by Kim Bowman
Something danced in her eyes — surprise? Irritation? A pink flush tinted her fair skin, working its way up her neck and staining her cheeks.
Because he wasn’t leaving? Or because he’d mentioned sleeping quarters? When she gave no response, Jon shrugged and walked to the steps. As he put his foot on the first one, a dull thud reached his hearing. Unless he missed his guess, she’d just stomped her foot like an irate horse
The first door creaked as he pushed it inward and disturbed a cobweb clinging near the jamb. Jon whisked that away with the back of his hand and stared, uncertain if he should venture in.
He might not make it back out.
Something small and gray darted from beneath the bed and scrambled along the wall. As the mouse raced behind the green velvet curtain framing the window, Jon shook his head.
She hadn’t lied about the rodents. Dust danced in the finger of watery sunlight poking through filthy glass. More cobwebs draped from the ceiling, wispy fingers that seemed to beckon him to come closer.
The bed lay in utter ruin. The mattress — what remained of it — hung askew, pieces of wool and feathers escaping from seams that had split wide. More of the small bits lay on the floor surrounded by mouse droppings and tiny footprints cutting a trail through the layer of dust. A bed rope hung low, its end rodent-chewed. If he tried to sleep there, he’d fall through to the floor within seconds of lying down.
Right. He backed out and closed the door, taking care to latch it tightly. Not that doing so would keep the rodents inside, but it made him feel better.
The hallway boasted one more door. The place really was fairly modest, just as Grey had warned him. But was his old friend aware of the near ruin the cottage had fallen into?
The second bedchamber was in better shape. The bed had been tidied and made up with a tattered quilt. The dust cover lay wadded up against the still-shrouded wardrobe. A wooden ladderback chair sat next to the window.
Did she sit there and look out upon the land like a princess in an ivory tower?
Tapping his leg, Jon returned his attention to their situation. With only one workable bed between them, would she give up her ruse and run for the main house?
Suddenly he didn’t really want her to give up her deception so easily. The idea of ferreting out her reasons for hiding had taken on a certain appeal. He took a long look at the bed. Of course, he should be a gentleman and sleep on the cramped Grecian couch in the drawing room… let her continue to reside in the bedroom with a small amount of privacy.
But then, there was that one little thing… he wasn’t particularly regarded as a gentleman.
He exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him, still mulling over his next course of action. How long would Annabella keep up the pretense? She obviously was not cut out to be a servant of any kind.
Voices drifted from the sitting room. One of the servants? Perhaps his luggage had been delivered. He paused and listened.
“So I can have it done by suppertime, can I?” muttered Annabella. Something thumped. “I’ll show him what he can have done. He can have his backside on the road back to London, and then I’ll have done with him.”
Jon raised an eyebrow as he waited for the other person to reply. But it was Annabella who ended the silence.
“I presume the sleeping quarters are up there.”
Jon jerked upright as she repeated his words in a particularly haughty tone. He peered around the corner. Annabella was alone. And talking to herself.
She barked out a harsh laugh. “Well, he can have the bed and everything that’s been crawling in it, so long as he doesn’t expect to find me crawling about in it as well.”
Jon pressed the back of his hand to his lips and held in a chuckle. He should let her know he was standing there. A gentleman certainly would. Blame it on his devilish nature, but he discovered he’d much rather listen to the lady — for she certainly was that for all her attempts to hide it — rant about his presence. He risked a glance around the corner in time to see her kick at one of the shrouds.
She bent and picked up the cover using just the tips of her thumbs and forefingers. Holding it away from her body, she half pushed and half dragged it across the floor to a mountain of similar cloths. There, she dropped it and jumped back, but not quickly enough to escape the eruption of dust.
A delicate sneeze overtook her. Then another. After a third, she sniffed and tossed her hair.
“There, the comforts of the home await.” She stomped her foot. “I don’t know why it all had to be uncovered. It’s not like he’ll park his behind in more than one seat at a time.” She paused and leaned in close to the chair she’d just uncovered then chuckled. “And he won’t sit in this one more than once. Maybe a sudden trip to the floor’ll send Lord Seaside’s backside on its way.”
Seaside? Jon smiled at the deliberate twisting of his name — as insults went, it was fairly mild. Well, then. No need to wonder about her opinion of him. He’d certainly take care to avoid that particular chair. A snigger escaped despite Jon’s best effort to contain it, and he covered the sound with a cough as he stepped off the stone staircase.
Annabella whirled and placed her hands on her hips. She likely wouldn’t do that if she knew how the movement drew attention to her curvier aspects. Jon forced his gaze off her and around the room.
The furniture had, indeed, been uncovered, but it might have been kinder to leave it hidden. The muted afternoon sunlight clawing its way through the grimy window showed off every gouge in the wood, every pulled stitch in the upholstery. Jon shook his head. The poorest tenant working the land at Blackmoor lived better.
“Well? Are you going to stare at it or sit in it?”
Jon forced back a grimace of distaste. He’d rather sit on the ground outside now that he knew the state of things.
Then Annabella tilted her head and raised a questioning eyebrow at him. The gesture was so unconsciously arrogant, directly contradicting the image she was striving to present to him, he had to push back a laugh. Just who did she think to fool?
“I’ll… sit.”
Annabella’s mouth dropped open and she stared. Slowly, she straightened her back and allowed her arms to fall at her sides. After a moment, she closed her mouth.
What did I just agree to? The words had just popped out, obviously surprising her. They’d certainly surprised him. But now they were out he had no choice. So he eased onto the worn couch. It held his weight just fine, so he leaned back and stretched out his legs.
“Thank you. This will do nicely.” He nodded at the heap of furniture shrouds. “You can deal with those after you’ve brought me some refreshment.”
Annabella’s eyes widened. “Refreshment?”
Jon nodded. “Why yes. Some brandy would be excellent, though I doubt you have any here as yet — we’ll have to change that. Er… perhaps some tea? You… do have a cook fire going don’t you?”
Annabella stared at him, her expression impossible to read except for the murderous glint in her eye.
“As a matter of fact, I can offer you some lemonade.”
“Thank you. Lemonade will do nicely.” He hated the slop, but something was happening… something Jon couldn’t quite figure out. If he had to drink the pale, tart liquid, so be it. Though he’d really rather have the brandy.
She whirled and started toward the rear of the house, her hands forming catlike claws at her side. As though experiencing a second thought, she halted her steps and turned back to him. Still with a lethal gleam in her eye, she dropped into a shallow and half-hearted curtsey. “If there’s nothing else, my — lord.”
Chapter Three
Using both hands, Annabella squeezed Seabrook’s neck. At least in her mind, it was his neck she twisted instead of the remains of her very last lemon. But it was so much more satisfying to imagine the infuriating visitor’s neck under her hands. She gave the yellow rind a vicious twist. As the juice dribbled into the goblet of water with pathetic little splashes, th
e sour smell tormented her nostrils. If she never had another lemon…
She set the depleted rind on the table and paused. The yellow peel performed a slow unfurling, like the sudden bloom of a wild rose on the trellis outside, lending the impression it was somehow still living. She frowned. As revolting as it was, the bit of lemon was all that was left of her edible sustenance. Once she gave it to him, she’d have nothing to eat unless she wanted to consume sticks and bugs.
A quick shake of her head dispelled the notion of starvation. Abby would bring her some food.
Annabella crossed to the window and peered out, but no one strode along the pathway toward Rose Cottage. With a sigh, she returned to the table where she’d been preparing the lemonade for Seabrook.
Her gaze fell on the little silver pot Juliet had tucked into her canvas valise. Annabella had danced with delight when she’d discovered it contained a generous measure of sugar. That had been the only thing to make the lemonade palatable. She reached for the container. The silver had gone black with tarnish. Wherever Juliet had pilfered the sugar pot from, it hadn’t seen use in some time. When she lifted the lid to discover only half of the white sugar remained, Annabella’s spirits fell a bit. If she added a pinch to his lemonade, she’d have less for herself. Shouldn’t she save the confection for her own use? After all, she hadn’t invited him into her home.
Still… The lemonade would be quite bitter without it.
Of course, she wouldn’t be drinking it, so why should that matter to her? She started to set the lid in place but paused with her hand hovering over the sugar bowl. It would be truly horrid to offer him just lemon dripped into water with no sugar to cut the tartness. Adding just one pinch would help. And maybe it would improve his insufferable disposition to boot.
All the sugar in the world won’t sweeten that one.
A smile tugged at her lips. Well, she didn’t have all the sugar in the world, but maybe enough… The smile blossomed, and her mood lifted as she set the lid on the table and lifted the sugar bowl. Humming to herself, she upended the pot and tipped the contents into the goblet then picked up a spoon and gave a hearty stir.
“M’lady?” asked a soft voice from behind her.
With a gasp, Annabella whirled, clutching at her chest where her heart beat wildly. “Gracious, you gave me a fright.”
Abby stood in the open doorway, a wicker basket in one hand and one of Annabella’s best canvas valises looped over her other arm. “I sent Herbert to the front door with Lord Seabrook’s luggage… told him I was still working in the kitchen, that it’s a disgrace and in no condition for him to traipse through.” She glanced around the room as she spoke, her features well schooled, so it was impossible to determine if she had an opinion.
Annabella studied the room as well, taking in the dust that coated everything and the cobwebs that clung to the ceiling. I did my best. A mutinous notion rose, and she pushed out her lower lip, but thought better of pouting and quickly arranged her features into a proper expression.
When the maid placed the basket on the wooden table next to the lemonade, the aroma of roasted meat drifted up and curled into Annabella’s nose, beckoning for her to come closer. Closing her eyes, she bent and inhaled deeply, uncaring if Abby heard the appreciative rumble from her hungry stomach.
“Thank you,” she murmured with a sigh. “This smells heavenly.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Lady Annabella, but Cook sent the meal along for Lord Seabrook.”
The maid’s words doused Annabella’s sense of satisfaction sure as a cold, wet rain put out a fire. No! Her eyes sprung open, and she stared at the girl in dismay. Annabella pressed a hand to her stomach as her sense of elation wilted. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course.”
Abby’s glance slid from the basket to Annabella with thinly veiled interest. Then she rolled her lips inward.
Annabella pointed to the valise. “Are those my dresses?”
“Oh! Yes, m’lady.” The bag landed on the table next to the basket with a soft whoosh. “I got everything you told me.”
“Thank you.” Annabella forced her lips into a smile. “I’ll see to it that Lord Seabrook receives his meal. Remember our arrangement when you go back to the house. No one must know that I’m here.”
Abby opened her mouth and drew a breath, but after only a slight hesitation, she closed it again with a single nod, curtsied, and slipped out the door.
Annabella longed to carry the valise to the room upstairs and go through it. Except she no longer had a room upstairs. Without asking permission, her hands balled themselves into fists. But then the aroma of meat and freshly baked bread wafted upward again, and her stomach contracted with searing, knife-sharp pain.
She stole a glance at the basket. No! He can’t have it. If I don’t eat something soon, I will surely perish in a most horrible manner.
Decision made, she darted her glance around the kitchen. There! On the sideboard! She scooped up the basket and her valise and carried both to the table near the window. Out of the way so even if he came into the kitchen — and she’d do everything in her power to keep him out — the meal might go unnoticed.
Something bumped from beyond the door to the great room. Was he coming before she could stop him? After a glance over her shoulder to be certain, Annabella shoved the basket against the wall and tossed her valise in front of it. Then she drew a deep breath, snatched up the tray that held the goblet of lemonade, and carried it toward the door. Balancing the tray was tricky — how did the servants learn such things? Finally, she managed to lift the latch with her elbow. Then she turned around and pushed the door open with her backside.
~~~~
After the footman left, Jon set his traveling bag on the steps. He’d take it up later. The way Annabella had balked at tidying the great room, he probably didn’t have a prayer of persuading her to finish opening the bedchamber upstairs.
How long had she been hiding in the cottage? Since she’d sent the maid to London, most likely. Had the little imposter arrived on Grey’s doorstep on the second or the third? Either way, seven or eight days was quite a long while for pretty little Annabella Price to have spent taking care of herself. No wonder she looked a bit ragged. Had she slept in that excuse for a bedchamber along with the mice?
He shook his head. What the devil were those two silly chits up to?
The hallway door opened, and the object of his musing glided through clutching a silver tray in both hands. Speaking of devils…
“Here’s your refreshment. M’lord,” she said in a brassy voice that sounded far more like a servant’s than it had when he’d first come upon her. But that slight hesitation before addressing him directly told the tale.
Jon hid a smile by looking away from her and nodding at the drum table by the window. “You may set it there. Thank you.”
She fairly swaggered across the room with a sway that he imagined would hold up against that of any bit of muslin to be found in Covent Garden. Good sense stole away his inclination to smile. Not the way to be thinking of your best friend’s sister… He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to wipe off the sudden frown pinching his forehead. When he opened them again, the urge to smile returned.
She had placed the tray closest to the broken chair. Hoping for a bit of entertainment, perhaps? Thinking “Seaside” might fall on his backside and then run off, eh? Oh, yes, I found your little surprise. The crack running the length of the front leg had been obvious once he’d figured out where to look.
Switching the identical chairs had been a simple matter. His only concern had been whether she would walk in on him changing them around. But she’d taken her time about bringing the lemonade, and he’d accomplished the move just before the footman had arrived with his luggage. Odd how the servant had presented to the front door. Perhaps the staff at Wyndham Green played by less formal rules than those in Grey’s London townhouse. Though, even there, the Duke of Wyndham encouraged a familiarity most would consider unseemly. Jon shrug
ged. Time for dwelling on that later.
After he decided what to do about the lady currently pretending not to be one.
“Won’t you have a seat?” As he walked to the chair she’d none-too-subtly assigned him, an imp of mischief seized his mind, and Jon gestured toward the other seat with his most congenial smile. “We can discuss my… expectations of you whilst I’m staying here.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth gaped. But she shored herself up admirably, clamping her lips together and tossing her head. “Very well — my lord.” She perched lightly on the edge of the chair, her back as straight and her demeanor as proper as those of any fine young lady’s.
Jon caught his breath, waiting for the inevitable crack of wood, ready to spring forward and save her from a nasty spill.
The chair remained intact. Had he confused them in the switch? No, it wasn’t possible. Still… He could hardly crouch down and examine the legs of his own chair without showing his hand. Maybe he should pace… or stand near the hearth rather than taking a seat. No, that wouldn’t work. Striving not to appear too hesitant, he lowered his bulk onto the stained ivory damask.
The movement from the other side of the table was barely perceptible, and he only caught it from the corner of his eye, but Annabella tensed and leaned forward.
His chair held, and he squashed the impulse to rock it and make certain it would continue to do so. Cautiously, he eased out a breath then turned to meet Annabella’s gaze.
Her oh-so-straight shoulders drooped, but her gaze sharpened, narrowed in on him as she leaned in his direction. She laid one hand on the drum table, almost as a feeble shield against an expected onslaught.
He toyed with his goblet, pushing away revulsion at the streaked and somewhat grimy appearance of the crystal. Sunlight splashed through the filmy window and fell across the tray upon which his refreshment rested. Instead of an answering flash from the silver, the light was swallowed by the blackish film of tarnish. Surely it wouldn’t take much effort to polish the serving tray.
