kind to each other, and she could talk to herself if she lacked breakfast conversation.

  For someone with as little tolerance for inane chitchat as she had, the prospect was entirely pleasing. In fact, the only drawback she could think of was that conversation with oneself held few surprises. Neither did Rosseter’s farewell to her that evening. “Miss Essex,” he said, “would it be acceptable to you if I spoke to your guardian tomorrow morning?” His hand was snow-white, slim and delicate as he pressed her fingers in a most gratifying manner.

  “That would make me quite happy, Lord Rosseter,” Annabel murmured.

  She was having trouble suppressing a grin. Finally—finally!—her heart’s desire was within reach. She had longed for this moment for years, ever since her father discovered that she had a gift for fi
gures and promptly dumped the entire accounting of the estate in her lap. From the time she was thirteen years old, Annabel had spent her days bargaining with tradesmen, shedding tears over a ledger book that showed far more minuses than pluses, pleading with her father to sell the most expensive animals, begging him not to spend all their money at the track…

  And was rewarded by his dislike.

  But she had kept at it, well aware that her financial management was often the only thing between her sisters and true hunger, the only thing holding off the ruin of the stables her father held so dear.

  Her father had called her Miss Prune. If she approached while he was standing with friends, he would roll his eyes at her. Sometimes he would take out a coin and toss it in her direction, and then joke with his friends that she kept him on a tighter string than the worst of wives. And she would always pick up the coin…bend down and pick it up because that was one coin saved from the huge maw of the stables. Saved for flour, or butter, or a beautiful hen for the supper table.

  So she had turned to dreaming of the husband she would have someday. She had never bothered imagining his face: Lord Rosseter’s face was as acceptable as that of almost any wealthy Englishman. What she had imagined were sleeves clad in gleaming velvet, and cravats that were white as snow and made of the finest linen. The kind of clothes that were bought for beauty, not to last. Hands in that flawless state that screamed manual labor was unnecessary.

  Rosseter’s hands would do perfectly.

  Three

  Grillon’s Hotel

  Early that morning

  Ewan Poley, Earl of Ardmore, was fairly certain that he was obeying Father Armailhac’s instructions to the letter. “Go to London,” he had said. “Dance with a pretty girl.”

  “And just what am I supposed to do with this pretty girl?” Ewan had inquired.

  “Surely the spirit will move you,” Father Armailhac had said. For a monk, he had a wicked twinkle at times.

  And so far, Ewan had met a multitude of pretty girls. Due to his terrible memory, he couldn’t remember any of their names, but he reckoned he must have danced with half of London by now. Thanks to his title, he had been showered by invitations within a few days of his arrival; it seemed that the English were not quite so blasé about Scottish titles as was rumored in the north country. Yet it seemed to him that Father Armailhac had meant he should meet a particular girl, one whom he could contemplating wooing and bringing back to Scotland.

  He had no objection to marrying, although he couldn’t say he felt passionate enthusiasm for the idea. His mind slid easily from marriage to the long, clean rows of his stables, the golden fields of spring wheat just beginning to sprout. He could give this marrying business another fortnight. Then he would return home, married or no.

  The black-haired lass he had danced with this evening seemed more than ready to hop before the altar. But what was her name? He couldn’t remember. She had clung to him like a limpet, which he didn’t care for much. Yet perhaps the lady was desperate, widowed as she was, and likely with naught more than a small dowry.

  His manservant appeared at the door, a silver plate in his hand. Ewan might not be enjoying London much, but Glover was ecstatic. All his ambitions were fulfilled by being in the city, as he called it, during the season. “Your lordship, a card has arrived.”

  “At this hour? Just put it over there,” Ewan said, nodding at the mantelpiece. It was crowded with cards and invitations from people he’d never heard of.

  Glover bowed but didn’t move toward the fireplace. “Your lordship, this card is from the Duke of Holbrook. And”—Glover lowered his voice to an awed whisper—“His Grace has condescended to wait.”

  Ewan sighed. A duke. Perhaps the man was desperate to send one of his daughters off into the supposed wilds of Scotland. He’d figured out soon enough that the English thought of Scotland as a wilderness of crazed warriors and grim religious dissenters.

  He glanced at his cravat in the mirror. Glover was brokenhearted at his refusal to change his customary black for the gaudy waistcoats Englishmen wore to balls. But he looked fine and, more importantly, Scottish. Scotsmen wore kilts if they felt the need for a little color, even if they weren’t allowed to wear them in this country.

  “His Grace awaits you in the sitting room,” Glover said.

  “Aye.”

  “If you’ll excuse the boldness, my lord,” Glover said, hesitating.

  Ewan raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “A duke of the realm,” Glover said, trembling with the excitement of it. “Try to avoid Scottish phrases such as aye. ’Twill make an unpleasant impression on His Grace.”

  “I’m not marrying him,” Ewan said, but then softened. “But thank you for the advice, Glover. I shall do my best to appear reasonably English.” Not that he would ever wish to mimic an Englishman, not in a hundred years.

  The duke was a messy sort, Ewan saw with some relief. In fact, the sort who would take no offense at an occasional aye. Ewan had already had several conversations with the perfumed, sleek type of English nobility, and he didn’t care for them. No more did they him.

  This duke was dressed in clothes that looked comfortable rather than elegant. His stomach strained comfortably over the waist of his pantaloons, and as Ewan stood in the doorway of the room, his guest threw back a glass of brandy that Glover must have given him with all the enthusiasm of one of Ewan’s laborers greeting the evening.

  “Your Grace,” Ewan said, entering the room. “This is indeed a pleasure.”

  The duke straightened like a bloodhound and turned around. Ewan almost took a step back. Bloody hell, the man looked enraged. And now he remembered precisely where he’d met him before. If you could call it a meeting; the duke had snatched the black-haired lady from his arms and danced with her himself.

  “Do you know who I am?” he said. His voice was as deep and burly as his figure.

  “According to your card, you are the Duke of Holbrook,” Ewan observed. He moved over to the sideboard. “May I offer you another drink?” He dropped the Your Grace part as it made him feel faintly servant-like.

  “I am the guardian of Lady Maitland,” the man announced.

  “Quite so,” Ewan murmured, pouring himself a stiff glass. “Well, I am the Earl of Ardmore, hailing from Aberdeenshire, if you were not already aware of the fact.”

  “Lady Maitland,” Holbrook insisted. “Imogen Maitland.”

  Imogen must be the black-haired charmer from the ballroom. “If I have offended you or the lady in any way, I offer my sincere apologies,” Ewan said, striving for diplomacy.

  “Well, I should say you have!” the duke huffed.

  “How?” Ewan inquired. He kept his tone easy and even.

  “All London is talking of the two of you,” Holbrook snapped. “Of your tasteless exhibition of waltzing.”

  Ewan thought for a moment. He had two alternatives: to tell the truth, or to take responsibility. Honor demanded that he not reveal the fact that Holbrook’s ward had clung to him with all the expert passion of a Bird of Paradise. He was no fool: the black-haired Imogen was far less moved by his beauty than she had pretended to be. He caught some sort of emotion in her eyes, but it didn’t seem to be pure lust, even if that was the emotion that she was flaunting.

  “I apologize in every respect,” he said finally. “I was bowled over by her beauty and I gather it led to my actions being interpreted in an unpleasant light.”

  Holbrook narrowed his eyes. Ewan gazed back at him, wondering if all dukes in England were so undisciplined in their emotions and dress.

  “I’ll have that drink now,” the duke said.

  Ewan picked up his personal decanter and poured him a healthy glass. Holbrook had the distinct atmosphere of a man who enjoyed a good brandy, and Ewan had brought with him several flasks of the best aged whiskey to be found in Scotland.

  Holbrook took one large sip and then looked at Ewan in surprise. He sank into a couch and took another sip
.

  Ewan sat down opposite him. He could see that Holbrook understood exactly what he was drinking.

  “What is it?” Holbrook said, his voice hushed.

  “An aged single malt,” Ewan said. “A new process and one likely to change the whiskey industry, to my mind.”

  Holbrook took another sip and sat back. “Glen Garioch,” he said dreamily. “Glen Garioch or—possibly—Tobermary.”

  Ewan gave him a real grin this time. “Aye, Glen Garioch it is.”

  “Bliss,” Holbrook said. “Almost, I could let a man who knew his whiskey marry Imogen. Almost!” he said, opening his eyes again.

  “I’ve no particular desire to marry her,” Ewan said agreeably.

  He realized his mistake when Holbrook’s eyebrows drew into a ferocious scowl.

  “Although I would consider myself immeasurably lucky to do so,” Ewan added. “She is a lovely young woman.”

  “Rumor has it that you’re in England precisely to find a wife,” the duke growled. But he was sipping his liquor again.

  “The rumor is correct,” Ewan said. “But not necessarily your ward.”

  “Ah.”

  They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the whiskey.

  “I expect the truth of it is that Imogen threw herself at you, and you’re being too polite to tell me so to my face,” the duke said as gloomily as was possible when one is holding a glass of ’83 whiskey distilled by Glen Garioch.

  “Lady Maitland is an exquisite young woman. I’d be more than happy to marry her.”

  The duke caught his eye, and then: “Damned if you don’t mean it. Don’t care who you marry, is that it?”

  “I take a reasonable interest in the subject,” Ewan protested. “But I will admit that I’m rather anxious to return to my lands. The wheat is sprouting.”

  The duke looked as if he had never heard the word sprout. “Are you telling me that you’re a farmer?” he asked. “One of those gentlemen who dabble about with experimental methods. Turnip Townshend, isn’t that his name?”

  “I’m not quite as engrossed as Mr. Townshend,” Ewan murmured, letting another sip of liquor burn its complex, golden way down his throat.