by Elisa Braden
Ever Yours, Annabelle
ELISA BRADEN
Copyright © 2019 by Elisa Braden
Cover design by Kim Killion at The Killion Group, Inc.
Couple photo by Period Images, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form by any means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
For more information about the author, visit www.elisabraden.com.
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BOOKS BY ELISA BRADEN
Rescued from Ruin Series
Ever Yours, Annabelle (Prequel)
The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Book One)
The Truth About Cads and Dukes (Book Two)
Desperately Seeking a Scoundrel (Book Three)
The Devil Is a Marquess (Book Four)
When a Girl Loves an Earl (Book Five)
Twelve Nights as His Mistress (Novella – Book Six)
Confessions of a Dangerous Lord (Book Seven)
Anything but a Gentleman (Book Eight)
A Marriage Made in Scandal (Book Nine)
A Kiss from a Rogue (Book Ten) – Coming in 2019!
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Want to know what’s next? Connect with Elisa through Facebook and Twitter, and sign up for her free email newsletter, so you don’t miss a single new release!
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Books by Elisa Braden
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
More from Elisa Braden
About the Author
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CHAPTER ONE
“Children are like potted plants. They must be watered with wisdom from time to time, whether or not they consider themselves children or their elders wise.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock, answering said gentleman’s laments about his grandson’s resistance to sound advice.
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Dearest Robert,
Mama says I may begin writing to you, provided I also write to John. I do not wish to write my brother, as he is daft and likes to tease me about my nose being too small. Papa says older brothers tease their sisters as a matter of coarse. I answered that he is vexing, not coarse. Papa laughed, but I assure you it is true. Whilst you are at Eton together, perhaps you will improve John’s character. I miss you much more than I miss him.
Ever yours,
Annabelle Huxley
P.S. Please do not tell John what I said. I do miss him sometimes.
P.P.S. I have enclosed a sketch for you. John is the goat dog, and you are the horse knight. I shall do better next time.
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated October 7, 1803
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July 30, 1809
Nottinghamshire, England
Lady Annabelle Huxley had loved Robert Conrad for her entire thirteen years of life. Yet, in all that time, she’d never imagined him naked.
What an appalling oversight.
Perhaps it was because he was her brother’s best friend. Perhaps because, until now, she’d been keener on his solemn smile and solid, capable character. Likely it was because the last time she’d seen Robert without a coat and cravat, she had been nine years old, well before it occurred to her that she was destined to marry him. Before he’d grown shoulders wider than the span of her arms.
But now, here, crouched in a tangle of shrubbery above the River Tisenby where Robert and her brother, John, were swimming, she confronted her appalling oversight with stark fascination.
He gleamed like a marble god.
“Con!” shouted John from ten yards downstream, pointing at the water near his waist. “We should have brought our rods, by God. The trout are bloody swarming.”
She ignored her idiotic brother. She ignored the bead of sweat dripping down her nape. She ignored the bramble thorns snagging her best pink gown.
Robert Conrad was wet. Muscled. Riveting.
Naked.
A small smile curled his lips as he ran a wet hand through dark, rumpled hair. “Next time, Hux.”
The muscles of his abdomen tightened and rippled when he raised his arm.
And he had nipples. Fancy that. His were a light copper color, twin coins upon his smooth flesh.
But his arms fascinated her most. They swelled with hard, bulging muscle. Extended from broad, heavy-boned shoulders.
She was afraid to blink. Who knew when he would dive beneath the sluggish water and remove himself from her view? The Tisenby’s swirling depths disguised whatever nakedness lay below his waist too well. She could just make out the waistband of his breeches resting low upon his hips.
“You’re off to battle the Corsican Tyrant soon. Not too many ‘next times’ left.” John again. She didn’t bother sparing him a glance. Her brother was a year younger than Robert. Leaner and more lighthearted. For years, he had called her “Anna-smell” when he was vexed at her for chasing after the pair of them. In fairness, she’d chased them frequently. To the river. To the village. To the wood where they’d climbed a giant beech and declared it their fortress.
“Go home, Anna-smell,” John would shout from a high limb. “Why must you follow us everywhere?”
One such day, after she’d slipped and scraped her knees while clinging to rough bark, Robert had shoved his best friend’s shoulder and told John if he ever called her Anna-smell again, he would darken his daylights. Then, he’d dusted her off, taken her hand in his warm, dry grasp, and walked her home.
Robert had never liked for her to be hurt. It was why she loved him.
Loved him as a lady loved her favored knight.
Once, she might have said she loved him as a brother.
Not today, by heavens. Today, he was naked. Wet. Fascinating.
She studied his form—the bones of his shoulder blades broader and thicker than before, the lesser muscles of his torso ridged and flexing where his waist tapered into his hips. Tufts of hair were dark beneath his arms. The hardened jaw was squarer than it had been at fourteen.
His voice was deeper, too. Deep and solemn.
Robert had always been a serious boy.
Man, she corrected herself. He is a man now.
“We must find you a woman,” her daft brother ca
lled over his shoulder. “No man should hie off to battle before he’s had a proper ride.”
Robert gave a grunt of protest. “I’ve ridden.”
John’s head cocked to one side as he examined the water. “Twice. Scarcely qualifies. Perhaps I’ll recruit Red Bess to the task. No finer bosoms in three counties.”
Annabelle glanced down at her own bosoms, flat beneath pleated pink silk and white ribbons. She swallowed her dismay. Mama had assured her that bosoms grew with time. She prayed it was true, for if Robert required a wife with bosoms, then she must have them. She longed to be everything he wanted, to have him look upon her with the same adoration that filled her too full to be contained.
John’s arm shot beneath the water’s surface then quickly emerged holding a wriggling silver fish aloft. Drops splashed onto his Huxley-brown hair as he turned a triumphant grin toward Robert.
“I can catch my own fish,” Robert replied darkly. “Never needed your help in that quarter.”
John grinned wider and tossed the wriggling trout back into the water. “Females are selective, Con. They fancy a bit of charm, not a man so dour he could snuff a candle with a single glance.”
Robert waded deeper into the river’s center until water lapped at his collarbone. “I shall be an officer in His Majesty’s army. The only charm I require is the gleam upon my sword.”
“The point is to polish your sword thoroughly before facing the bloody French cannons.”
Annabelle’s stomach lurched. She’d known Robert had purchased a commission. He was the second son of Earl Conrad and the grandson of the Marquis of Mortlock. If they didn’t wish to become clergymen or useless rakes, second sons bought commissions. But more than that, Robert was born to be an officer—she pictured him seated boldly upon his mount, scarlet wool and golden epaulets decorating his broad, broad shoulders.
She sighed.
Ever since Robert had written to her of his plans, she’d only thought how perfect he would be. He was her heroic ideal—noble and serious, strong and protective. Now, he would be England’s hero.
But that was not what would happen. He would not simply don a pair of gold epaulets and parade through London on his gallant steed.
He would be fighting. Leading other men into battle. Where he might be shot. Blasted with a cannon. Skewered with a sword.
He might …
She swallowed and rubbed at the icy ache beneath her breastbone.
… die.
A splash sounded as he dove beneath the water, swimming toward the long shadow cast by Packhorse Bridge. The old stone buttress directly to her left was covered in damp moss and anchored deep in rocks and mud. Above her head, looming branches full of heart-shaped leaves rippled like the water’s surface. Behind her, the low buzz of a curious bee and the distant nicker of a horse intruded on the harsh whump-whump-whump of her pulse.
Robert could die.
She reached into the pocket of her best pink gown. Felt crinkled paper. Blinked until the tightness in her throat eased.
Another splash. Robert’s dark head emerged just below her. Then his shoulders. Then his arm, raising a fish twice the size of John’s. “You see?” He blew out a spray of droplets and ran a hand over his face, brushing heavy brows downward above his eyes. “You make your catches, Hux, and I shall make mine.”
John laughed, the sound grating. Didn’t he realize? Robert could die.
Suddenly, the caricature she’d drawn for him last evening—a sketch featuring Robert presenting a trussed-up Bonaparte with a dish labeled Coq de feat, and saying, “Another serving, monsieur?”—seemed a dreadful folly. Her fingers tightened upon the folded edges in her pocket. Ice bloomed in her stomach, at odds with the stifling heat of summer.
This was wrong. Robert Conrad must stay here, in Nottinghamshire. With her. And his grandfather, of course. He was ever so fond of his grandfather. No, he did not belong on some faraway battlefield where even marble gods cracked and bled when the cannons fired.
How would they marry if he were … dead?
She shifted as heat prickled and nausea swarmed. Her foot slipped on the slick leaves beneath her boots. Without thinking, she reached for a handhold to steady her balance. Sharp thorns dug into her palm and fingers, jabbing as deep as a dressmaker’s needles.
“Argh!” Her pained cry echoed, high and shrill, across the river’s banks. She froze, one leg overextended down the leafy, pebbly slope. Below her, a masculine shout and violent splashing made her heart pound.
“Who’s there? Annabelle?”
Oh, heavens. He was coming. Naked. Wet. Coming, as he always did, to rescue her from her own foolishness.
Thorns dug deeper into her palm as she grappled and grasped. Her feet dug deeper into slick leaves, scrambling to climb. Away from him. Away from the shame of being caught ogling a boy—no, a man—in her best pink gown. She glanced down. It was ruined, the pink silk stained green and red with leaves and blood, the thorns snagging once-pristine fabric.
Heart pounding, she released the brambles. Her feet slid, her legs stretching apart painfully as she strained to climb the slope. She fell. Brown added to green and red and pink, smearing and grinding where her knees gouged into the river’s long, steep bank. Pebbles pattered and fell.
“Annabelle!” The roar was hoarse and panting. Closer.
No, no, no. He must not see her this way. He would never view her as a lady, then. As the woman who should be his wife.
The thought spurred her toes to dig, her hands to yank at the snagged silk. Thorns were in her hair now, velvety-rough leaves stroking her cheek as a needle clawed fire along her jaw.
She whimpered. Not because of the pain, but because he would see her. Humiliated. Desperate. Ugly and wild and strange.
She was the odd Huxley girl who followed him like a dandelion tuft chasing a strong wind. Helplessly. Naturally. Propelled by forces she did not understand.
He’d always turned back for her, no matter the years that separated them. He’d always taken her hand in his, strong and dry. He caught her when she fell, protected her—often from herself. Once, he’d carried her home when she’d broken a toe while demonstrating her ability to leap from a fallen log. Watch me, Robert, she’d called to his retreating back. I can keep up! The pain had robbed her of breath. All she remembered was gasping for air as the boy she adored had scooped her up onto his back.
At five, she hadn’t weighed much. But he’d been only ten—a child, himself—and his arms had been thin on his lanky frame. Her home had been two miles away. Yet, after sending John to fetch the physician, he’d carried her the entire way, those not-yet-muscled arms shaking with the strain, his blue eyes grim and unrelenting, even as a boy. She’d clung to his neck, her tears dampening his rough linen shirt.
Robert belonged to her and she to him. He must not die on a battlefield. He must not see her this way.
“Annabelle! Answer me!” Frantic eyes locked upon her through a veil of leaves. Blue flared bright and fierce. “Annabelle!” Her name was a command.
She ignored it. Shoved hard to her feet. Yanked and heard silk tear. Clambered up the slope. Up and up and up.
Glanced back. He was near. Broad shoulders. White, wet skin. Dark, heavy brows. Muscles straining and long arms sweeping brambles aside as he climbed in great, furious strides over wet rocks and pebbled soil.
She ran. Up and up and up. Another thorn dug at her bare arm, but she scarcely felt it. She reached the top of the bank and veered toward Packhorse Bridge. A sharp rock jabbed at the sole of her boot, nearly piercing it. Again, she ignored the pain, carrying on a limping race for her dignity.
She was a third of the way across the bridge when she lost that race.
“Annabelle, stop,” came the deep bark just before a large, strong hand closed around her arm.
She halted. She had no choice. He was twice her size and obviously furious.
And, one mustn’t forget, naked. Well, apar
t from his breeches.
She snuck a glance at his bare feet. They were big and wet on the slick stones of the bridge. They were also a bit bony. His smallest toes rode awkwardly atop the adjacent ones. He was not precisely perfect, then, was he? Not so god-like, at least his feet.
“What the devil were you doing?” A long finger stroked her jaw gently, where the thorny gouge stung. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
She opened her mouth to tell him it was nothing, but was interrupted by John’s shout from below. “Bloody hell, Annabelle! You agreed to stay home.” John’s voice turned first to a mocking singsong then a disgusted indictment. “‘I shall see you both at dinner,’ you said, pretty as you please. I’d forgotten what a pest you are, little sister. Now, I suppose you’ve turned an ankle, and once again, all merriment must cease because of your bloody-minded obsession.” During his rant, John waded to the south bank of the river on the far side of the bridge and began climbing.
She blinked as she realized his drawers were transparent, displaying his pale buttocks. She hadn’t seen her brother’s naked backside since he was eight and she was four. John had persuaded her it would be great fun to chase the newest litter of piglets about Mr. Eggleston’s sty. Mama had taken one look at their head-to-toe muck, stripped them both naked and tossed them in a tub, then promptly scrubbed them pink again.
Not long afterward, John had stopped playing with her, preferring the company of his best friend, Robert.
The boy she also loved. The man who now held her arm.
“Let me see your hands,” Robert said quietly.
She kept her eyes on the incline of the bridge’s arch. Rough, medieval stones were clothed in moss. The bridge was narrow and seldom used. A canopy of green made it slick, even in summer.
Taking a shuddering breath, she focused upon all the things that, unlike the man behind her, were not mortifying to her soul. Along the river’s edge, lime and beech rustled in a green dither. Below, the Tisenby’s water dallied and swirled. At the end of the bridge, rocks tumbled as John crested the top of the bank, cursing angrily at the thorny, white-bloomed brambles that caught his elbow.
