Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

  “You think I don’t understand.” Grandfather’s voice was graveled. Weary. “You think I’ve never felt it because I didn’t for your grandmother.”

  Stiffening, Robert leaned into his cane and pivoted. He peered at the old man he’d known his entire life, wondering how much he didn’t know. A great deal, evidently. “Who was she?”

  “No matter. By the time she made her debut, I was already seven years married with a son. She was …” An odd light entered milky blue—affection, admiration. And yes, a flicker of hunger. “Extraordinary. The kind of woman weak men fear and strong men desire. Brilliant. Dauntless. A dragon amidst sheep.”

  “Dragon,” Robert murmured, startled by the description. Could it be? The ages were right. No. Surely not.

  “Had she returned my regard, I would have sought a divorce. Would have done anything, honor be damned. Anything to claim her as my own.” Grandfather appeared to have fallen into a reverie, staring at the fire with an unblinking gaze. “But she did not feel as I did. At least, not about me.”

  Bloody hell. Grandfather and Lady Wallingham? Robert returned to the wooden chair Annabelle had vacated and collapsed with a thud. He didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified.

  “Suffice to say,” Grandfather continued, “I understand enough to assure you of your good fortune. Lady Annabelle hasn’t set her cap for another man. If Dorothea’s reports are to be believed, she didn’t much bother to resist your cloddish efforts. She’s agreed to wed you and, presumably, bear your offspring. Waiting another week won’t kill you, my boy, however dire the prospect may seem.”

  If Grandfather believed that, then he understood nothing. Annabelle Huxley had belonged to him since they were children. Granted, things were different now. Once he’d seen her as a woman, his feelings had become tinged with lust. But they’d always been bound together by a force beyond this world. Good or bad, right or wrong, that hadn’t changed. But the bond could be damaged. He’d done it before, thinking he was protecting her.

  No, he could not wait another week. He could not allow her to slip through his fingers. He needed her fully bound to him before God and man and every bloody creature that might seek to come between them.

  He needed more than her promise. He needed to solidify his claim.

  And nothing on earth—not dragons, soldiers, or biblical floods—would stop him now.

  *~*~*

  Annabelle had groaned multiple times since entering the southwest chamber. The first had come when she’d finally been liberated from her damp stays. The second had been when she’d sunk into a tub of steaming, rose-scented water.

  The third came presently when a pile of piping-hot crumpets dripping with melted butter and honey were delivered upon a silver tray. Beside the crumpets sat a plate of bacon, roasted pheasant, buttery herbed potatoes, and yet another pot of tea, this one made of china with delicate pink roses.

  “Oh, good heavens, Mrs. Cleary,” she moaned as her stomach rumbled its approval. “I think I adore you.”

  The cheerful housekeeper gave her a rosy-cheeked grin. “’Tis truly our pleasure to see to your comfort, my lady.”

  Annabelle couldn’t help herself. She plucked up one of the soft griddle cakes and took a bite. Dear. Sweet. Heaven. Another groan. She closed her eyes and savored the funny little nooks and crannies, the buttery-sweet burst of warmed honey on her tongue. She took her time swallowing, but as soon as she did, she wanted answers. “How did you know?” she asked, collapsing into the chair beside the small, marble-topped table. “Crumpets are my favorite. Butter and honey. Always with butter and honey.” She waved to the tray and laughed. “And bacon! Sweet and salt—perfection. How did you guess?”

  The housekeeper chuckled. “No need for guessing, my lady. Mr. Conrad sent one of the lads to the kitchens as soon as you reached Rivermore. He was most specific.”

  Robert had done this? She took another bite and shook her head. How had he remembered? It had been so many years since she’d even mentioned crumpets, let alone precisely how much she loved them with butter and honey and a side of bacon. Even the teapot with the little roses was perfect.

  Her chewing slowed. She swallowed hard. Sweet crumpet stuck in her throat, so she took a sip of tea. Steeped just the way she liked it, of course. Not too strong, no hint of bitterness.

  Perfect.

  Breaths quickened. Heart pounded.

  She shivered and leaned forward to set the half-eaten crumpet on the plate.

  He’d noticed much more than she’d realized. Remembered details she’d nearly forgotten, herself. The way she liked her potatoes, for instance. Her favorite color—pink. That was the color of the rosebuds in the little china vase. Pink.

  She glanced down at the gown she’d assumed had belonged to a maid or even to Mrs. Cleary. As simple as a chemise, it had long sleeves and a high waist. It caressed her bosom lovingly, even without her stays. The skirt swept without ornamentation to her toes. The gown was beautifully made. And it was … pink. Soft, pink silk. A housekeeper wouldn’t own such a fine garment.

  “Mrs. Cleary?”

  The housekeeper and three maids were busy cleaning up after her bath. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Where—where did this gown come from?”

  “From London, I presume. Mr. Conrad brought it with him.” Mrs. Cleary murmured something to the maids and sent them on their way before turning to Annabelle with a puzzled smile. “I thought it must be yours. It fits so—”

  “Perfectly.” The word was soft on Annabelle’s lips.

  “Well, yes.”

  A short while later, after the footmen had hauled the tub away and Mrs. Cleary had encouraged her to ring if she needed anything else, Annabelle sat alone in the southwest chamber of Rivermore Abbey, full of crumpets, bacon, and turmoil. Slowly, she walked around the marble-topped table with its tray of perfection. She wandered to the bed with its bounteous feather mattress, satin-woven ticking, and layers of fine linens. The coverlet was rose damask. The bed curtains were a darker shade of the same silk with pink-striped, white cotton facings.

  She ran fingertips over the fine, whorled leaves in the damask. Then she wandered to the spot near two diamond-paned windows, where she’d looked out upon the damp gardens earlier. Here, a pretty, marble-topped dressing table sat with its oval mirror and eight small drawers.

  “Perfect,” she whispered.

  Why perfect should result in such panic, she could not say. But that was how she felt. Her skin was hot, and not from the bath. Her heart kicked faster and faster. Her chest was tight, too constricting to draw a full breath.

  She looked at herself in the oval mirror. Mrs. Cleary had helped her plait her hair over one shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips oddly plump. She licked them and tasted honey and butter, smoke and salt. She noted her breasts beneath the pink silk. Her nipples were swollen and jutting. As if the silk itself excited them.

  As if perfection were more arousing than a kiss.

  Beyond the windows, she heard masculine voices. One was deep and made her eyes drift closed on a sigh. The other she barely heard. Drifting to the glass, she looked down and saw Robert speaking with Mr. Colby and a young, light-haired man, likely a groom, given his plain clothing. The sun was setting behind turbulent clouds, casting the gardens in shades of purple and gray.

  Carefully, she unlatched the window and pushed it open.

  “… oats once per day. Any more, and he’ll make a pig of himself. Colby, has the northernmost stall been repaired?”

  “Aye, sir. Last month.”

  “Good. We’ll need it when the travel coach arrives tomorrow afternoon.” Robert, whose hair was damp from a recent bath, turned to the young groom. “Take the cart to Clumberwood Manor at first light. The items should be ready for transport when you arrive. I want everything here by seven, understand? No later. The wedding is at nine.”

  “Yes, Mr. Conrad. Shall I send Billy to retrieve the vicar, as
well?”

  “No. The vicar’s been informed. Colby, Lady Annabelle will require a mount of her own soon. A mare, I think. Gentle but with good speed. And not too old. Methuselah gave her some trouble on the ride here. I don’t want my wife stuck in the middle of a road whilst her mount amuses himself with a doze and a spot of mischief.”

  Colby grunted. “The old ones do enjoy their wily tricks from time to time.”

  Robert’s lips quirked. “Indeed.” He sent the men on their way, but he lingered on the gravel path near a stone bench. His free hand first rubbed his neck, then braced on the back of the bench. He seemed tense. Restless.

  From her vantage point, she could only see his profile. Thick, damp hair. Wide, wide shoulders. Tapered waist. He wore a shirt and waistcoat with his buff breeches and boots. Her fingertips traced the faint swirls in the glass while she absorbed heat generated by the sight, the sound, the very idea of Robert.

  For, he was an idea. One she’d had forever. Her knight. Her love. The boy who never failed her.

  God, her heart was pounding. Because he wasn’t an idea any longer. He was a man. One with tired eyes and rolled-up sleeves. One who needed sleep and frequent hair trimmings. One with thick thighs and a leg that always pained him after a ride. One who gave orders and expected them to be followed.

  He’d survived everything she’d done to him. The endless chasing. The relentless letters. The accident.

  Her eyes squeezed closed. How could he remember something as tiny and forgettable as crumpets with butter and honey? How could he not hate her too much to give her a gown of perfect pink silk?

  “Annabelle.” The word was thick, gritted from below. But it opened her eyes.

  There he stood. Her man, riveted upon her. Brooding blue was shaded violet by the waning light, but he looked … ravenous.

  And for the first time in her life, she was afraid of him, of what he might do to her heart. Why in blazes had she agreed to marry him? She’d have no protection, no one to rescue her from her foolishness. No barrier left, not even the gloss of girlish adoration.

  He was real. A man. He could be hurt again. He could hurt her again.

  Oh, dear God. What had she done?

  She slammed the window closed and stumbled backward. Her heart raced so hard, she thought it might break loose of its moorings. Clutching handfuls of pink silk, she backed up until her backside collided with the bed.

  The panic grew worse moment by moment as she contemplated how very much Robert was a real man and not an idea. The moment felt familiar.

  Similar to another moment of panic seven years earlier in a tangle of thorns and leaves on the banks of the River Tisenby. When she’d realized that he could die.

  These things should not be revelations, and in one sense, they were obvious. Of course he was real. Of course he could die.

  But her heart—the one that had recognized him as hers from the first—only understood the connection, golden and pure and unbreakable. Not harsh realities of pain and risk and foolish words spoken in haste. The man in the garden was not a god, nor even a knight.

  He could fall, crack his bones, acquire some dread illness. He could turn bitter or cruel. He could stop laughing at her jests, stop inviting her to do silly things like ride upon his back so she didn’t muddy her hems. He could stop caring that her favorite color was pink.

  He could deal her a deathblow. All he had to do was fail to love her.

  A commanding knock made her jump and squeak. Breathing through the panic, she shook her head at her own foolishness. He was in the garden, for pity’s sake. A man with a cane could not race up stairs that quickly. This was probably Mrs. Cleary, who’d probably forgotten some small thing, and Annabelle was probably an absolute ninny who should probably open the door.

  She smoothed the silk over her hips and called, “Coming.”

  But by the time she’d spoken, the door was already opening.

  And Robert Conrad—the real, fallible, ridiculously-broad-shouldered man—was charging into her bedchamber. Locking the door. Coming toward her with a look that made her tingle like a hot bath after a cold ride.

  Moments before he tossed his cane aside and his lips captured hers, he growled words she scarcely understood. They resounded like battle drums.

  “No more waiting.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “As a virtue, patience leaves much to be desired. It is useful when waiting for fruit to ripen. Otherwise, it serves as an excuse for inaction when more decisive measures are needed. Boldness wins the day. Patience only makes it duller.”

  —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock on the merits of skillful timing while meddling in the affairs of one’s offspring.

  *~*~*

  Dearest Robert,

  Well, I delayed as long as possible, but now Mama has declared I shall make my debut this season. Papa has agreed. Jane was elated, thinking she might wait until next year for her debut. Alas, Mama and Papa insist we must share seasons, as the budget requires it.

  Now, I am tasked with finding a husband who is not you. I think it would be easier to fly.

  Ever yours,

  Annabelle

  —Letter to Robert Conrad dated February 11, 1815

  *~*~*

  “Wait.” She panted the word while lying on a feather mattress beneath a hard, heavy, heated Robert Conrad. Upon entering the bedchamber like a charging bull, he’d kissed the breath out of her, tossed his cane across the floor, then tipped her onto her back before she’d so much as spoken his name. Now, squished beneath his body, she cupped his jaw in both hands. “Wait, wait, wait.”

  His lips trailed to the pulse in her throat. “Bloody hell, Annabelle,” he rasped. “Haven’t I waited long enough?”

  “The wedding is tomorrow.”

  “I want you now.”

  She squeaked when his big, warm hand slid to her breast. She felt naked with only pink silk between them. Her nipple had no such qualms, peaking and zinging as his palm squeezed and his thumb stroked.

  “God, you’re soft, love.”

  “Robert.”

  He nibbled her neck, stroked her breast. Nibble, stroke. Nibble, squeeze. Nibble, press.

  “Robert!”

  Grunting, he propped himself above her. “What?” Almost-black hair fell across a furrowed forehead. Brooding blue was a thunderstorm.

  “What is happening?”

  He blinked. Frowned deeper. “What do you think is happening?”

  “You are lying on top of me.”

  “Right.”

  “And kissing me.”

  He looked at his hand, still covering her breast. “Among other things.”

  She wriggled to free herself.

  He groaned. The thick, hard, lengthy ridge pressing rather insistently against her thighs grew thicker, harder, and lengthier. “Stop moving.”

  “We need to discuss this.”

  “Devil take it, Annabelle. Stop. Moving.”

  She went still. “Did I hurt you?”

  His breaths were slow. Deep. Deliberate. “In a manner of speaking.” His eyes finally opened. They were a cauldron, the blue nearly swallowed by black. “It hurts to look at you. Hurts to touch your skin. You smell like summer. Did I ever tell you that?”

  The way he was looking at her slowed time to a trickle. Heat swelled to a blaze. She whispered his name.

  “Earlier, you said you wanted me,” he murmured.

  “And you said I had poor timing.”

  “Because I need to be inside you. And I couldn’t very well take you in the middle of a muddy road.”

  Another flare of heat flashed from her scalp to her breasts. She felt his words pulsing through her skin. “So you … you wanted me, too.”

  For a moment, he appeared genuinely perplexed. Then frustrated. Then resolute. Without a word, he repositioned himself so he could grasp her thi
gh, pulling her leg up alongside his hip. He did the same with her other leg, ignoring her gasps and the way she dug her fingertips into his shoulders.

  “Feel that?” He ground his hips into her, stroking hard so she could not possibly fail to feel that. It was as flagrant as a lone oak in a barren field.

  Her cheeks went hot. So did everything else. She nodded, swallowing against a dry throat.

  “That’s been with me since the Gattingford ball.”

  “Is—is it … painful?”

  “Yes.” He imbued the single word with towering intensity.

  “And we must … in order to …”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  They breathed together for a moment before he sighed. “Blast.” His eyes flickered to her bosom. “Reassurance.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Grandfather said perhaps you need reassurance.”

  A small smile curved her lips at his disgruntled expression. “He wasn’t wrong.”

  “Bloody hell. I—bloody hell.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Give me a mission to complete. A job to do. I’ll carry you for miles. Buy you a better saddle. Fetch you flowers to decorate the chapel.” His head dropped until their foreheads touched. “But I’ve never been good with words, let alone reassurances. You know that. You know me.”

  She did know him. She examined his consternated brow, his tight, flushed features, his molten eyes. Cautiously, she swept her hands across his shoulders, measuring their width. Everything in the past few hours had happened so quickly, she’d felt the ground beneath her quaking into a different shape.

  Her hands explored his muscles, so large and hard beneath the linen of his shirt. She wanted to see him naked. She wanted to brush his skin with her lips. Apparently, he wanted her, too. She’d realized that weeks ago, of course. The signs had been clear—passionate kisses, hardness, urgency. But did he want her the way she wanted him? Or was this merely the normal needs of a normal male who had gone too long without female companionship?