Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

  “Lady Berne,” Robert said, inclining his head. “It has been too long.”

  Mama was having none of his formality. She dropped John’s letter beside her tea, bustled around the sofa, and closed in upon him in two blinks. Clutching his upper arms, she drew him down into her embrace. “Oh, my dear, dear boy.” She rocked him to and fro. “How we have missed you.”

  Papa discreetly swiped the corner of his eye with his knuckle and patted Mama’s shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Ran into him at the club, of all places.” He cleared his throat. “I’d no idea he was in town. He asked after the family, and I told him he must see everyone for himself.”

  Mama pulled back to view Robert’s face through welling eyes. Gently, she cupped his cheek. “Too long, indeed. I’ll not abide such absences again, no matter the cause.”

  As he gazed down at Mama, Robert’s brows drew together. First, he seemed startled and a bit confused. But only a moment passed before his eyes darkened with pain. Regret. As though he hadn’t realized until that moment what he’d done.

  “You have been a part of our family since you were too small to carry Stanton’s boots,” Mama continued, her tears overflowing onto rounded cheeks. “Do you remember that Christmas?”

  He nodded.

  “Annabelle was still a babe. Your mother had died. You’d just come to live at Rivermore Abbey. John was over the moon to have another lad to play with. He insisted we bring you to Clumberwood for a proper pudding.”

  A small smile curved one corner of Robert’s mouth. “He always did favor pudding.”

  Mama chuckled and patted his jaw. “You had such an appetite. Ate like you’d never tasted food. Yet you refused to smile, our serious little boy. The only one who could manage to coax you into it was Annabelle, tiny as she was. It gladdened my heart.” She pressed her lips together before whispering, “A mother’s heart.”

  His jaw flickered. His gaze dropped. He seemed to be battling grief.

  Mama reached for his hair. “This needs trimming.” She sniffed. “Have you eaten?”

  He nodded. “At the club. Lord Berne insisted.”

  Giving her husband a watery, approving smile, she patted Robert’s shoulders and took his hands to draw him farther into the room. “Let us have tea while you tell me everything.”

  “Everything? Rather a long conversation, my lady.”

  She tugged him to the sofa. “Then we will need a fresh pot, I daresay.”

  To Annabelle’s eye, he appeared chagrined, yet he allowed Mama to manage him—mother him, even—without a word of protest. Perhaps he had missed the Huxleys after all.

  Not Annabelle, of course.

  No, in the seven years since their bitter parting, he’d gone to great lengths to avoid so much as hearing her name. He’d held himself apart from the family that had treated him as one of its own. At first, Mama and Papa had assumed his convalescence kept him away from Clumberwood and caused him to refuse their calls at Rivermore.

  But, soon, the truth had become obvious: He blamed Annabelle. Hated Annabelle. Wanted nothing and no one near him that reminded him of Annabelle.

  In time, Mama and Papa had taken the hint and kept their distance, even while hoping for reconciliation. But Robert had evinced no change of heart, no sudden bolt of forgiveness. For if he had, John would have said so. Her brother—who had refused to be banished from Robert’s life—had argued doggedly on her behalf for the first year after the accident. Eventually, Robert had ordered him never to speak of her again unless he wished to end their friendship.

  Annabelle had begged John to make the concession, and so he had. He and Robert had remained friends, albeit more distantly than before. Perhaps the distance was because John had attended Oxford while Robert remained at Rivermore. But, to her everlasting regret, she suspected she was to blame.

  Her brother loved her. John had seen her pain and resented its cause. Her separation from Robert might as well have been an amputation. For seven years, she’d lived without a part of herself.

  At first, unable to bear the loss, she’d sought glimpses of him from afar—in the village, along the road through the wood, across a field where her family’s land adjoined Rivermore’s. She’d hidden behind barrels, trees, tall grass. Even a privy, once. When she’d realized seeing him only deepened the emptiness, she’d stopped.

  Now, he was in London. Seeking a bride.

  After giving a general nod to her and her sisters, he glanced at the open crate and sat beside Mama, propping his cane beside his knee. She watched as he conversed with her parents, solemn and respectful.

  Was this a sign that he sought to reconcile with her family? Mama and Papa appeared to think so. Mama chattered on about John’s travels and cooed over how much Kate and Eugenia had grown since Robert had last seen them. Papa, always a jovial sort, glowed like a lantern as he took the second chair near the fireplace.

  In the first chair, Jane leaned forward and caught Annabelle’s eye. Hers were questioning behind her spectacles. Concerned.

  Annabelle gave a subtle shake of her head.

  Maureen’s hand tightened around hers as she turned on the settee. Then, she tugged Annabelle down to sit beside her. “If you wish, we could make our excuses,” she whispered. “You needn’t stay, dearest.”

  Forcing a smile, Annabelle murmured, “I am fine.”

  Was she? She watched Robert’s face—quiet and patient—as Mama chattered away and Kate spun in place to show off her new bonnet. She watched his eyes—creasing at the corners a bit more than when he was younger—as Genie explained with exaggerated clarity why the bonnet should have been hers.

  And inside Annabelle’s center, above her stomach and below her heart, a fire lit.

  How dare he?

  How bloody dare he wander back into the Huxley parlor like the prodigal hero after all this time? After all he’d done to reject her family?

  His absence had not just harmed her—though heaven knew it had—but Mama, Papa, and John. The stubborn, unforgiving, graceless wretch.

  She had been thirteen. Thirteen. And, yes, she had often behaved recklessly around him, and never more so than that day on Packhorse Bridge.

  But … thirteen. She’d been Eugenia’s age. A young, besotted girl.

  She dropped her gaze to where Maureen still held her hand. With a gentle squeeze, she tugged loose, stood, and moved to the window. Rain misted the glass. A post-chaise rolled by, yellow and black.

  Between her stomach and heart, fire blazed and spread.

  He’d been grievously injured. Denied the future he’d planned for himself. His recovery had been slow and, presumably, agonizing.

  Every day since the accident, she’d swallowed the guilt of that like medicine.

  Or poison.

  The fire in her middle caught kindling. Her skin prickled. Her jaw clenched.

  Why should she continue to swallow something so bitter? Was she still expecting to be forgiven?

  No. He’d punished her for seven years. Why should he suddenly forgive her now?

  And even if he did, what difference did it make? He’d hurt her family. Why should she forgive him?

  Eugenia and Kate continued arguing until Mama ordered them both to take their gifts to their bedchambers. As the two girls left the parlor, Ned entered. The footman approached Papa and whispered in his ear.

  Papa nodded, looking faintly surprised. “Show him in at once.”

  Within moments, a tall man with a knife-edged jaw, stiff cravat, and highly erect posture strode into the room, surveying them through wintery eyes as though they were an exotic menagerie. He had the golden hair and refined features of a well-favored god—and power to match—so perhaps his arrogance was justified. At the moment, she was inclined to agree with Lucinda Aldridge: His handsomeness did rival Atherbourne’s.

  “His grace the Duke of Blackmore, my lord,” the footman announced quietly.

  Naturally, eve
ryone in the room flew to their feet. Well, all except Robert, who had to retrieve his cane before slowly rising.

  Blast. There came the guilt again, bitter as ever.

  “Lord Berne,” said Blackmore, colder than January frost. “Lady Berne.” He inclined his golden head. “Forgive the intrusion.”

  Following introductions, Papa offered Blackmore refreshment, which he declined, and a seat, which he also declined. “Well, now,” said Papa in his affable way. “What brings you to Berne House?”

  “A wedding.”

  Mama stared at the duke, then swept her three oldest daughters before flying back to the duke. “I—I thought you did not intend to marry this season. Of course, if you are here to inquire about Annabelle—”

  “I am not.” Clipped. Precise. The duke was like a blade of ice. Blue-gray eyes scanned the room without landing. He paused a moment on Jane, but only to frown at her slipperless feet, which she tried to hide by slouching into a permanent curtsy.

  Mama blinked. “Er—Maureen has not yet made her debut, your grace. Although, I am certain you will find her charming after spending a bit of time—”

  January frost returned to slice into Mama. “You mistake me, madam. The wedding is that of my sister, Lady Victoria.”

  Round eyes grew rounder. “She is to be wed? To whom?”

  A muscle flickered in Blackmore’s jaw. “Atherbourne.”

  Mama gasped. They all did, really. Good heavens, Victoria Lacey was to marry her seducer? Granted, he was handsome. And, according to reports, so valiant a soldier that even Wellington had sung his praises. But Atherbourne despised Blackmore. Ruination was the entire purpose of the seduction.

  Wasn’t it?

  Annabelle frowned. Marriage would ease Victoria’s scandal, to be sure, but for Atherbourne, the move made little sense unless his goal was to force his way into Blackmore’s family. But to what end?

  Glancing about the room, she could see everyone else was equally shocked.

  Except Robert. He stood silent and brooding as though he’d anticipated this very outcome. And, of all things, he was watching her with unnerving intensity.

  A flutter heated her belly. A blush heated her cheeks. Get hold of yourself, Annabelle, she thought. He is Robert. He broods. If he’s doing so in your direction, that is mere coincidence.

  “The wedding will take place at Clyde-Lacey House in three days,” the duke continued. He clasped gloved hands behind his back, posture rigid, jaw tight. “Victoria wishes you to attend.”

  Mama and Papa reacted with predictable delight.

  Annabelle’s mind went in several directions at once. Firstly, she was relieved for Victoria. The duke’s fair-haired sister was as pristine as a fresh sheet of paper. Unlike her brother, she was not cold, but rather delicate. Innocent. Soft. The sort of creature who would not bear up well under the vicious gauntlet of scandal.

  Indeed, every time Annabelle pictured Victoria as she’d been on Lady Gattingford’s terrace—swollen lips, wounded gaze, fiery cheeks turning ashen as she realized what Atherbourne had done—she cringed for the girl. While marriage to one’s own Lucifer might not be ideal, it would spare Victoria a lifetime of such mortification, which must be the reason Blackmore had agreed to it. Atherbourne had left the duke little choice.

  Victoria was fortunate. Most men would not set aside their pride for the sake of their sister’s happiness. And Blackmore’s pride towered like Mount Olympus. Such brotherly devotion was heartening to witness.

  Very well, Annabelle was not merely happy for Victoria’s sake, but for her own. Now, redrawing the caricature for Mr. Green would be easy: Keep the flower, the highwayman, and the donkey. But instead of the highwayman stealing the flower’s petals, he would secretly present her with a bouquet. The donkey’s misinterpretation of the scene would seem asinine.

  She stifled a grin. Oh, yes. Much better.

  Next, her gaze drifted to Mama, who was grinning in a joyful-yet-teary-and-befuddled fashion. Maureen and Jane had crossed the room to flank her, offering comforting pats and encouraging murmurs. Annabelle sighed. Dearest Mama. She had been through too many trials of late, not least of which was to have been suddenly confronted with …

  Robert.

  Oh, dear.

  He kept staring at Annabelle with the queerest expression. Once again, her belly fluttered and her skin warmed. She fought the sensations, surprised at the battle. Hadn’t she been vexed with him earlier? Perhaps she should cease swooning over his brooding blue eyes.

  Blast. It was harder than one might suppose.

  Fortunately, Papa broke her line of sight as he strode forward to shake Blackmore’s hand. “Your grace, we would be honored to attend,” he assured quietly. Papa had a talent for setting everyone at ease, like warm, honeyed milk with a generous splash of brandy. He was, in Annabelle’s opinion, the perfect father.

  Oh, yes. That was why she’d been vexed with Robert. He’d treated Papa—indisputably the best Papa in the world—no better than a pair of unfashionable boots. Easily discarded and forgotten.

  She nearly harrumphed. But she was not Genie. So, she merely sniffed and narrowed her glare upon Robert.

  His head tilted questioningly.

  As far as she was concerned, he could stew in his own confusion. No one treated Papa in such a way. Or Mama, for that matter.

  Say what you would about the Countess of Berne. As a grand deliverer of gossip, Annabelle had heard plenty of sly digs about her mother—too round, too plump, a short nose, a tendency to giggle at her own jests. But Mama was warm where others were cold, merry where others were dour, eccentric where others were tediously conventional. She was a gale of maternal affection. And she’d long treated Robert as one of her own.

  Only an ungrateful, bitter wretch would reject such kindness for seven years.

  Annabelle fumed and glared harder at said wretch. Robert leaned heavily upon his cane, his shoulders hunching and his brow furrowed as he limped toward her.

  Making a ploy to increase her guilt, was he? Well, he might try, but she was wise to his game, so he’d best watch his step. Or his limp.

  Blast. Did his leg really pain him so?

  Blackmore’s stiff farewells served as background while Annabelle pondered whether to confront Robert with her indignation.

  “What the devil are you scowling at?” he growled as he reached her.

  She crossed her arms and scowled deeper. “An ungrateful wretch, that’s what.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Ha! That would be the first thing you say to me, wouldn’t it?” She lowered her voice to mimic his. “‘Have you lost your mind?’ Hmmph. A fine way to end a seven-year pout.”

  Blue eyes flared in disbelief. “Pout.”

  Her chin went up. “Mama and Papa have shown you nothing but kindness your entire life, Robert Conrad.”

  His shoulders rolled as though trying to cast off something sticky. Like a cobweb or well-deserved guilt.

  “After seven years, you waltz blithely into Berne House—”

  “As you can see, Lady Annabelle—”

  “—expecting to be greeted with huzzahs and confetti—”

  “—I do not waltz anywhere these days.”

  “Well, you’ll not spin me into a dither with your ridiculous shoulders and heavy brows.” She poked a finger into his lapel. “You forget how familiar those brooding blue eyes are to me. I’ll not be swayed, Mr. Conrad. Mama may coo about how much pudding you ate when you were six.” She flicked the lapel she’d just poked. “Or lament how threadbare your coat is. Or tell you your hair needs trimming.” She frowned up at him. “Which it does, by the by.”

  “I came here for you.”

  “But I am not such a softheaded ninny that I will so easily forget …” She blinked. “What?”

  “I came for you.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Ridiculously broad shoulders shrugged. “
Lady Wallingham suggests you may be of help to me.”

  For a moment, she had no words. Then, she snorted. “I would sooner turn myself into a pudding and let you devour me whole.”

  Oddly, his gaze dropped to her bodice. “Grandfather wishes me to marry.” Those brooding blue eyes came up to meet hers. “This”—his cane tapped lightly against the parlor’s carpet—“only looks dashing when a man doesn’t need it to cross a room.”

  Guilt that had always tasted bitter returned in a flood. Now, it burned her throat. Soured her stomach. Tightened her neck. “You’re implying I owe you a debt.”

  “Am I?”

  “Perhaps you are right. But I do not owe you a wife.”

  “A wife is what I need.”

  She shook her head. She would be dust in the grave before she helped Robert Conrad marry someone else. If he thought he could manipulate her with guilt … well, he could. She’d kept her distance for seven years, hadn’t she? But nothing could convince her to play matchmaker for the man who should have been hers. Not one blessed thing.

  She gestured with a flutter of her fingers. “A new coat may improve your odds.”

  “Two-thirds of courtship is dancing. I cannot dance.”

  “I suppose you must rely upon your winning charm, then.” She raised a brow. “Perhaps you should acquire some. Less costly than a new coat and more persuasive than properly trimmed hair.”

  He inched closer, lowering his head. A dark lock of improperly trimmed hair fell across his brow.

  Her fingers itched and tingled.

  “I shall follow you, Annabelle,” he muttered, blue eyes burning her skin.

  Her stomach heated. Her thighs squeezed. Her heart stopped. “Wh-where, precisely?”

  The faintest quirk of his lips nearly made her groan. Then he spoke a single word: “Everywhere.”

  And the groan escaped her throat. Oh, God. How had it come to this? She’d groaned. Aloud.

  She was thirteen all over again. He was naked and wet all over again.