Kiss Me, Annabel

by Eloisa James

  “Second,” Ardmore said, drawing back his bow again.

  It was a good shot; Annabel had to give him that. But he was holding his elbow just a fraction of an inch too high in the air. Sure enough, to her eyes the arrow was slightly off target, although he turned to her with a smile that suggested he thought it was square.

  “I have heard that spectacles can be quite helpful as one grows older,” she said to him sweetly. She drew back her arrow and let it fly immediately. Truly, she had chosen a target that was too easy.

  There was quite a cheer when the attendant announced the winner of that round.

  But when she looked at Ardmore and thought to see him showing the strain of competition, or even a flash of competitive spirit, he was just laughing. “No matter how this attempt goes, you’ve won my forfeit. I believe my mistake was in not allowing you to go before me.”

  “That would have been more polite,” Rosseter put in.

  Ardmore bowed and motioned to her.

  She moved forward, aware of the two men watching her intently. She shook her curls back over her shoulders; they could be distracting. Then she pulled the bow back, slowly, slowly. She could feel her breasts coming forward and up, straining from the bodice of her muslin gown. Finally she let the arrow slip and it sailed home. It was slightly off its target because she’d held the arrow too long.

  Ardmore took her place. He drew back the bow just as slowly as she had. Broad shoulders flexed, and he flashed a glance at her. His eyes were almost—almost—guileless, but not quite. She nearly burst out laughing but instead she gave him a delicious smile, one of her very best. For a moment he looked as if he’d been clopped in the forehead. She stepped back. Unless she’d missed her bet, he had held that arrow too long, and his elbow was jutting high again.

  Sure enough, he missed the target altogether.

  Lady Mitford popped up in front of them, beaming happily. “I do so love it when my guests fall into the spirit of the times!” she trilled. “Now Lord Mitford and I have a most lovely surprise for the two of you.”

  She beckoned wildly with her arm and a flower covered pony cart came into view, being dragged along by two miserable-looking donkeys. Flowers had been woven into their manes and tucked behind their ears.

  “You shall be the King and Queen of May!” Lady Mitford said happily. “Of course, it isn’t quite May yet, but we thought this was so appropriate to our festival. Lord Mitford and I had planned to be the king and queen ourselves, but since the two of you entered so fully into the spirit of the day, we looked at each other and with one breath, we decided to crown you instead!”

  Griselda was laughing and clapping her hands, so Lady Mitford’s suggestion must be acceptable from a chaperone’s point of view. Annabel hesitated but Ardmore took the decision from her. Without pausing to ask her, he put his hands around her waist and swung her into the pony cart. She gasped but the next second he was in the seat next to her, and the trumpets were blowing again. Lady Mitford handed up a wreath of flowers.

  “You must do it,” Ardmore said to her, sotto voce. “Look how happy it’s making her!”

  Surely enough, Lady Mitford was cackling with pleasure.

  “There’s something wrong, though,” Ardmore said. He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look exactly right.” Suddenly his hand darted out and with an unerring touch he pulled three hairpins from her hair.

  Annabel gasped. Her hair fell down around her shoulders, rolls of soft golden curls that had taken her maid a full hour to pin to her head. “How dare you!” she said, looking up at him.

  But he was settling the wreath of white flowers back on her head. “Hush,” he said. “You’re a queen.”

  His thigh brushed against hers as the donkeys started off with a jerk around the garden.

  “This is so humiliating,” she hissed at him.

  But he was grinning broadly. They began a circuit of the garden, Annabel smiling at all the guests and silently cursing her companion. Lord Rosseter looked up at the cart and then turned away. Annabel added a particularly virulent curse to her silent tirade. But actually, she wasn’t terribly worried about Rosseter. He would come back, if she wished him to. Or he wouldn’t, and she’d find someone else. His censoriousness was a bit worrying.

  Then they were back at the beginning, and Lady Mitford was begging to send the cart around the back of the house. “It’s just to show the household. They all take such interest in our little Renaissance festival, bless their hearts. I know they’d want to see the king and queen.”

  So Ewan sent the donkeys around the back of the house as commanded. But it seemed Lady Mitford had misjudged the enthusiasm of her household, for there wasn’t a soul to be seen, just curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. The donkeys stopped and began chomping on a rosebush that flanked the kitchen door.

  “Perhaps she’s alerting the staff to our presence this very moment,” Ewan suggested. There was something about Annabel that made him feel reckless, as if champagne were pouring through his veins.

  She folded her hands primly. “I believe we should turn the cart about. It’s not proper for us to be alone.”

  He put down the reins. No man of blood and bone would turn down this opportunity. That wasn’t innocence he glimpsed in Annabel’s eyes, but awareness of him as a man. And Ewan was a man of action, rather than words.

  He lowered his head so slowly that she had time to squeak, or say no, as proper maidens did when they were about to be kissed. But she didn’t say a word, just looked at him with smoky blue eyes.

  His lips brushed hers. They were soft, like the petals of the roses the donkeys were eating, and he wanted to eat her, all of her…He rubbed his lips across hers again, stronger now. But she didn’t say anything, or make a sound, so he let his lips wander down from that little curve in the corner of her mouth, thinking of her neck, that creamy soft neck, but he didn’t want to leave. So he came back and she parted her lips a little and he slipped in between one breath and the next.

  And then he had her in his arms, cradling her, and the air was thick with the smell of roses and their tongues were tangling. Her mouth was hot and not at all like that of an innocent maiden but rather—He pushed aside the memory of his first kiss with Bess, a friendly milkmaid. Because this kiss was nothing like Bess’s, had nothing in common with Bess’s…

  Annabel had her arms around his neck before she knew what was happening, before she realized that her heart was beating so rapidly that she couldn’t breathe—that must be why she couldn’t breathe—because she couldn’t. Breathe, that is. Not with the way he was kissing her, as if time had stopped and there was nothing left in the world but the King and Queen of May and a cart full of flowers.

  Perhaps it was because he was Scots. He kissed long and slow, and there was none of the jostling sense she’d had from Englishmen, as if they kissed while thinking about how to get hold of one of her breasts and wring it like a pump handle. Ardmore’s hands were on her back, but they hadn’t moved since drawing her close, and he didn’t seem to have anything else in mind than the slow tangle of their tongues. It was almost maddening.

  In fact, it was maddening. Annabel had been in London for precisely two months, and she’d already been kissed by several men. All of whom punctiliously asked Rafe for her hand in marriage. But their kisses were enough to make her reject their proposals. They pawed and breathed hard, and she couldn’t see sharing a bed with someone who sounded asthmatic.

  As far as she could see, Ardmore had the opposite response to her. Here they were, just sitting and kissing, and kissing, and her blood was racing but he seemed as calm as ever. He had those great laborer’s hands spread on her back but he didn’t pull her close to him. And yet she—she—she felt boneless and as if she were about to slump against his chest.

  The inequality was unnerving. She pulled back. When he opened his eyes, she revised her idea that he was untouched by the kiss, because there was something deep and hot in his eyes that sent a tingle stra
ight down her thighs. “We must return,” she said, keeping her hands around his neck.

  He didn’t even say anything, just smiled his lazy Scottish smile and bent his head to hers again. And she couldn’t help it: she opened her mouth to him and he started kissing her again. And now she could see the attraction of just kissing. Just letting his tongue…well. She was trembling. Trembling from a kiss.

  This time he pulled back. And his eyes were even darker and wilder but he had a thoughtful look too. “Will you marry me?” he said. His hands still hadn’t moved from her back.

  “No,” Annabel said, feeling a pang of regret. It’d be nice to marry a man who kissed so well. But kissing wasn’t a prerequisite for marriage, and money was.

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. “I spent years dreaming of getting out of Scotland,” she said awkwardly, not wanting to mention money because it was too—unpleasant.

  He nodded. “I’ve seen that happen with lads in the village.”

  “Well, then,” she said.

  He looked at her once more. “Are you sure? Because I won’t ask you again. I need to finish this marriage business and return home.”

  She smiled at that. “I am sure.”

  “You could never marry a Scotsman.”

  “No.”

  “I regret your decision.”

  Then they were back in the garden, and Imogen was waiting for them. Her eyes were alight with a brilliant glow that made Annabel uneasy just to see her. But she looked exquisite, like a black-haired princess in a fairy tale.

  Before Annabel quite knew what had happened, the King of May had wandered off on the arm of her sister without a backward glance. Annabel took off the wreath of flowers and tossed it into the pony cart.

  Two gentlemen bounded up to her like overgrown hounds and demanded the pleasure of bringing the Queen of May to the pavilion for supper.

  Willy-nilly, she glanced over her shoulder. Ardmore had got himself between Lady Griselda and Imogen now. He was bending his head toward Griselda.

  “I’d love to come,” she said coolly. “Why don’t you both escort me?”

  They bobbed around her, showing every sign of men who would kiss and grab, kiss and pant. Englishmen, both of them.

  Seven

  Ewan had almost made up his mind. The one lass he could truly fancy didn’t want him, or so she said. And he had enough sense to know that dragging a woman back to Scotland when she was bent on marrying an Englishman with a title was not a good start to a marriage. But the black-haired Imogen had such potent despair in her eyes that he felt it in the pit of his stomach.

  Even now she seemed determined to drag him off to some solitary bench, as if he were a prize pig at the fair. He didn’t mind, as long as all those tears she was saving didn’t overflow and drown the two of them. She would be a good choice for wife, surely. She was beautiful, and if he gave her time to recover from her grief, she’d likely be a pleasant partner in all respects. He certainly didn’t want a wife who started increasing on the spot: he had more than enough to do without worrying about children for a few years.

  All in all, Imogen seemed a suitable alternative. Of course, her guardian was fiercely against the idea, but perhaps the duke would be more amenable on seeing how much his ward wanted to marry him. Why, she looked at him as if she wanted nothing more than to bed him on the spot. She must be desperate to return to Scotland.

  He could appreciate it; he felt the same way. London was nothing more than a smoky, smelly mess. His carriage had become tangled in traffic that morning and they ended up standing still as a stock for over an hour.

  This party wasn’t so bad. But all the high-pitched voices and the repeated shrilling of trumpets were like to give him a headache, if he’d been prone to them. Likely it was a rain-soaked day in Scotland, the kind where you can almost see the lush grass reaching up to meet the branches of trees. And the only sound would be the rain, and perhaps a bird singing, and it would seem as if the very dog daisies were praising God for the beauty of it all. For a moment he closed his eyes, but—

  “Lord Ardmore,” she was saying, and the misery in her voice was written plain. The poor lass was in a bad way.

  He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Imogen, her name was. Imogen, Lady Maitland. He felt a spark of gratitude at being able to remember. “Lady Maitland,” he said.

  “I’d like to speak to you privately, if I may.”

  “Of course. There’s a bit of land down at the bottom of the garden that’s marshy and less frequented by all these folk,” he told her.

  She gave him a dewy smile that almost had him convinced that she was longing for him to drag her down there and have his way with her. “How very astute of you to remark the place,” she cooed.

  He thought about defending himself—after all, he hadn’t been searching out trysting places—but gave up. Instead he held out his arm and they tripped along together in silence.

  “Has your husband been gone long?” he asked. For all his reasoning that she would be a good candidate for marriage, he felt a queer reluctance to deepen the conversation.

  “Long enough,” she said, giving him that look again. “I hardly think of him.”

  Well, if that wasn’t a lie, he’d never heard one before.

  They walked along some more, she taking little mincing steps because her dress was so narrow it was binding her at the knees. “Perhaps I’d better carry you down this last bit,” he said as they neared the slope. “That is, if it won’t create a scandal.” He glanced back toward the party, but no one appeared to be watching them.

  “I don’t care about scandal,” she said. An idiot could tell that was true. So he scooped her up and carried her down the hill until they reached an wrought-iron bench under a large willow. The tree hung over the riverbank, emerald-green strands meeting the surface of the water and dropping below. It looked like an old dowager trailing her yarns behind her.

  But Imogen was looking at him again, all fiery invitation. Ewan felt supremely uncomfortable. This was worse than the day when Mrs. Park, down in the village, caught him stealing plums and threatened to tell his papa. He cleared his throat but somehow the marriage proposal just refused to word itself.

  She leaned toward him, and her bosom rubbed against his arm. She was a nicely proportioned woman, though she hung it out for all the world to see. Then she started running a finger over his chest.

  He cleared his throat again. She looked at him, all expectant. The offer of marriage just refused to come out.

  So she spoke instead, and of course her voice was all low and husky, like the Whore of Babylon’s, Ewan had no doubt about that. “This affair is so tedious,” she said, slipping a finger under the buttons of his jacket and caressing his shirt.

  “I’ve been enjoying it,” he said awkwardly, trying not to move backward. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She was as vulnerable as a newborn calf.

  “I haven’t,” she said, and she forgot that husky innuendo in speaking the truth. But it was back a moment later. “I’d very much like to…get to know you better, Lord Ardmore. May I call you Ewan?”

  Now, how in the world had she learned his first name? He’d practically forgotten it himself, he’d been Lord Ardmore’d so much in the past few weeks. “Of course,” he said. “And I’d like to know you better as well.”

  “In that case…why don’t we spend some time together?” The silky whisper was almost mesmerizing, as was that hand wandering over his chest.

  He swallowed. “Of course.”

  “Good.” She straightened. “I’ll come to you at eleven o’clock.” She looked about to stand up and leave.

  “Wait!” He grabbed her wrist. “Are you saying…what do you mean, you’ll come to me?”

  A little scowl knit her brow and perversely, he felt the first pang of attraction for her. “I’ll come to you,” she said painstakingly. “Since I’m not currently living in an establishment of my own—although I mean to buy a townhouse
just as soon as I have a moment on my own—I shall come to you, rather than the other way around.”

  “At eleven o’clock,” he repeated.

  She nodded, quite businesslike now.

  “At night?” he clarified.

  That scowl was back. “Of course. I’m generally quite busy taking calls in the morning.”

  “Ah.” Well. They appeared to have different ideas in mind. “I’m not the man for that,” he said, rather apologetically.

  “No?” She looked stunned.

  “No. I’ve come to London to find a wife, you see.”

  Now the scowl was really ferocious. In fact, it wasn’t adorable anymore, and reminded him dangerously of his Aunt Marge who once broke half a set of Spode china. Against his uncle’s head.

  “We’ve no real desire between us,” he said gently.

  “Yes, we have!” she snapped.

  Ewan glanced up the hill, but there was no one watching. Then he reached out and tilted her head back, lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her. It was pleasant enough, but nothing more. To compare it to that kiss he shared with her sister would be blasphemy.

  “You see, lass?”

  She glared at him. “If you don’t wish to bed me, you needn’t make a song and dance about it.”

  The pain in her eyes was so great that he instinctively put an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t touch me!” she shouted. “There are men out there who are more than eager to—to do whatever I wish.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that,” he said, but she had pulled away from his arm.

  “Don’t you dare pity me!” she hissed. “The Earl of Mayne will do just fine. He’s not a limp Scotsman. I can guess why you traveled to London to find a bride! It’s because all my countrywomen knew that you had problems in the bedchamber, didn’t they? I’ve heard that sort of news travels fast.”

  “Thankfully, no,” he said. But a sense of alarm was growing in his chest, and he grabbed her hand. “You can’t turn to Mayne; I met him last night.”

  “He wants me,” she said, struggling to free herself. “He wants me, and you don’t, and that’s all there is to it.”