by Eloisa James
Annabel thought about it. She had some trouble imagining Ardmore not asking for anything he wished. But perhaps people became more tongue-tied in the bed. “Thank you, Tess,” she said finally.
“Thank you for nothing!” Josie cried. “I certainly hope that someone will be a little more forthcoming with me next year. I fully intend to marry within my first season, you know.” She looked down a little uneasily at her body. “Miss Flecknoe knows of a reducing diet, and she’s going to put me on it four months before the season begins.”
Annabel shook her head. “Don’t do it, love. Your figure is exquisite.”
“No, it’s not,” Josie said. “I’m plump as a Bartholomew chicken, just as Papa used to say.”
“Papa,” Annabel said, “could be unkind.”
“He was truthful,” Josie said.
A memory darted into Annabel’s head of her father in a fury, staring her down over a ledger of her own carefully recorded figures. “You’ll never be the woman your mother was!” he had shouted at her then. “Your mother would never have spoken to me in such a churlish fashion. You’ll never make a biddable wife!” She sighed.
“Father was not always right,” Tess said. “And when it came to the way he teased you over your figure, Josie, he was always wrong. And the way he was so unkind to you as well, Annabel.”
A faint smile touched Annabel’s lips. She was unlikely to be a biddable wife, so their father was right in that respect.
“I’ll give it six months,” she said suddenly.
Tess blinked. “What?”
“I just can’t do it. I can’t face the misery of a lifetime of poverty,” she said, the truth bursting out of her. “But”—she steadied her voice—“if I just think that it’s only a six-month exile, and that perhaps I could return and live with you, Tess, I think I could bear it.”
“Oh, darling, you could always live with me.”
“I wouldn’t be in your way,” Annabel said. “I just need a—a refuge to think about.”
“I will always be your refuge!” Tess said, clutching her so tightly that it was almost as comforting as Ardmore’s hard arms around her. “You know that, darling.”
“Then I shall be off to Scotland in the morning,” Annabel said, swallowing back more of those unruly tears. “And I’ll see you very soon…perhaps for Christmas!”
Thirteen
It wasn’t until they had trundled on their way clear out of London that Annabel thought of a problem. That wasn’t quite true; for the last three days she had thought of nothing but problems, and only a few of them solvable. But this was a true problem, and it had to do with the world and everyone in it thinking they were man and wife. Lord and Lady Ardmore. Thinking she was a countess, an empty title if there ever was one.
“We’re not yet married,” she ventured to say.
Ardmore sat opposite her, hair tossed by the wind, looking boneless and indolent, as if he hadn’t pounded alongside the carriage on a magnificent thoroughbred for the first three hours of their journey.
He flashed her a grin. “We will be.”
“But we are not at the moment. Yet we’ll be stopping at an inn for the night. How—how shall we arrange ourselves?”
His grin grew wider. “I’m afraid you’re right, lass. We’ll have to share a room. But the happy side of it all is that you can’t be ruined.”
“Because I already have been.” Her heart sank. She was no Puritan, but she had thought to marry before…
“No, no, you can’t be ruined because in the eyes of the world we’re married.”
So this would be her wedding night. In a manner of speaking.
But he was leaning forward. “When we’re truly married, Annabel, a night in a shared bed will be quite different from that we’ll have tonight, I promise you that.”
Not her wedding night, after all. She could feel color stealing up her cheeks. It was something about the way he grinned at her.
“What we should do is get to know each other better,” he said. “In the normal course of events, I’d be courting you now, trying to discover whether you sing off-key, whether you drink tea or coffee and, of course, whether I could bear to look at you every morning over breakfast. And you’d be doing the same for me.”
“In fact, I have been wondering if you have any relatives, my lord?” It was appalling, how little she knew of the man she was to marry.
“I dislike formalities,” he said, sidestepping the question. “My name’s Ewan, and I’m hoping that you’ll call me by it.”
“Ewan,” she said, nodding.
He leaned forward at that, and kissed the very tips of her fingers. “This is the very first time that my future wife has called me by my given name,” he said. He was smiling with his eyes, in that way he had…as if she were everything he ever wanted in a wife. Still watching her, he turned her palm over and put his lips to her palm.
“You have such small hands,” he said. The touch of his lips on her palm made a sudden thrill shoot through her stomach. “I feel like a great, awkward farm boy next to you.”
She laughed, and he pressed another kiss into her palm. His touches were like wine, a heady pleasure. “So it’s already occurred to you that I look like a laborer, has it?” he teased. And kissed her again.
How could her palm feel so unbearably sensuous? A hundred men had held that palm and kissed her fingers during the last month, and yet…His eyes were steady on hers as he brought her hand to his mouth again. And this time she felt his tongue touch the center of her hand, and the shock was so great it burned down her legs.
“I would labor for you, Annabel,” he said, watching her. “Shall we move to a small cottage and keep goats?”
“I’m not very good at gardening,” Annabel said. And she was suddenly cool as could be, broken free of the spell of that husky voice of his. She pulled her hand away.
He leaned back in his seat, showing nothing more than an amused acceptance of her rejection. “What do you know of gardening? I should think young ladies do little more than snip roses, when the gardener bids her welcome.”
“Something like that,” Annabel murmured, closing her heart against the memory of Josie weeping when their beans died in the blight. She was determined not to be sullen with the earl, nor let him know just how great her reluctance to marry him was. None of this was his fault. Offering her his name was the act of a true gentleman.
She straightened on the seat and gave him a smile. “And do you have family, Ewan?”
“I do.”
She waited, and finally he said, “I have them, and I don’t have them. My close family is no longer living.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“It’s difficult to know how to phrase it. My Nana is always trotting out a bit about how they’re waiting for me in heaven. But I very much doubt that they have naught to do in heaven but wait for my arrival, should I be lucky enough to end up at the right address.”
“How many of your family were—were lost?”
“My mother and father died in a flood,” he said, and for the first time, his eyes weren’t smiling. “And my brother and sister died with them.”
Annabel swallowed, and he answered her unspoken question. “I was six years old. Our carriage was caught in rising water. It didn’t seem dangerous at first. My father took me to high ground. He went back for the others, but…”
To her horror, Annabel felt tears pressing at the back of her eyes. She truly was overemotional from the events of the past few days. “I’m so sorry,” she said. There wasn’t much more to be said.
Besides, now—strange man that he was!—her husband’s eyes were smiling again. “I do believe that my mama has been watching the last few days, Annabel, and I’m quite sure she approves of you.”
There was no point in saying something cynical, which was the only sort of comment that came to mind. Finally, Annabel searched around for some sort of phrase one would say to a child, and came up with: “I’m naturally glad to
hear of your mother’s approbation.”
His smile grew wider, almost as if he were mocking her, but he didn’t say anything more of that. “So when my parents died, that left my grandmother, Lady Ardmore,” he said. “My Nana, as I call her, is still alive, and a feisty Scotswoman to the bone. She’ll like you.”
Annabel doubted it. Wait till the feisty grandmother heard about her whinnying dowry.
“And there’s an uncle on my father’s side,” Ewan continued. “His name is Tobin. He spends most of his time hunting…I’m afraid he has a somewhat bloodthirsty nature. The household eats a great deal of venison, thanks to Tobin.”
Annabel smiled grimly. Well, that was better than her sisters’ rather dubious fishing skills.
“And then we have Uncle Pearce,” Ewan said, “although by all rights, he’s truly my great-uncle. He’s almost ninety but clear-minded. His favorite activity is cheating at cards.”
“Cheating?” Annabel echoed.
“Aye. And for money,” he said, nodding. “He’ll take every penny you have, if you allow him to deal the cards.”
“Oh. Thank you for the warning. Anyone else?”
“Certainly,” Ewan said. “There’s still the reason I came to London to find a bride.”
Annabel blinked. “I thought you wished for an heiress.”
He frowned at her. “You seem to have dowries on the brain. Nay, I didn’t come to London for such a flimsy reason. If I wanted an heiress, I could have married Miss Mary McGuire, whose lands march along mine. Nay, I came to London for another reason altogether. Well, for two reasons,” he said.
Annabel waited.
“He’s eleven years old,” Ewan said. “His name is Gregory, and I’m afraid—”
He seemed to be choosing his words, but she jumped ahead. “You have a son?”
“Not exactly. Could we just say that he’s a member of the household?”
She frowned at him. Her oh-so-honorable husband had a by-blow living in the house? But she suddenly realized that she didn’t care all that much. If he’d had a child out of wedlock and thrown the poor lad to the parish—now, that she would have disliked. “What is Gregory like?” she asked.
“He’s a pain in the rear,” Ewan said, picking up her hand again. “At the moment he has great ambitions for his future and he won’t accept the least opposition. I thought perhaps a wife might be able to soften the lad’s stubborn character.”
“That must be difficult,” Annabel said sympathetically. Life could be quite limited for those of illegitimate birth, precluding them from positions of power and responsibility.
“You have no idea,” Ewan said with a shudder. “He’s up at the crack of dawn, singing lauds at the top of his lungs. And believe me, while I’m well aware of the existence of boy choirs, Gregory would not be a happy addition to such a group.”
“Lauds?” Annabel said blankly.
He nodded. “He sings for almost an hour, up on the battlements. But you can hear him for a half mile. I’m sympathetic—”
She couldn’t help it; she interrupted him again. “What are Gregory’s ambitions?”
“To be a monk.”
“A monk! We don’t have monks in Scotland!”
“Nay, now, there you’re in the wrong,” he said. “There’s any number of monks in Scotland since Napoleon kicked them all out of France. And we’ve three of them on my land.”
“You have a monastery?”
“No, no, just three monks. They’re part of the household, not living off on their own.”
“Wait a moment,” Annabel said faintly. “If I’m correct, your household consists of your grandmother, an ancient uncle, an uncle, a young boy and three monks?”
He hesitated.
“And?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“There’s Rosy McKenna,” he said. “I’m not quite certain how to explain Rosy.”
“Is she a relative?”
“No. She’s Gregory’s mother.”
“Gregory’s mother?” Annabel repeated faintly. He had—had—“That won’t do,” she said. “If you’re taking a wife, Ardmore, you must send other women from the household. Unless you—” A horrible suspicion blossomed in her mind. He looked so innocent, but…
“Why, who do you think Rosy is to me?” he asked, bantering with her as if such a thing were the subject for a tea party. He was not a simpleton, but a madman.
She didn’t know how to answer. The words that came to mind were such things as she’d heard around the stable, and not appropriate to be said aloud.
“Never a lover of mine,” he said, and there was definitely laughter shining in those green eyes. “I wouldna bring you home to meet my lover.” He had her hand again, but she pretended not to notice.
“Well, then,” she said, resisting a sudden urge to grin back at him.
“If I had a lover,” he said. “Which I have not.”
“Oh. So who is Rosy?” she asked hastily, trying to move away from the subject of lovers. “And Gregory?”
“Rosy was my betrothed,” he said.
She snatched her hand away, but a second later he was sitting next to her on the seat, and sure enough, he was laughing at her again. “Ach, but you’re a suspicious one, you are,” he said. “Now, do you truly think I’d bring home a wife if I had a fiancée all of my own waiting for me?”
“Then who is she?”
“We were to marry, many years ago,” he said. And now he had both her hands. “ ’Twas a marriage that my father and his great friend McKenna had worked out when we were wee bairns. So when the time came, Rosy was sent to me in a carriage.” He stopped and his eyes darkened. “On the way that carriage was stopped by some ruffians. She wasn’t found until a week later.”
“Oh, no,” Annabel said softly.
“She hasn’t been in her right mind since. Some nine months later Gregory was born. I would have married her, once we realized she was carrying a child, but back then she couldn’t even give a straight yes or no in the church. And she didn’t like me, you see. She couldn’t even get near me without screaming. I was too big.”
“And too male,” Annabel said, her heart aching for the sadness of it.
“That as well,” Ewan said, kissing her hands one by one, on her curled knuckles. “She’s better now, although a strange man will always upset her. She can play spillikins.”
“Her father?”
“Came to see her once and didn’t want her back. He thought she should be sent to a nunnery, where they care for such poor creatures. Rosy’s half French, you see. But of course, we were at war with France. We sent off a letter to the nunnery anyway, but it turned out that Napoleon had sent all the nuns hither and thither. Instead of sending Rosy to them, we ended up with three monks of our own. They’ve been a great help with caring for the poor girl.”
“So she’s the second reason you came to London for a wife?” Annabel guessed, trying to ignore all those butterfly kisses he was putting on her hands.
“No. The second reason would be Father Armailhac,” he said.
“One of your monks?”
Ewan nodded. “He sent me off to London to dance with a girl.”
“Dance with a girl?” Annabel repeated. “Only that?”
“Well, I interpreted that as finding a wife,” Ewan said. “I hadn’t wanted one, you see. And Father Armailhac disagreed with me. And now I rather see his point.” He was uncurling her fingers like the petals of a flower and he was going to start kissing her palm again…
“You never danced with me,” she said quickly. “Only with Imogen.”
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” he said. “Because ’twas you I wanted to dance with, Annabel, ever since the moment I saw you. And ’twas you I wanted to marry as well. Never Imogen.”
The carriage rocked around a corner and Ewan took a quick glance out of the window. “We’re in Stevenage,” he said, “and we’ve made excellent time. We’ll stop at the Pig and Cauldron for the night.”
/> Annabel pulled her hands away, feeling uncommonly shy. But he turned back to her. A second later his hands cupped her face and he started brushing his lips back and forth against hers. “You’re like the finest wine,” he said, his voice sounding bemused.
Annabel knew just what he meant. His very touch had her heart thundering in her chest. His hands slid over her cheeks, across her hair, and he was going to kiss her, she could feel it—He pulled back.
“We’ve a problem, lass,” he said.
Annabel felt such a severe twinge of disappointment because he hadn’t kissed her that she almost pulled his head down to hers.
“I’m wanting to kiss you, all the time.”
That made her smile.
“Even seeing your lips curve like that,” he said, his voice deepened to a husky velvet, “makes me feel like—”
“Then why don’t you?” she asked, and the provocative smile that curled on her lips was not one shaped in the mirror and practiced to catch a rich husband. In fact, Annabel wouldn’t even have recognized it herself.
She wanted more of his kisses. When they kissed, she didn’t—couldn’t—think about anything but him.
And Ewan clearly wasn’t a man to disappoint a lady. His lips crushed hers in a drugging kiss that seduced and demanded. This time, Annabel shuddered at the very first touch of his mouth, and her body seemed to mold itself to his, hungrily, as if it already knew the hard lines and—
His hands were moving down her back, and she strained forward against him, feeling her breasts crushed against his chest. Instantly that feeling of peace flooded through her. There was something about being in Ewan’s arms, being held by Ewan…it felt like the most protected place in the world. Except that his lips were ravaging hers, moving over them again and again until his tongue finally slipped between her lips. By then, Annabel was ready to cry out because she wanted—she wanted—
She wasn’t even sure. She simply held on, accepting that the world had narrowed to the tight circle of his arms.
