Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

  She’d cleared her throat, pushing past his arrogant dismissal. “I fear I must disagree. Respectfully. Sir.”

  The white head had come up. Sharp eyes had pinned her in her chair. “Oh?”

  Mr. Green was a cold man bristling with impatient energy. His white hair might appear grandfatherly, but he was neither kind nor paternal. Ruthless would be more apt. His success stemmed from his cleverness with profits, charging readers the usual seven pence for the paper alone or one shilling for the paper with an Edward Yarrow Aimes print tucked inside. But he spared no mercy for anyone—be it a duke’s sister, a lowly typesetter, or the poor wretches he paid a pittance to run paper through iron presses. Within moments of meeting him, Annabelle had understood how the Informer’s popularity had surged in such a short time. It was why she always trod carefully with him.

  “Blackmore is powerful,” she’d continued, using the truth as her best argument. “If he chose, he could destroy your publication within a fortnight.”

  Shrewd eyes had narrowed upon her, dropped to the closures of her pelisse then risen to the ribbons of her bonnet. “Deliver my notes to Aimes. Tell him I expect the revisions first thing Friday next.”

  And with that, she’d been dismissed.

  Now, she must decide what to do. Beyond the coach window, she watched the shops and bustle of the Strand become the shops and bustle of Pall Mall before becoming the shops and bustle of Piccadilly. Ordinarily, the energy of London excited her. Everywhere was movement and sound—the turning of wheels, the clopping of hooves, laughter and chatter and shouts to gain the notice of passersby. In Mayfair, the energy was less boisterous, but it was still there, glittering like a faceted jewel. Some might be dazzled by its light, but Annabelle saw the sameness beneath the flash. That had always been a comfort—how similar people were, regardless of their circumstances.

  Today, nothing was a comfort. Not the glittering energy of London. Not the challenge of her work. Not a blessed thing. The decisions she must make pecked at her like crows upon carrion. And the choice Mr. Green had demanded, while onerous, was not the greatest dilemma among them.

  She frowned as the coach turned onto Park Lane and trees rustled outside her window.

  No, her greatest dilemma was deciding whether a promise made by a girl must be kept by a lady. And whether the cost of breaking that promise could possibly be higher than the cost of keeping it.

  She swallowed against the aching emptiness that stretched its horrid hand up to grip her throat.

  It seemed unlikely. Keeping her promise was a pain that never ceased.

  “I cannot abide more than an hour,” Jane whispered as the coach pulled to a stop outside the large, white-stone townhouse of Lady Wallingham. “An hour. Then, we leave. Agreed?”

  Annabelle squeezed her eyes closed before gathering herself enough to turn and smile at her sister. “We shall do our best, Jane. But you know the dragon sets her own timetable.”

  Jane shot her a puzzled squint. “Why do you look sad?”

  Quickly, Annabelle forced her customary sparkle back into her eyes. It was a trick she’d learned years earlier. Seven years, to be precise. “Don’t be silly. I enjoy Lady Wallingham’s luncheons. They are the premier venue for gossip.”

  Snorting, Jane retorted, “Only you would find being repeatedly scorched by a dragon enjoyable.”

  Indeed, as an elegant footman welcomed them into Wallingham House, the dragon’s trumpeting voice swept down the stairs and ricocheted off the white-paneled walls of the entrance hall.

  “Leave London? The season has scarcely begun, yet you wish to abandon the field of battle without so much as a volley? Bah! I have eaten soup with more spine!”

  Annabelle glanced at Jane, who arched a brow and tilted her head as if claiming victory in an argument. Distantly, she heard a quieter, masculine voice replying. She could not make out his words, but his tone did not suggest he was spineless. Rather, he sounded steady. Solid. Unmovable.

  The footman showed them upstairs to Lady Wallingham’s parlor. As she approached the open door, Annabelle first only saw the dragon. The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham’s white hair, tiny stature, and bird-like appearance belied the tidal force of her personality. Annabelle had known the woman for many years—her mother was one of Lady Wallingham’s dearest friends. Yet, the juxtaposition of such an imperious character and loud, resonant voice emitting from a tiny, elderly woman still confounded her. It was why she had portrayed Lady Wallingham as a dragon. No other guise captured her true nature.

  The caricature had caught on to the point that many in the beau monde now referred to the dowager as “dragon”—not in her presence, of course, but with regularity. Annabelle remained uncertain whether the comparison pleased or displeased the lady in question, but she suspected the former. Otherwise, such references would have ceased. Lady Wallingham wielded astonishing influence among the ton.

  “When I offered my assistance, young man, I did not realize your mind was as damaged as the rest of you. Do crutches exist for such an affliction? A curative tonic for absence of cleverness, perhaps?”

  The dowager’s posture as she stood swathed in blue velvet and fairly bristling suggested her displeasure was genuine. Her glare attacked a single target.

  And, as Annabelle gingerly entered the room, she followed the old woman’s line of sight toward the windows. Suddenly, she comprehended the reference to damage.

  For, there stood Annabelle’s dilemma.

  Heart pounding, she halted. Scoured him from dark head to broad shoulders to black boots. Traced his heavy brows and solemn blue eyes. Drew him in like breath.

  He glared back at the dragon, gripping his cane with undue ferocity. “I’ve little reason to remain and every reason to leave,” he snapped. “Whose cleverness should be in doubt, my lady? Mine? Or yours?”

  Good heavens. Had Annabelle not lost all breath the moment she’d set eyes upon him, she surely would have done so at his retort. No one spoke to Lady Wallingham in such a way. No one questioned her cleverness. It was akin to questioning His Majesty’s right to rule—absurd.

  But, then, Robert Conrad was quite unlike other men. He was stronger, more deeply rooted inside himself. Even at five-and-twenty, he possessed a solidity most men at five-and-fifty would envy.

  Annabelle did not feel envy. She felt longing. It pierced her abdomen, achingly hot. She’d felt the same upon seeing him so unexpectedly at Lady Gattingford’s ball. Then, she’d reeled beneath the shockwave. Feasted upon the sight of him. Marveled at how much larger he was—wider shoulders, thicker arms, more muscular neck—than the last time she’d caught a glimpse. Even his wrists appeared bigger. Stronger. She’d tried to turn away, to leave before he spotted her. But it had been too long. Years. As their eyes had locked together, she’d only managed to breathe his name.

  Jane had pulled her free then. Now, Annabelle clutched her sister’s arm, eliciting a concerned frown. She struggled to control her racing heart.

  Drat. She must regain her composure before he noticed—

  “Ah! Lady Annabelle Huxley! And Lady Jane,” trumpeted Lady Wallingham. Jewel- green eyes speared her. “A fortuitous arrival. Late. But fortuitous.”

  “Steady,” Jane muttered beneath her breath. Annabelle didn’t know whether the reassurance was meant for her or Jane, herself. Shyness often caused Jane to freeze up like hunted prey.

  Feeling her sister’s tension, Annabelle concluded the latter. The thought strengthened her. She was the older sister. She must protect Jane.

  Raising her chin, she nodded to Lady Wallingham. “My lady, we are most grateful for the invitation. As always.”

  “Of course you are. As I have repeatedly informed Mr. Conrad, there exists no richer trove of information in all of England.” Lady Wallingham raised a single white brow, glaring pointedly at the man now glowering at Annabelle. “A young man seeking a bride would be wise to make use of such a treasure.”

  B
ride? Another dizzying wave rocked through her body. Robert was seeking to marry?

  Her eyes flew to his, her stomach heaving.

  Of course. After the Gattingford ball, she should have realized. He’d spent the past seven years in the country managing his grandfather’s estate. Robert hated London, rejected the beau monde as meritless and frivolous. He would hardly have left Rivermore Abbey to attend the theatre and waltz across Lady Gattingford’s marble floor.

  Her gaze fell to his leg—the one that remained twisted where bones had failed to mend properly. No, he was not in London to waltz. He was here to find a wife.

  “You are long acquainted, I take it. Neighbors, yes?”

  The whoosh in Annabelle’s ears made a reply difficult.

  Robert answered the dowager’s query first. “Neighbors. Indeed.”

  His tone was dark. His eyes were brooding.

  Beside her, Jane cleared her throat. “M-Mr. Conrad. As it has been some time since you last saw us, perhaps a reintroduction is in order.”

  “No need. You appear well, Lady Jane.” He was not looking at Jane, but rather glaring at Annabelle. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Lady Annabelle.”

  “Well, now,” said Lady Wallingham. “Fortuitous, as I said. Lady Annabelle is precisely what you need, Mr. Conrad.”

  Heavy brows crashed into a scowl. Blue eyes flashed and flared directly into hers as though lightning ignited the air between them. After a long moment, he finally released her to focus on the dragon. “How so?”

  “A gifted gossip. She knows the secrets of this season’s female stock. The good. The bad. The tedious.”

  Annabelle turned a frown of her own upon the old woman. What was she proposing? That Annabelle act as a matchmaker? For Robert? She would sooner eat one of Jane’s books. Leather binding would be less likely to make her vomit.

  “Were you not mere moments ago touting the vast ‘trove’ of your own knowledge and resources, my lady?” His question was dry and irritated.

  “Yes,” the dragon snapped. “A treasury you have abandoned with the haste of a startled cat. Foolish boy.” She sniffed and waved an imperious finger in Annabelle’s direction. “She attends the sorts of gatherings you must navigate. I am too old for such fiddle-faddle. She will assess your performance and recommend improvements.”

  “I will?”

  “No, she will not.”

  Lady Wallingham ignored their overlapping protests and continued addressing Robert. “If you think she will attempt to land you for herself, you needn’t worry. Lady Annabelle has many suitors. One, in particular, shows great promise. Captain Martin Standish. Returned from Waterloo with nary a scuff upon his buttons, or so I understand.”

  Annabelle blinked at the woman known for her cleverness and wondered if age had finally come to claim the dowager’s mind. Captain Standish had, indeed, been amiable toward her this season. But so had two-dozen other gentlemen. They were all friendly enough. None had proposed marriage. None had begged for a second or third dance. Her interactions last season and this had produced one conclusion: Annabelle would always be cast in a sisterly light. Perhaps it was her features—more than one fellow had called her “charming” rather than “comely,” as though she were a pup performing an amusing trick. Or perhaps it was her wry humor and discomfort with flirtation. Most of her conversations with gentlemen ended in one of two ways: The man walked away either laughing or mulling information she’d given him about another lady—one who was comely instead of charming.

  All of which made Lady Wallingham’s assurances to Robert profoundly strange.

  Robert’s reaction was even more so. As though he’d been shoved in the back, he moved forward several paces, gripping his cane until his knuckles turned white. Then, he gritted, “Standish. Is that true?”

  Annabelle opened her mouth to set him straight, but Lady Wallingham answered first.

  “Indeed. Dashing fellow. Favors sporting his uniform about, regardless of the setting—balls, suppers, a morning ride. I’d wager his epaulets have seen more daylight this season than they did on the Continent.” Green eyes grew calculating. “You know, that scoundrel Lord Atherbourne refuses to be addressed by his military rank despite his heroics on the battlefield. Some nonsense about losing too many good men to accept such honors.” The dowager chuckled. “Captain Standish has taken the opposite approach, it would seem. Still, he cuts a fine figure in scarlet. Lady Annabelle is quite taken with him.”

  As Lady Wallingham spoke her addled madness, Annabelle watched Robert Conrad’s expression darken. The entire exchange was dashed odd.

  Jane leaned close to murmur in Annabelle’s ear, “Have I missed something? When did Martin Standish begin courting you?”

  “He didn’t. I think she’s gone daft.”

  “Lady Wallingham?” Jane whispered, shaking her head. “Likely she has some manipulation in mind.”

  Robert closed in upon the old woman, his gaze hard and fierce upon hers. They appeared to be in a battle for supremacy. He was a foot taller, twice as broad, and heavily muscled. Yet, Annabelle would have wagered a year’s allowance that the dragon had the upper hand.

  “I am leaving London.” Robert’s rumble was edged with desperation.

  Slowly, Lady Wallingham smiled. “Your grandfather will be most disappointed to hear it, young man.”

  Robert’s head jerked. His posture stiffened.

  “Mortlock’s time grows short. He took great comfort in the assurance that his favorite grandson would be well settled with a wife before his death.” She sniffed her triumph. “Pity.”

  Annabelle cleared her throat. “Lady Wallingham, perhaps Mr. Conrad would prefer another lady’s assistance. Miss Matilda Bentley, for example, has excellent connections—”

  “Rubbish. Miss Bentley is, at best, decorative and, at worst, a marvel of vacuity. I am astonished when she manages a coherent greeting. No. It must be you.”

  Opening her mouth to protest, Annabelle stopped when the dragon pivoted to Robert with a challenge.

  “Mustn’t it, Mr. Conrad?”

  Though the tension in his shoulders increased, Robert did not reply. Instead, he turned toward the door. Without another word, he limped out of Lady Wallingham’s parlor. Along the way, he passed Annabelle and Jane, but he did not so much as glance at their hems.

  By contrast, Annabelle’s eyes followed him helplessly, as Jane’s might follow a cartful of books. His hair overlapped his coat’s collar. The thick, dark strands needed trimming. His boots were worn and creased. His cane was stout and serviceable—no elegant silver or inlaid ivory. He wore no gloves.

  As she eyed those naked hands, her breath caught.

  Robert Conrad was not the man she remembered. His years of hardship had roughened him even more than rumors had suggested. She knew of his grandfather’s failing health. She understood Lord Mortlock’s desire to see Robert wed, knew that Robert would benefit from having a wife who would ensure his hair was trimmed and his brow was stroked to ease its tension.

  Inside, Annabelle understood the wisdom of it. She wanted to want this for him. But she could not. He was hers. He’d always been hers.

  She squeezed her eyes closed as he disappeared into the corridor. Clenched her teeth tight. Gripped Jane’s arm. Forced her expression into neutral lines.

  Heavens, how she’d missed him.

  “Come, my dears,” crowed the dragon. “Let us have tea and discuss Miss Bentley’s shortcomings, shall we?”

  As they crossed the yellow parlor to settle onto a rose velvet settee, Jane leaned in to whisper, “She clearly believes she has won, but for the life of me, I cannot discern the prize.”

  Neither could Annabelle. But whatever the dragon’s goal, she suspected neither Robert nor she would be well pleased in the end.

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “My son is positively horse-mad. If he expended half as much effort searching for a wife as he does ac
quiring broodmares at Tattersall’s, I should have a vast herd of horse-mad grandchildren by now.”

  —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock regarding obstacles to helping one’s offspring recognize his procreative duty.

  *~*~*

  Dearest Robert,

  Lady Wallingham has advised me to cease moping, as she claims my face reminds her of an overwatered cabbage. So I have taken to riding with Jane during her ladyship’s visits. Enclosed is a sketch of said rides. I am content with the cabbage riding a pony. But do the flames from the dragon’s mouth look too much like ribbons?

  Ever yours,

  Annabelle

  —Letter to Robert Conrad dated June 29, 1811

  *~*~*

  Throngs of eager men packed the courtyard at Tattersall’s. Half of them eyed the gleaming black mare on display. The other half wagged their jaws at one another.

  Robert leaned his good shoulder against a post and wondered why he was there. Then he remembered.

  Don’t come home without a good woman and a decent mount, my boy. He heard his grandfather in his head, along with the old man’s graveled laugh. ’Course, some might say they’re one and the same.

  Grandfather had a rough sense of humor, but he wasn’t wrong. Robert intended to leave London without a wife. The least he could get out of this miserable trip was a new horse.

  “Sold to Lord Wallingham for forty-eight guineas!” the auctioneer called, rapping his gavel upon the rostrum before waving forward the next offering, a bay gelding with a lively gait.

  Wealthy peers and lowly traders alike turned as one to mutter their envy at the Marquess of Wallingham. Lady Wallingham’s son was lean, tall, and distinguished with subtle graying at his temples and an air of quiet supremacy that was well deserved. He’d cultivated the finest stable in England with an unparalleled eye for horseflesh and a will as formidable as his mother’s. Holding court as much as the iconic fox perched inside the grand cupola at the yard’s center, Wallingham stood beside a man holding a leashed hound. That man had the fine coat, high cravat, and tousled hair of a dandy.