As for Duff, his first reaction was anger. Excitement and tumult? Did those bland words refer to his shooting and various lawsuits? What the fuck was she doing? But at base, perhaps, he most resented her walking away. Women didn’t, as a rule, leave him. Never, actually, and his father’s words came unbidden to his mind. She has a reputation for leaving men. In the next flashing moment, he thought about asking her to stay. But as quickly, he discarded the notion. He had never begged for a woman’s favor. Nor would he now.
After a transient moment of silence, the duchess stepped into the breach and graciously said, “You and your family must come back and see us whenever you wish.”
“Please stop by to see us in Shoreham as well,” Annabelle replied politely.
“If you need any help at your cottage, don’t hesitate to ask,” the duke offered with a smile. “Our staff at Westerlands Park is at your disposal.”
“Thank you. Now, if you please, Mother and I will gather our things and set off without delay. The summer evenings are pleasant for travel.”
Everyone was well-mannered and urbane, helping with the arrangements, having a carriage brought up to convey the Fosters to Annabelle’s town house, making their farewells with polished cordiality.
Duff helped Mrs. Foster into the carriage, then Molly and the baby, before turning last to Annabelle and extending his hand. “I wish you a pleasant journey,” he murmured, steeling himself against the touch of her hand.
“Thank you,” she said, placing her fingertips lightly on his palm, but not quite meeting his angry gaze. “And thank you as well for—”
“Look at me,” he hissed, the taut words for her ears only.
Her gray gaze came up. “Be sensible, Duff.” Then slipping her fingers from his, she reached for the handhold alongside the door and stepped up into the carriage.
A footman moved forward to shut the carriage door.
The duke signaled his driver to set off.
And a moment later, Westerlands House was devoid of guests.
———
Duff turned to his family assembled on the pavement, temper glittering in his eyes. “I’m off to Brooks’s,” he said brusquely.
“I may see you there later,” Giles offered. “I’m going to Jackson’s first. Why don’t you come? You look as though you could use a little sparring exercise.”
“Not in the mood I’m in.”
No one in his family pressed him further, Duff’s black scowl being explanation enough. They didn’t wish anyone at Jackson’s boxing saloon to suffer Duff’s wrath; he was one of Gentleman Jackson’s better protégés.
A short time later, when the marquis walked into Brooks’s, he was greeted by one and all like the long-lost friend he was. Immediately plied with welcome-back drinks, he accepted them all, sat down with his compatriots, and proceeded to drown his bitterness in brandy.
———
After Annabelle and her family returned to her London house, a rushed business of packing took place, her carriage was brought out of the mews, and in extremely short order, the city was left behind.
With Molly and the babies dozing, Mrs. Foster took the first opportunity after the bustling fervor of their leave-taking to question her daughter. “I don’t suppose you care to tell me what this is all about. As you know, we were quite welcome to stay at Westerlands House for the rest of the season.”
Annabelle’s gaze turned from the carriage window, where city streets had given way to the green of the country. “Stay to what purpose, Mother?”
“To enjoy ourselves in excellent company, I’d say.”
“They are not our kind, Mother. Nor will they ever be.”
“You put too much stock in the ways of the Ton. Our family, while not of the nobility, was once prosperous and respected. You were educated as well, if not better, than ladies of the nobility—and thank God. That education has given you the opportunity to earn a position of prominence in the world.”
“I know, Mama. And I thank you. But having lived”—she paused, her life unconventional by any standard—”in proximity to so many in the Ton, I am more aware than most of the conformist nature of society. Despite being taken up by the Westerlands, there are many in the fashionable world who look down on people like us.”
“You have a lovely home. You give us a good life. Why should anyone look down on you?”
“Perhaps a man could more easily make his way in the world. Money brings certain favors and titles their way.” She chose not to point out the opposite—that a woman, regardless of rank, had little control of her life.
“Don’t I know. Squire Hampton was knighted.”
“Exactly. But mostly, though, Mama,” Annabelle said, hoping she could explain her feelings in such a way that her mother would understand, “I have attained a great deal of independence.” She smiled. “And I like it.”
“Then you must keep it if it makes you happy.” A shame you couldn’t keep it and the marquis, too, Mrs. Foster thought. But she smiled back at her daughter and said, instead, “I must say I will have fond memories of my time in London with the Westerlands.”
“Indeed, Mama, they are very agreeable in every way.” Although their heir was singularly more than agreeable. She knew what was expected of her, however. She’d known from the beginning. The time had come finally to leave their little liaison, or infatuation, or whatever folly one wished to call it, behind and set her mind on other things. Without a doubt, Duff would do the same.
“I do admit, though,” her mother noted with a smile, “I am looking forward to seeing our snug little cottage again. Lovely as Westerlands House was, one couldn’t but feel less than cozy in its vastness.”
Annabelle chuckled. “Just so, Mama. Cozy is not the word to describe that splendid pile in Portman Square.”
———
After everyone had gone off in various directions, the duke and duchess sat down to tea and tried to unravel what had gone wrong with their eldest son’s liaison.
“It’s a shame. I like Annabelle immensely and Duff seemed serious about her,” Elspeth noted. “He’s obviously angry that she left.”
“But for how long, is always the question with Duff. If past behavior is any indication,” the duke pointed out, “he will soon find someone else.”
“No doubt you’re right,” the duchess said with a small frown. “He’s never spent more than a few days with any one woman. I still find it a shame, though,” the duchess murmured. “I found Annabelle most charming.” She made a small moue. “Unlike so many noble young ladies who are—well, frankly, annoyingly simple.”
“Annabelle’s intelligence did appeal to Duff, I expect—as well as her beauty, of course,” the duke noted. “There’s no doubt she can hold her own in any conversation.”
“Unlike so many ladies who pride themselves on never reading a book. Lydia and Georgina often lament on the dearth of ladies of their acquaintance who know anything beyond fashion. While our darling Annabelle writes the most delicious and scathingly funny plays.”
“Not to mention poetry.” The duke smiled. “And as a rule, I’m not overly fond of poetry. But hers is au courant and interesting.”
“Like our current notable, Lord Byron.”
“His poetry is engaging, I admit, but he’s rather too fond of his celebrity, if you ask me.”
“The poor boy has been, well…poor for so long—allow him his day in the sun, darling. You have never been poor. You don’t understand.” The duchess had been left penniless when her father died and her disastrous first marriage had been forced by those circumstances. “As for our poor boy,” she went on with a smile, “I shall remain optimistic about him coming to his senses. It’s time he stopped simply amusing himself with amour—don’t lift your brows, sweetheart—everyone doesn’t have to wait until they’re over thirty to marry.”
“I was just waiting for you,” the duke said with a smile.
“Well, that’s true,” the duchess said with an answering smi
le. “But I for one think Duff couldn’t do any better than Miss Foster. And he’s very stupid if he doesn’t see that for himself.”
“Would you like me to talk to him?”
“How sweet of you, darling,” the duchess said in a tone of voice one would use to flatter a child. “But I doubt Duff would want us to interest ourselves overmuch in his love affairs.”
“Even though you do,” the duke noted drolly.
“But never overtly, darling. Although I’m sorely tempted to arrange something with Miss Foster,” she said in a bemused tone.
“Arrange something?”
Elspeth laughed. “Does that frighten you?”
“Perhaps I’m more curious—about what you could concoct that would bring our Duff to heel.”
“There, you see? That’s how men look at marriage. For my part, I rather consider this, say, inchoate thought process as a means of making our dear boy happy.”
———
While the duchess was considering various ways she could patch up her son’s relationship with Annabelle, the marquis, ignorant of his mother’s machinations, was trying to drink himself into oblivion.
He wished to rid himself of the reoccurring and beguiling images of Annabelle that were assaulting—nay, hammering away at his senses. He was already on his second bottle, yet the incessant impressions were as potent as ever.
He decided to gamble, thinking to force himself to concentrate on other things. But he simply played by rote and instinct, unaware of his surroundings or conversations. Before long, his friends began to wonder if the stories about his problems after Waterloo were true. He didn’t answer when spoken to, nor care whether he won or lost, all the time drinking brandy like water.
The worried looks passing back and forth between his friends finally became too obvious to ignore; Duff set his glass down and said with a grimace, “It’s Annabelle Foster. We have been”—he paused—”seeing each other.” He shrugged. “She just left.”
Everyone said, “Ah…” and understood. Who didn’t know of the celebrated lady in question, of her pattern of disposing of lovers. Not to mention the recent gossip about a child that had the entire town buzzing.
Warr was blunt enough to bring up the subject. “Did she take your child with her?”
“Celia isn’t mine. She’s Annabelle’s sister’s child.” Even as he spoke, some part of him wished Cricket was his. The sensation was so startling, Duff immediately reached for the brandy bottle, refilled his glass, and tossed down the liquor.
“Walingame is claiming the child is his.”
“Not anymore.”
“Even with McWilliams handling the case?”
“He’s off the case.”
“So you are cleared of all gossip with regard to fathering a child on Miss Foster, and Walingame is as well.”
Duff looked up from refilling his glass. “True and true.”
“And darling Annabelle has left another blighted lover in her wake.”
“So it seems,” Duff muttered, lifting his glass to the table at large. “To future amours.”
“That’s the spirit, Darley,” Lord Avon pronounced, raising his glass. “Get right back in the saddle.”
After which, Duff received a great deal of advice on any number of ladies who could assuage his current black mood. He accepted everyone’s recommendations with good grace, and when he quit the game and left Brooks’s, he felt markedly improved, perhaps even half reconciled to Annabelle’s departure.
After all, he wasn’t the first man who had been discarded by the lovely Miss Foster. And no doubt, he wouldn’t be the last.
He even found such empty platitudes consoling for another hour or so as he sat in his study in St. James, emptying a bottle, his gaze on the Raeburn portrait over the mantel. Then, struck by an epiphany of sorts, he suddenly came to the conclusion that he didn’t actually set much store by platitudes. Putting his glass aside with the kind of slow deliberation typical of someone half in his cups, he called for Byrne. He needed Romulus saddled, he said, a change of clothes packed and a note delivered to Gray’s and one to his parents.
As he waited for the man from Gray’s to arrive, he surveyed the portrait with a faint smile. Annabelle couldn’t have traveled very far yet. It would have taken her some time to close her house, and a carriage couldn’t match the speed of prime horseflesh like Romulus.
In the midst of his reflections on his coming journey, he found the thought of seeing Cricket again was of keen interest to him as well.
Who would have thought?
Chapter 37
Duff came upon Annabelle’s carriage at the third coaching stop north of London, his swift ride made more manageable in terms of pain thanks to the copious amounts of brandy he’d imbibed. He recognized the yellow primroses painted on her carriage doors, those embellishments familiar to everyone of fashion in the city. And as though to put period to any doubts, Tom was seated beside the driver.
Handing Romulus over to an ostler, the marquis entered the busy inn. Moving directly to the portly man standing at a high counter in the lobby, he said, “Would you please direct me to Miss Foster and company?”
The man who designated himself the proprietor surveyed Duff with a jaundiced gaze. “I’m not right sure she wishes to be interrupted in her dinner.”
“I am a friend of hers.”
“You be a mite foxed, too.”
Duff almost asked if the man was her chaperone, but chose more wisely to hand over a large note. “I’m sure she won’t mind the interruption,” he murmured, “nor my current state of sobriety.”
The man’s expression changed at the sight of the banknote. Those exceeding twenty pounds were rare. “Miss Foster and her party be in the back parlor—last room at the end,” he offered, indicating the direction. “Would ye care to be announced, sir?”
Duff smiled. “That won’t be necessary. Do you have champagne?”
“Sorry, sir—we don’t have nothin’ so fine.”
“A good hock, then. As soon as may be,” Duff said, and strode away.
A few moments later, he was knocking on the door at the end of the hall and when Annabelle’s voice answered, bidding him enter, he smiled.
Suddenly all was right with the world.
Pushing the door open, he bent low to keep from knocking his head on the lintel and stepped into the parlor.
A chorus of gasps greeted him.
“I missed you profoundly,” he said, looking directly at Annabelle. It was the honest truth, and after drinking so long, he wasn’t capable of subtlety. “I hope I’m not imposing.”
“Not in the least!” Mrs. Foster exclaimed since her daughter appeared to be speechless. “Do come in and join us, dear boy!” she cried, jumping up and enthusiastically waving him in.
Candles had been lit against the approaching night, and in the flickering light, he found Annabelle more beautiful than ever—if that were possible, he thought. Her short curls gleamed pale and golden, her eyes were aglow, her lush mouth half-open in surprise. And if Duff had had any doubts about what he felt or wanted in the intervening hours, his uncertainties instantly vanished.
Mrs. Foster immediately gave up her chair so he could sit beside Annabelle. “Come, come, sit down, my dear boy,” she murmured, patting the back of the chair. “How very nice to see you again,” she added, since no one else seemed capable of speech. “Are you hungry?”
It was not a question he could answer without embarrassing himself; the hunger he felt was sharp-set and lustful. In lieu of the truth, he shook his head.
“Have a glass of wine, then,” Mrs. Foster offered, thinking she might have to orchestrate this entire scenario if these two young people didn’t soon find their tongues.
“I think I’ll take little Cricket for a walk in the twilight,” Molly interjected, leaping to her feet with Cricket dozing in her arms.
“I’ll take Betty and go with you,” Mrs. Foster said with a smile. “One’s legs become cramped afte
r riding in a carriage so long. A little walk will do us good.”
If either of the principals had had their wits about them, they would have seen the conspiratorial smiles pass between Mrs. Foster and Molly as they exited the parlor.
But momentarily witless as they were, their gazes locked, they neither saw nor cared. Only when the door slammed did they seem to regain their senses.
“I feel as though we are in the midst of a romantic farce,” Annabelle murmured, nodding at the door. “Our erstwhile chaperones have run off.”
Duff grinned. “Remind me to thank them. And may I say, you look lovely—more lovely than ever, in that shade of rose.”
“I gather you missed me,” Annabelle noted playfully, feeling in control once again with Duff grinning at her. Feeling happy as well.
“I’m afraid I did.”
“How brusquely unromantic,” she teased. “You sound displeased.”
“I was at first. You shouldn’t have left.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” She could speak as plainly as he.
He frowned a little. “Because I didn’t want you to.”
“I don’t recall you saying so at the time.”
“It might have had something to do with the very public venue in which you made your announcement.” He gazed at her from under his lashes. “And the surprise of it.”
“Let’s just say, I didn’t want any problems.”
“Such as?”
“Such as you asking me to stay, if you must know,” she said with a twitch of her lovely nose.
“Arrogant puss.”
“Duff, darling,” she said with a small sigh, “we are neither of us neophytes. You and I know exactly how the game is played. And this is a game, whether of short duration or long.”
“What if I’m interested in changing the rules?” he drawled. “What do you think of that?”
“It’s still a game, darling, and frankly, I don’t choose to play.”
“Then marry me and we will make our own amusements in our own way, with or without rules.”
“You’re drunk.” The scent of brandy on his breath was strong.
When someone loves you Page 24
