“Yesterday at Whiting Hill track. With Duff.”
Walingame tossed his cards on the table, muttered, “I’m out,” and without a backward glance at his sizeable stack of markers, came to his feet and propelled his friend from the room.
“Tell me everything,” Walingame growled as the two men stood in the quiet corridor outside. “I want to know what she looked like, what she said—did you speak to her? Was she really there with that fucking cunt-hound? I want to know every detail,” he snarled.
“She looked gorgeous as usual, and—”
Walingame grabbed Dougal’s arm. “Did you talk to her?”
“I wasn’t able to get close enough.” Innes shrugged off Walingame’s grip. “She and Duff were standing at the rail for some reason, and you know what the hoi polloi mob is like. They wouldn’t budge for the king himself. Although she also had her share of swains around her. She’s absolutely stunning, of course, so there was reason enough for that sort of crowd. But she had her bonnet off, too, and you know what her flaxen hair is like when it catches the light—that glorious shade of—”
“Yes, yes,” Walingame growled. “We’ve all seen her hair.” Cut short, it was even more striking.
“Some more than others when it comes to that,” Dougal noted with a smirk.
With the possibility of finding Annabelle after so long, Walingame ignored his friends’ leering comment and brusquely inquired, “Were you close enough to see how friendly she was with”—he spat out the word—”Darley?”
“As far as I could see—I went up into the stands to get a better look—they appeared quite friendly.”
“Fucker,” Walingame ground out. Competition from the likes of Darley, who could have any woman he wanted, wasn’t conducive to his peace of mind. Not that his mind had been in the least peaceful since Annabelle had decamped. “If that rutting prick Darley thinks he’s going to cut me out, he’s fucking mistaken!”
“If Annabelle’s left you, Darley wouldn’t exactly be cutting you out.”
“She hasn’t left me.” It made no difference that Annabelle had paid him back every shilling of the moneylender’s note he held. He refused to give her up. “She’s just taken a short hiatus from the theater to write,” Walingame lied.
“If you say so.” Dougal knew rumor suggested otherwise. Annabelle’s house was closed, and at the height of the season, too. None of her friends knew her whereabouts. The owner of Drury Theater was tearing his hair out, hoping each day she’d return.
“Damn right, I say so.” Walingame shrugged as though dismissing his doubts. “Now, where the hell is Whiting Hill?”
“It’s an hour or so west of Newmarket. That’s why no one knows it.”
“And you were there for what purpose, pray tell?”
“I have an uncle who lives in the vicinity.”
“An uncle with money, I warrant.”
“Of course.” Dougal smiled. “Would I venture to such an outland otherwise?”
“Would you care to ride back there with me?”
“Why not? I can lose my money here anytime.”
“Bring your pistols.”
“Are you expecting problems?” Not that Dougal wasn’t always ready for a dust-up.
“I just want to make sure Belle understands I’m serious. And if a display of firearms is necessary, so be it.”
“You know what everyone’s saying, don’t you?” In the event Walingame was oblivious to the gossip, Dougal felt it necessary to warn his friend that he was being regarded as simply another of the men Miss Foster had found wanting.
“Of course I know,” Walingame snapped. “And I don’t give a damn. She’s coming back with me, she’s staying with me—and all the gossipmongers can go screw themselves!”
“Well, that’s clear,” Dougal said with a flicker of his brows.
“Bloody right, it is.” Walingame had always been a ruthless man, but after coming into the earldom and its considerable fortune on the death of his father, his despotic qualities had increased proportionately. “And the sooner I find her, the sooner she’ll be apprised of my feelings on the subject,” he growled. “And this time my headstrong Miss Belle will be kept on a short, tight leash.”
“The lady might protest,” Dougal drawled softly.
“Ask me if I care,” Walingame muttered. “She’s a goddamned actress. She has no rights.” Then, with a jerk of his head, he headed toward the staircase. “I want to be on the road within the hour,” he said as Dougal ran to keep up with him. “So step lively.”
Chapter 13
Duff had come awake with the sun. But having passed a night of uninterrupted sleep, early rising was no hardship. He felt completely rested, and so much like his old self that even Eddie noticed his altered state.
“Yer a changed man, sar, if I do say so meself. I reckon yer back to business again with that smile on yer face.”
“It certainly feels that way. Consider your nursemaid duties over,” Duff replied cheerfully, leaning back in his chair like he’d been wont to do in the past, precariously balancing on two legs. “Whatever gloom and doom was filling my head has retreated. I slept through the night. I didn’t dream once. I woke up starved and”—he grinned—”not exclusively for food. Although, that’s for your ears only. The lady and I have come to an agreement—a wager of sorts—and 1 intend to honor it.”
“Good luck with that, sar,” Eddie murmured sardonically, spooning some buttered eggs on Duff’s plate. “And you’d best eat up, jes’ in case that there agreement of yers is altered one way or t’other. Jes’ askin’—but what do you lose if you lose yer wager?”
“Five hundred pounds.”
Eddie snorted. “Then it ain’t the money yer doin’ it for. I’ve seen you bet ten times that amount on the turn of a card. I’d say you be sweet on the lady.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” Duff replied, smiling faintly, bringing his chair back down on four legs. “You know I’m not inclined to be sweet on anyone.”
“Well, whether you are or not, if yer considering the lady’s feelings for five hundred pounds, it sure ain’t about the money.”
“Hmmm…”
“Think on it, sar—that’s all I’m sayin’.”
Duff looked up, a piece of toast in hand. “She’s very beautiful, you must agree. Anyone would be attracted.”
“As if you ain’t had a hundred or more o’ those kind o’ ladies, sar.”
“She makes me laugh, too.” He took a bite of the toast.
“Good for her.”
Duff chewed and swallowed before grinning at his batman. “Do I detect a bit of sarcasm, Eddie?”
“All I’m sayin’ is don’t make light of what yer feeling. She ain’t the same, that’s all. Whatever way she’s different, she’s different for you. Ye ken?”
“Could we not talk about this?” Duff said with a faint frown. “I don’t care to think this hard about enjoying myself.”
“More coffee, sar?” Eddie knew how to take a cue.
“You’re worth every shilling I pay you,” Duff said with an amused look, indicating his cup with a nod.
“Since you pay me enough to make me banker happy,” Eddie noted, filling Duff’s coffee cup, “I can mind my tongue with the best o’ them.”
Duff’s brows lifted. “Your banker?”
“ ‘Course, sar. I got me money in Bank o’ England notes.”
“Is that so?” Duff spooned sugar into his coffee. “So what are your plans for all this wealth?”
“Someday, sar, when I’m in the mood I’m going to propose to some sweet young thing and buy me a farm.”
Duff stopped stirring the sugar in his cup. “You don’t know anything about farming.”
“Don’t need to, sar. I thought I’d get meself a farm manager with yer money.”
Duff laughed, liking both the sound and thought of laughter on so lovely a day. “Well, at least give me some warning should you decide to take a wife and leave me.”
“Don’t worry, sar. I ain’t in no rush. I reckon when you get leg-shackled is time enough for me.”
“In that case, we’re both safe for a great while,” Duff replied with a grin.
“That’s what I figure, sar. And that’s right fine with me, now that we’re entertaining ourselves with the ladies again.”
“Speak for yourself. I have no immediate plans.”
“I ain’t sayin’ I don’t believe you, but I’m guessin’ yer thinkin’ on it at least.”
Duff waggled his hand. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps—nothin’. It’s only five hundred pounds, sar. Jes’ pocket money fer you.”
“I’m not sure the lady’s ready,” Duff observed affably. “But as for yourself, feel free to spend your evenings elsewhere. I’ll be fine here by myself.”
“I’ll see.”
“I mean it, Eddie—your continual presence is no longer required.”
“Yes, sar. Whatever you say, sar,” Eddie noted, complying while not actually complying as any good retainer would. “Now, are you bringin’ the lady a posy this mornin’?”
“Why do I get the impression I am?” Duff said, gazing at his batman from under his lashes, a half smile on his face.
“Yer ma sent over a pretty posy o’ violets, sar.”
“How did I ever manage to interest a lady before without prompting from so many of you?”
“I reckon you jes’ muddled through, sar,” Eddie replied with a perfectly straight face. “Although, I hear tell a great many ladies liked yer muddling jes’ fine.”
Duff suddenly felt as though all the previous women he’d bedded were mere prelude for his relationship with Annabelle—platonic as it was at the moment. Although, perhaps that might change, he consciously admitted for the first time. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured. “Miss Foster isn’t like all the rest,” he added, struck by the vast differences between then and now, his earnest solicitude for Annabelle’s feelings a distinct break from his past when he’d made a habit of overlooking such subtleties.
“I got that impression, sar.”
“I don’t know exactly how or why, though,” he said, exhaling softly, trying to get a grip on the novelty of their friendship. Or was it the abnormality of it?
“I reckon you’ll find out soon enough.”
“Maybe I will,” Duff replied, beginning to think Eddie was right about the five hundred pounds not being a factor. As for the rest—the lady’s wishes and desires in particular—he would just have to see…
———
As he walked up the path to Annabelle’s cottage door a few hours later, he still wasn’t sure whether he’d act on his feelings or not. Whether the ramifications of reneging on his wager would be detrimental to his interests.
If he knew what those interests were.
Was this just about sex and seduction as in the past, or did he wish to enjoy Annabelle’s company for however long she remained in the country?
A dilemma he could have answered with ease prior to his illness.
It wouldn’t have been a dilemma then. Sex was sex was sex.
But now… he wasn’t so sure.
Merde, did that mean he was becoming a moralist?
Had all his mental trauma turned him into a pattern card of high-minded rectitude?
Then the door opened as he approached and Annabelle appeared, smiling at him, and hot-blooded desire jolted him to the core.
With skintight breeches in fashion, any hint of arousal would have been obvious, so he immediately tried to think of something else—anything else—like, say, the price of tea, as if he’d know… better yet, his father’s way of scowling when he was angry. That fortuitous memory turned out to be an instant curb against lust and by the time he reached the door, he was once again in control of his emotions. “Good morning.” His tone of voice was completely normal. “Did you sleep well?”
Damn and bloody hell. Not a good choice of words—an image of Annabelle in dishabille immediately leaping to mind.
“I did. And you?”
Her voice was cool as her dove-gray gown, the ultimate in tranquility; he was grateful for her composure. “I slept extremely well,” he was able to reply in an equally dispassionate tone, replacing mental images of Annabelle in dishabille with more sensible depictions of racehorses. “I hope you’re hungry.” Christ, was every word he uttered today going to resonate with double entendre? “That is, I meant to say, Eddie is preparing a picnic for us.”
“I knew what you meant.” Her smile was reassuring, as though at least one of them had their wits about them. “Are those flowers for me?”
Apparently well acquainted with flustered men, she was prompting him like a schoolboy, he thought resentfully. “My mother thought you’d like violets,” he muttered, holding out the flowers, wondering if his novel virtue was contributing to his awkwardness.
Annabelle smiled. “How nice of her.”
Her fingers brushed his slightly as the posy was exchanged; their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and he suddenly saw something he’d seen countless times before.
His resentment instantly dissolved.
He was back on familiar ground.
She was not only partial to him, but willing.
He’d bet his title on it.
“Do you think your mother might change her mind about accompanying us?” he inquired pleasantly, as though he hadn’t seen that small heated desire in her eyes, as though he had nothing more on his mind than their excursion this fine summer day.
Annabelle shook her head. “I’m afraid Mother’s intent on matchmaking,” she replied, as capable as he of mummery. “She wishes us alone.”
His smile was roguish. “Should I be concerned?”
“That’s for you to decide, of course,” she said with an answering smile. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“Matchmaking, eh?” His heavy-lidded gaze was insolent.
“You’re excused, my lord, should you wish to flee.” Her gaze in contrast was straightforwardly direct.
“That’s the devil’s own choice,” he murmured.
“Or a warning.”
He grinned. “On the other hand, it can’t be any worse than Waterloo.”
She laughed. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been so romantically wooed.”
“If you’re serious about being wooed,” he said, “consider me at your disposal. You entice the hell out of me, as you no doubt know. Plain words, but there it is.”
Her gray eyes held a degree of gravity quite apart from her faint smile. “Why don’t we see what transpires, my lord.”
“What if I preferred not playing games?” Duff said, his months of celibacy perhaps impetus for his impatience. Or maybe the female scent of her was triggering his lack of reserve.
“But I’m never done playing games, my Lord Darley.” Along with the heat in her eyes was a flinty determination. “You should know that. My whole life is a series of roles. Come now, make your bows to my mother,” she said as if they’d been discussing nothing more untoward than the weather, “and then we’ll go on that picnic Eddie is arranging.”
She’d pronounced the word arranging as though she suspected some ulterior motive behind the activity. “Rest easy, Miss Foster, I have no nefarious plans.” His voice was blunt, umbrage in his gaze. “I find scheming pointless.”
“There, now I’ve made you angry,” she murmured, lifting the violets to her nose and gazing at him with such blatant submission she reminded him of one of Greuze’s paintings of docile females.
“Keep it up and you really will make me angry,” he said with a grin, suddenly realizing she had no way of knowing he wasn’t like the other men she’d known. “And pray, relax. I have no designs on you even though you interest me vastly. I’m quite capable of controlling myself.”
“How reassuring,” she said, letting the posy drop and holding his dark gaze for a telling moment. “If you mean it.”
“Of course I me
an it. Keep me company and I’m content.”
“You amaze me, Darley. I say it in all honesty.”
“While I’m amazed how much I relish your company. And speaking of enjoyment, do you have some breeches you could bring along? I thought we might go riding.”
“But not sedate riding?”
He grinned. “That’s why you need breeches.”
“I might be able to find some.” He offered a level of comfort she’d never felt before, particularly with a man.
“Perfect. Should I wait here?”
She lifted her brows. “No, of course not, although take note of how Mother is staying out of sight in order not to interfere with our tête-à-tête. Unlike you and I, Duff, she’s a romantic. Mother, Molly!” Annabelle cried out, turning back into the house. “You may show yourself. We’re coming in.” She smiled at Duff and held out her hand. “You may charm Mother and Molly while I find those breeches.”
———
In short order, Annabelle and Duff were driving back to Westerlands Park, the pair of bays in the traces flying along at a spanking pace.
Duff held Annabelle to steady her on the turns, the high-perched phaeton seat tippy at tearing speeds. She held on to the seat as well, although she didn’t mind in the least when the marquis put his arm around her. It felt good. Safe. A novel feeling—that of safety with a man. Not that she was even remotely in the market for a protector. But she couldn’t discount the pleasure of his company.
Duff was in a superior mood. He and Annabelle had the entire day together and she wasn’t indifferent to him. Not that any woman had ever been, but as discussed earlier with Eddie, Annabelle Foster was different.
Or perhaps he was, after his illness.
Or maybe the world he’d come back to was where the difference lay.
Chapter 14
“A ride first, our race stables, or a picnic! You decide!” His voice was raised to be heard over the sound of the wind as the horses raced down the road.
“Riding!” she shouted back. It was too soon after breakfast to eat, and she was avoiding the Westerlands property. Although riding had been her first choice since Duff had mentioned he kept his string of campaign ponies at the hunting lodge. Any horse that could survive the risks and hazards of combat was sure to be a superior mount.
When someone loves you Page 8
