Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

“God, you’re drenched,” he muttered. She was. Her woolen gown was sodden, her bonnet dripping and discolored.

  She kept her face buried in her hands. They muffled the sounds of occasional shuddering breaths and tiny, heartrending gasps.

  He enfolded her as tightly as he dared, his arms around her elbows and waist. He kissed whatever he could reach—mostly her jaw and forehead. “Bumblebee,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

  “I am an idiot,” she choked.

  “No.”

  She shook her head then let it drop onto his shoulder. “I am.” Her voice was a thread, her sniff damp and clogged. Her hands slid away from her face, and she gently clasped his wrist where he held her. Her round nose was red. So were her sweet brown eyes, glimmering and sad. “I am,” she repeated. Then, she kissed the inside of his wrist. Gazing into the distance, she wiped her cheek and said, “It has been too much, that’s all. Mr. Green and Mrs. Bickerstaff and, well, everything. I am fine, now.”

  A lie. She was not fine. She seemed … hollow.

  But he needed to get them home. He needed to get her warm and dry. He needed to marry her so he could kiss her properly. Then, he’d discover the truth about what had caused his Bumblebee to go listless and sad. He wouldn’t stop until he knew. Until he’d done everything in his power to make her glow with happiness.

  Behind them, he heard the clatter of Lady Wallingham’s coach. Blast. With Methuselah’s nap, they hadn’t saved much time. He waited only long enough to transfer the old horse into the coachman’s care before urging Dewdrop forward.

  The gelding might not be the fastest mount, but he was steadfast and strong. With any luck, they’d be home in a couple of hours.

  Home.

  He tightened his arms around his wife … or rather, his soon-to-be wife. How easily he kept forgetting. The words circled his mind like a bird’s repeating song. Home. Soon. Wife. He nuzzled his Bumblebee’s cheek and whispered that she should sleep awhile. “I shall wake you when we arrive, love.”

  She lifted his wrist to her lips again and nodded.

  But, while her kiss was sweet and her body pliant against his, her sadness pulled at him like a rogue current. So he held her tighter. Pushed Dewdrop harder. In his head, a bird’s song repeated—home, soon, wife.

  He was bringing Annabelle home. And very soon, she would be his wife in truth. He need only be patient a little longer.

  *~*~*

  Awakening in Robert’s arms might have been heaven if she weren’t such a sodden, miserable mess. Soaked wool was heavy and heat-sapping. Her bonnet was an utter ruin, the satin ribbons lifeless yet choking. Her petticoats plastered her legs. Even her stays made her breasts itch.

  The miseries of wet clothing aside, her backside was numb, along with one of her legs. Sitting sideways on a man’s saddle might look like a grand lark, but it was far from comfortable over a two-hour stretch. And her neck had developed a crick that made itself known when she jerked awake and tried to lift her head from Robert’s shoulder.

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered, rubbing the sore muscles.

  “Easy. We’re almost there.” Robert’s voice was rusty, his teeth gritted against an obvious chill.

  Heavens, if she was stiff and sore, she couldn’t imagine how he felt. His bad leg must hurt like the devil after such a long ride. She glanced down at his knee and thigh. Her hand moved to stroke it automatically.

  He hissed in a breath between his teeth.

  The sound made her heart lurch. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, love.” He grimaced, his jaw flexing as he kept his gaze on the road. “I just … we are almost there.”

  She smiled. “You said that already.”

  “Perhaps you could repeat it back to me.”

  Her smile grew. “We are almost there, Robert.”

  “God. Say it again.”

  She chuckled. Despite her misery and his. Despite the echoes of her earlier despair. Despite everything, he made her laugh. “We are almost there,” she whispered, stroking his arm.

  Brooding blue dropped to her lips then came up and started glowing. “That close, are we?”

  “So close.”

  “It’s a damned good thing, Bumblebee. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

  She wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about, but she suspected Robert referred to something other than riding fatigue. “Dewdrop will surely be relieved to have a proper stable to sleep in.”

  His answer was a grunt.

  Just then, they passed through a patch of trees, rounded a bend upon a small rise, and Rivermore Abbey came into view. It was the first glimpse she’d had of the place in seven years. The structure itself appeared largely unchanged—same sprawling sandstone square with a courtyard in the center and the odd brick wing here and there. Same ancient priory edifice with its octagonal towers and pointed arch straddling the drive. Same brick outbuildings and stables a short distance away.

  But the land was different. The rail fences were new and in excellent repair. The trees to the west had grown into thick woodlands. The pastures to the east were filled with plump sheep and dairy cattle. Vast fields of wheat and barley appeared to have benefitted from improved drainage, particularly given the dreadfully wet spring.

  Rivermore Abbey was thriving as never before.

  She peeked at Robert’s face, noting how he gazed upon the estate with something like possessiveness. A twinge of envy struck her. Yet, it was drowned out by her pride in this man. She’d heard he’d done well as the estate’s manager, of course. Her sources had always been excellent.

  But seeing Rivermore’s prosperity for herself, knowing how much harder every task must have been for a man injured as he’d been, overwhelmed her.

  “It’s splendid, Robert,” she murmured.

  He shot her a questioning glance, his mouth quirking. “It’s the same as ever. A great pile.”

  “No. You’ve made it better.”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t smile. But she sensed her words had pleased him.

  They made their way past the great, pointed arch and into the stable yard. An old, grizzled Mr. Colby limped forth, his wooden leg looking more weathered than she’d last seen it.

  “What’s this?” the old man said to Dewdrop. “A new resident, have we?” As she recalled, Colby preferred speaking to horses rather than humans.

  Robert performed brief introductions then waved over a pair of young grooms to assist Annabelle down. She groaned in both relief and discomfort as soon as sensation rushed back into the numb spots in her lower half. Robert dismounted on his own, but all she heard from him was a grunt.

  Heavens, he must be so accustomed to pain. She winced against the guilt.

  A large, strong hand clasped her elbow. “Come. It is not yet six. Grandfather may still be awake. He will wish to see you.”

  He led her inside through the main doors. The interior of Rivermore Abbey was a blend of square-patterned wood paneling and thirteenth-century stonework. Every room echoed. She’d always thought more carpets and draperies would soften the old house’s lines. Not that it needed much adornment—the place was both vast and magnificent.

  After introductions to the housekeeper, Mrs. Cleary, and the head footman, Benjamin, Robert ordered tea and baths before escorting Annabelle to the Marquis of Mortlock’s sitting room.

  “Blast you, Ben. I was about to have a nap,” came a grizzled old voice from inside. “Now it will take me another hour to find a comfortable position.”

  Robert opened the door. “You’ve gone soft, old man.” He guided Annabelle into the oak-paneled chamber, where a frail, much-older Mortlock sat in a winged chair before a low fire. “I recall stories of a captain who could sleep whilst cannons fired overhead.”

  Stooped shoulders straightened. Mortlock tossed away his lap blanket and shoved slowly to his feet. His arms shook. His lips were white, his eyes a milkier shade of Robert’s vivid blue
. Those eyes glossed and blinked. “S-son? My boy, I hadn’t expected …”

  Robert moved swiftly to his grandfather and, with heartbreaking gentleness, helped Mortlock back into his chair. Their hands lingered and held before releasing. By the time the exchange was done, Annabelle wasn’t certain who was shaking more.

  Robert dragged two wooden chairs closer then gestured to her to take the one nearest the fire. “Grandfather, this is Lady Annabelle Huxley. You remember her, don’t you? The Earl of Berne’s daughter.”

  Milky blue raked her up and down. “Aye, indeed. You’ve grown, girl. Last I saw, you’d fit in a teacup.” He frowned. “You’re drenched, though.” His frown deepened into a glower, and it refocused on Robert. “What the devil are you thinking, boy?” He gathered up his blanket and held it out to her. “Taking a lady out in a squall like this.”

  “We are to be married, Grandfather. That is what I came to tell you.”

  She accepted the blanket with a grateful smile. “Lord Mortlock, it is a pleasure to see you again. We’ve had a long journey from London, but Rivermore Abbey is a splendid sight after our travels.”

  He snorted, sounding oddly like Lady Wallingham. “An infested madhouse would seem a haven after my grandson dragged you through hell’s own rainstorm.” Again, he turned a wrathful gaze on Robert. “What the devil were you thinking?”

  Robert rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ve asked that already.”

  “And?”

  “The coach kept getting mired. It would have taken us an extra day—”

  “You said you’re to be married. Not that you are.”

  Robert’s hand moved from his neck to raking through his damp hair. Ruddy color flashed on his cheeks. “Yes.”

  “I assume you left the young lady’s chaperone out in the corridor.”

  “No.”

  “What’s Lord Berne think of this, eh? That this is how you would treat his daughter.”

  Robert held his grandfather’s gaze in what seemed a long battle, then answered, “I may have left him with the impression Lady Wallingham intended to accompany us.”

  The old man released another snort. “She’d sooner eat mud for supper than travel in it. Good God, boy. You’re further gone than I thought.” He shook his head and shot Annabelle a gently chiding glance. “He’s left you no choice, has he? Set his course and gave no quarter. Still, there’s nothing for it. You’ll have to marry the brute.”

  “We’ll marry tomorrow morning,” Robert answered for her. “In the chapel.”

  Mortlock kept his gaze glued to hers. “Is that what you want, girl?”

  She swallowed. Earlier, when she’d told Robert she wanted him, she’d hoped for … she didn’t know what. A sign, she supposed. That he felt as much as she did for him. That he was not simply marrying her to fill a role that needed filling, or protecting her out of long habit. She wanted him more than she wanted to breathe. Loved him until nothing else existed. Just Robert.

  But sitting there on a dozing horse in the middle of a muddy road, she’d realized he couldn’t possibly want her or love her in equal measure. Oh, he cared for her as one cares for an amusing, accident-prone neighbor girl who insists on making a pest of herself. He’d always been gallant. He’d always ridden to her rescue.

  And that was what this marriage truly was. A convenience for him and safety for her. He’d been alarmed by the death of Mr. Green, by the risk that she might be attacked in a similar fashion. So, he’d brought her here. To Rivermore Abbey. His home.

  Admittedly, his insistence that they travel without a chaperone was puzzling. She’d chalked it up to his urgency to leave London immediately. Still, they could have taken Maureen or Estelle or even Eugenia and Kate. And, at the very least, he could have taken her to Clumberwood, instead. She had clothing there. Extra slippers and stays. Kindly servants who would have served her delicious broth to warm her bones.

  She frowned at him now. His grandfather had a point. She should have had a chaperone. She should have been taken to her home, not his. Perhaps Robert considered her unworthy of such courtesies. Perhaps he held her in even lower regard than she’d imagined.

  Was marriage to Robert what she wanted? She sighed, the chill in her flesh warring with the blooming ache in her middle. Her eyes dropped to her hands where they wrung the edge of Mortlock’s blanket. “I consented to marry Robert weeks ago, my lord. The wedding seems almost an afterthought.” She chuckled, the sound echoing strangely in the large room. “I’ve long admired the chapel. So lovely, the way the light shines through the glass.”

  A long silence was broken only by the low crackle of the fire. “And you shall be a lovely bride,” Mortlock said finally.

  She tried to smile, but she couldn’t raise her eyes.

  “Best get you warmed up straight away, my dear. We don’t want you catching your death before the nuptials.” He rang a small bell on the side table. “I shall ask Mrs. Cleary to take you to the southwest chamber. Splendid view of the garden.”

  Robert gathered his cane to stand. “I shall take her—”

  “No,” Mortlock said with a commander’s stern bark. “You’ll keep your backside planted in that chair, boy. We have a great deal to discuss.”

  Annabelle blinked at them both, wondering at the thick tension, the seeming battle of wills being waged between two such similar men. But, then, Mrs. Cleary arrived, and the promise of a hot bath and a hotter pot of tea beckoned. There’d be time enough later to unravel the mysteries of masculine behavior. For now, being warm and dry would be a welcome improvement.

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “For a man who knows what he’s about, ruthless is simply another word for effective.”

  —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock regarding the proper arrangement of events to achieve preferable outcomes.

  *~*~*

  Dearest Robert,

  Last night, I dreamt of you again. You wore only breeches—not even a shirt—but you carried a sword. When I awakened, I was too restless to lie still. I wanted so very much to fall back to sleep. Part of me longed to know what your kiss would feel like. And by “part,” I mean “all.”

  Ever yours,

  Annabelle

  —Letter to Robert Conrad dated May 14, 1814

  *~*~*

  “Boxed her in tight, haven’t you?”

  Robert’s skin prickled beneath his grandfather’s condemnation. “It’s not as though I don’t intend to—”

  “Damned ruthless, boy.”

  “—marry her.”

  “I said you should find a wife. Not lay siege to her like a French armory.”

  “Not a siege. An assurance. She is mine.”

  Grandfather ran a hand over his face and released a hoarse bark of laughter. “Bloody hell. Worse than I thought.”

  “She kept delaying. First, it was finishing the season for her sister’s sake. Then it was because I vexed her. Then—”

  “Has it occurred to you that she might have needed reassurance? A bit of gentle handling?”

  Robert frowned. “I asked her to marry me. She agreed.”

  “Asked or coerced?”

  “Either way, the matter was settled months ago. Delays are simply her way of needling me.”

  “Hmmph. What did Lady Wallingham have to say about all this?”

  “She lent me her travel coach.”

  Grandfather snorted then chuckled. “Typical Dorothea. Forever rearranging things to her liking.” He narrowed his eyes upon Robert. “The girl should have her family at her wedding.”

  Instantly, everything inside Robert rebelled. “No. That would delay it again. Another week, at least. Perhaps a fortnight.”

  “Is there a reason you cannot wait such a short time?”

  “Yes.”

  The old man’s expression took on a resigned cast. “So, she is with child.” He sighed. “I su
spected as much.”

  Robert glowered. “She is not with child.”

  “Then why the urgency?”

  Robert didn’t want to answer. Even he had trouble understanding it, sometimes. As similar as he and his grandfather were, Nathaniel Conrad’s marriage to Helena Northfield had been more duty than attachment. They’d lived separately for long stretches before her death, Helena residing at Mortlock Manor with their son while Nathaniel remained at Rivermore. Clearly, Grandfather had never known the kind of consuming need Robert felt for Annabelle.

  He explained in the only way he could. “She belongs to me. I’ve waited too long already.”

  “Fine way to treat someone you aim to make your wife.”

  Again, his neck prickled. “I told you, she’s not with child.”

  “There’s more to caring for a lady than controlling your lust, boy.”

  “I’ve kept her safe. Protected her—”

  “She’s an earl’s daughter, not some dockside wench you can set up as your mistress.”

  His skin heated. His chest burned. “You don’t understand.”

  “Think you’re the first man whose blood lit on fire for a woman?”

  He heard his own voice deepen to a growl. “You cannot know what this is like.”

  “Can’t I?” A corner of the old man’s lips curved. “I’ll have seen eighty-one years on this earth before summer’s end. You’d be astonished by what I know.”

  “I lost her once. I’ll not do it again.”

  “Aye. And I had the misfortune to watch my grandson wither into a husk without the girl who made him laugh. Why do you suppose I sent you to London?”

  “Lady Wallingham told me. Admirable scheming for a pair of old—”

  “Don’t go insulting your elders, boy. Dorothea said you’d resist more direct approaches, and she was right.” Grandfather’s chin came up to a stubborn angle. “You ought to be grateful we intervened, else your Annabelle might have wed another man.”

  Suddenly, Robert couldn’t sit still. He shoved to his feet, fisting his cane and moving to where Grandfather’s desk sat beside a window. His gut churned. His skin fired hot. He wanted to crack something in half at the mere notion of his Bumblebee with another man’s ring upon her finger. Another man with the right to kiss her, touch her pearlescent skin, and breathe her honeysuckle scent.