by Kim Bowman
“Blackmoor. And as my wife, you’ll certainly be no prisoner.” He picked up the pace again. Apparently, as far as he was concerned, the subject had been closed.
~~~~
Jon slowed after a few steps when he realized she wasn’t keeping up. The familiar rhythmic clanking of iron on iron grew louder as they walked, and within a block, they rounded the corner and stopped in front of a blacksmith’s yard. A sign proclaiming the yard to be Johnson’s Livery dangled from an iron bar overhead.
“Wait here. I’ll only be a moment,” murmured Jon, dropping his bag at Annabella’s feet.
Without a word, Annabella turned her face away from him and dropped her large bag next to his. But she clutched her valise tighter as she pressed her back against the block wall.
“Where else does he ruddy think I’d go?” Her muttered words followed him into the stable.
The livery owner was more than happy to set Jon up with his best curricle, a ragged and battered vehicle that appeared to be in even worse repair than Vicar Hamilton’s Tilbury. One of the horses nickered in protest as the groom pulled him from his stall, but soon hooves clattered on stone as the pair of bays was led into the stable yard.
Annabella stood exactly as he’d left her, back to the wall, her gaze darting up and down the street as if she expected to be assaulted and robbed at any moment.
“Has anyone come by?” he asked, aware that the likely answer was no.
She jumped and turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, and for a moment he wasn’t certain she recognized him. “No,” she whispered with a quaver in her voice. When she pushed away from the wall, her hands trembled.
The knowledge that she had truly been frightened pricked at his sensitivities as Jon loaded his bag and Annabella’s larger valise onto the back of the curricle. When he reached for the smaller needlepoint bag, she once again shook her head and pulled it against her middle, sliding her cloak over it. What did she have inside? Perhaps it was best not to consider that overmuch lest it be a weapon of some sort.
“Shall we depart, my lady?” Giving what he hoped she would find an encouraging smile rather than the grin of a jackanapes, Jon offered his hand. Even so, he couldn’t stop his widening grin when she gritted her teeth and accepted his assistance. The first fingers of sunlight were poking upward on the horizon as they left the city through the Cook Street Gate, one of the stone archways that had once been connected by a fortified wall. Annabella’s eyes widened as they drove beneath the gate, and she twisted in the seat, gazing over her shoulder, apparently studying the ancient structure.
Heaving a sigh, she turned back around. “How long until we arrive?”
Jon studied the lethargic pace of the horses pulling them. “About an hour.”
“Oh.” She picked at the hem of her dark blue cloak.
“We should arrive in time for a light morning meal.”
And then? He shook his head. Only heaven knew the answer to that. Heaven and the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor. He could only hope Gran was having one of her better days. He leaned back on the cracked leather seat and listened to the squeak of the carriage as they bounced over the rutted road.
“Is Blackmoor your home? Do you live there alone?” she asked, finally breaking the silence between them.
A smile tugged at his lips. “I grew up there, but the property belongs to my father, the Duke of Blackmoor.” He shrugged. “And… it will pass on to my brother, Nicholas, as will the title.”
“Are you taking me to endure your father’s inspection, then?” she asked quietly.
Jon’s inner warning system went on the alert. If he’d learned anything, it was that when Annabella seemed quiet and subdued, she was anything but.
“My parents are in London for the Season.” Thank the stars. “My younger sisters have accompanied them — Daphne is coming out. And Nicholas is traveling on business, accompanied by his wife, Ellen.”
“I… see.” She stared at her hands folded in her lap. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “Then we’ll be — alone?”
Ah… so that was it. The trepidation of a new bride being carried home. Not for the first time, he questioned his course. He might have tried a different tack, should have, really. But impatience and opportunity had collided, and he’d taken control of his future. He could only hope not disastrously so, though at the moment he had a fair share of doubt.
“My grandmother resides there,” he confessed without looking at Annabella. “The Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor. Though I call her Gran.”
“Oh.” She stared into the distance. “I look forward to meeting her.”
~~~~
The terrain they passed on the way to Blackmoor reminded her of home — of Wyndham Green, she corrected, for obviously that was no longer her home. Once she’d resented being made to stay there, but now it represented a safe haven. She would much rather be back there than on the road to a stranger’s house.
Annabella sighed. Strange how she’d learned more about Seabrook in the short time they’d been riding to his home than in the handful of days they’d spent together at Rose Cottage. Maybe she’d be able to entreat his grandmother for help to make him see how unsuited the two of them were. His voice had taken on a tender quality when he spoke of her. Obviously he cared about the dowager a great deal.
She couldn’t stay with him, of course. The idea was ludicrous. Besides, she had to get to London. Had to reach Juliet before Markwythe found her out and… Annabella sighed. Truthfully, she had no idea what the duke would do to her friend, but she doubted it would go well for a maid pretending to be a lady.
A gust of wind strengthened the smell clinging in the air. Annabella coughed and wrinkled her nose. “What is that reek?”
Seabrook inhaled deeply and let out a long, contented sigh. “The smell of home,” he murmured, pointing to their left.
Annabella followed his gesture with her gaze, squinting at what looked like a row of red brick chimneys standing in the middle of nowhere. Pale, yellow-tinged smoke puffed upward from the two closest ones. As they drew closer, her eyes began to water, and the smell seeped into her mouth, carrying with it the taste of rotten eggs. She coughed and her stomach threatened embarrassment.
“Iron smelting,” said Seabrook, gesturing to more chimneys on the other side of the road. “They use coke in the process — that’s a porous substance that they burn to melt the iron. Made of ash and sulfur.”
“Sulfur!” Covering her nose and mouth with one hand, Annabella swiveled in her seat and stared at the grinning jackanapes driving the carriage.
Seabrook broke into raucous laughter. “Come now, it’s not that bad. I promise you’ll grow used to it before too long.”
He was wrong. She’d never grow used to that stench. No more than she would ever grow used to thinking of the man seated next to her as her husband.
“You really are the spawn of the devil,” she whispered, fighting back the nausea. “And you’ve brought me to hell.”
Chapter Thirteen
By mid-morning, the sun had chased away most of the mist, and thank goodness they had left the horrid stink several miles back. As the carriage swayed and creaked along the rutted road, Annabella found herself rocking to the rhythm.
Back… and forth.
Her head nodded, and she blinked several times, hardly able to keep her eyes open. At a light touch on her arm, she jerked upright and glared at Seabrook.
“We’ll be arriving at Blackmoor Hall shortly.”
With a soft moan, Annabella stretched and sat up. Dappled sunlight poked through the trees overhead and played across his features. The whimsical effect somehow made him appear younger.
I don’t even know how old he is.
“Annie,” he murmured his voice taking on a tenderness she simply could not accept. Not in that moment — maybe not ever.
She stiffened. “Annabella. My name… is Annabella. Please afford me the courtesy of using it.”
From the corner of her eye,
she caught a reflexive movement of his hand, but he didn’t touch her. “I just wanted to say… I know things didn’t work out — that you never expected to find yourself—” He released a frustrated sigh.
“Never expected to find myself shackled to a despicable man I scarcely know? To find myself ruined by an objectionable rake who took advantage of me?” The words seemed to fly from her lips of their own accord.
Stop, just stop talking. You’ve only yourself to blame. All he did was stand by you after— She pressed her fingers hard against her lips. Yes… after.
For a while, only the squeak of the carriage and the plodding footfalls of the horses broke the silence.
“I suppose I deserve that.” He drew in a sharp breath “Annie—”
They rounded a bend and emerged from the canopy of elms to reveal a vast carpet of green that swept to the base of what surely was a castle. Annabella’s heart stammered at the majesty sprawled before her.
Ivy crept over the rough gray stone, starting from each end and meeting over the door in the middle. Towers rose above the structure and rounded the two outer corners, with two smaller turrets on either side of the entrance. Annabella counted three floors in the central portion, which looked a bit older, with two separate wings on either side, each with two stories. A spectacular drive circled through the yard and curved up to the front door.
“I’ve never seen anything so grand,” she whispered. She risked a glance at Seabrook to find him smiling as he watched her. “Did you truly grow up here?”
He lifted one shoulder and inclined his head in a lazy half-shrug. “I did, indeed.”
The lawn circled around a central garden planted with neat clusters of brilliant color. Dark green privet hedges contained the flowerbeds with angular lines. Wyndham Green’s grounds were little more than an untamed jungle compared to these.
As the carriage pulled to a stop, double doors of dark iron opened, and three footmen scurried forward as though they had been waiting for someone to stop by. Dressed in gray from head to foot, they moved with perfect coordination, reminding Annabella of busy little squirrels.
Annabella squinted at the ornate sculpted-stone columns framing the door. BLACKMOOR had been chiseled into the stone, centered above the entrance, and above that what she assumed was the family crest. Her family crest now, she supposed.
“A wolf and a griffin?” She twisted around to capture Seabrook in her gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Which are you?”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Who says I have to be either?”
Annabella lowered her eyes to avoid answering his quip or his smile. Both, then.
One of the footmen accepted the reins, and Seabrook jumped from the carriage. Then he turned and extended his hand. “May I, Lady Seabrook?”
Lady Seabrook. Annabella stared at his hand. A pale doeskin glove stretched over his palm, so snug it might well have been his skin. Her heart stirred. Persistent quivering began in her middle. If she took his hand and stepped from the carriage… She swallowed. When I step from this carriage, I shall be admitting I’m his wife.
It hadn’t seemed real, had been more of a hindrance, some inconvenient circumstance to be dispensed with so she could move on with her life. Her gaze wandered to his shoulder, to his mouth where his lips still entertained a smile, and up to his eyes, which had softened and warmed.
Swallowing hard, she settled her hand into his. When he closed his fingers around hers, a shiver rippled outward from her middle and circled round to her back. Meeting Seabrook’s eyes, Annabella calmly stepped over the rim and out of the carriage, accepting his assistance — and her new life — with a murmured thank you.
Then her feet were on the ground, and his gaze lingered along with his hand. Her knees weakened. Her heart fluttered like a tiny bird’s wings. She touched her tongue to her lips and trembled when he caught his breath. Seabrook shifted his stance and reached for her valise on the floor of the carriage.
Her attention drifted to the garden, where tall plumes of lavender and white flowers bent in the gentle breeze. Rising taller than two men put together sat a bronze statue, almond shaped eyes appearing to glint in the morning sunlight, one paw raised as though to capture the hapless human who walked beneath it.
“Is that—” She leaned forward to look at the animal more closely. Her stomach squeezed. Anxiety coiled as she took in the long whip-like tail, pointed ears. “—a cat?”
Seabrook raised one dark eyebrow. “Yes.”
Shudders rolled along Annabella’s spine. “I detest cats. Detest them! Hateful, arrogant little creatures, most ready to leap out and cause harm at the smallest opportunity.” She whirled around and pinned him with a hard stare. “Not unlike you, actually.”
If her words about his character troubled him, he gave no indication, yet he stared into the garden without saying a word, and he appeared to have gone a bit pale.
She took pity on his obvious trepidation. “Oh, don’t worry, Seabrook. I’m not going to force you to take down the statue. Just as long as no living and breathing cats are underfoot, the bronze one can stay.”
He jerked his head around to meet her eyes again. “Right. Of course.” Then he offered his arm. “Shall we go inside?”
~~~~
Icy shivers worked their way over Jon’s skin as he stepped across the threshold with Annabella on his arm. One never knew exactly what to expect on arrival at Blackmoor Hall. He nodded at Samuel, standing rigid as a stick just inside the entrance, gray hair perfectly combed, chin tucked, shoulders back. Was the black coat hanging a bit looser than the last time Jon had been at Blackmoor?
“Welcome home, my lord,” said the butler.
“Thank you.” He drifted to a stop and glanced at Annabella. “This is Samuel. He’s been the butler for as long as I remember. Samuel, Lady Seabrook, my new wife.”
Samuel’s quick blink was the only hint of surprise he was likely to show — at least within Jon’s presence. “At your service, Lady Seabrook,” Samuel said with a polite inclination of his head.
“How does her grace fare today?” asked Jon, steeling himself for the answer.
Samuel sent a brief worried glance toward the salon. “She’s resting in her suite after a particularly… active morning, my lord.”
Jon released his pent-up breath. “Very well.” He nodded at the bags near the archway into the salon. “We shall need my suite opened and our luggage delivered there.” He stepped forward with the intent of placing Annabella’s small valise with the other bags.
“Thank you, but I shall carry that one.” Glaring her defiance, Annabella nearly took his fingers when she snatched it from him.
As she hugged the bag close against her body, Jon held up his hands and stepped back. He nodded to the waiting footman, who gathered the luggage and hastened toward the servants’ stairs.
“Your rooms have already been opened, my lord,” informed Samuel.
Jon raised an eyebrow in question. “They have?”
“Yes, my lord. Her grace made the request two days ago, after she, ah…” He cleared his throat. “…became aware of your impending arrival.”
Annabella stiffened and edged away, and Jon tempered his irritation, knowing how the exchange must have sounded to her. He hated what Gran referred to as “the sight.” Couldn’t bring himself to fully believe in it. Yet he couldn’t deny she often had an uncanny awareness of things she couldn’t possibly know, particularly as related to the comings and goings of family members.
“Lady Seabrook requires a morning meal. Chocolate and pastries sent to my suite,” he instructed Samuel. Then he turned to Annabella. “This way, Lady Seabrook.” He didn’t bother offering his elbow. Likely she wouldn’t take it anyway, given her reaction to the butler’s inadvertent disclosure.
Upon entering the salon, her steps slowed as she craned her neck and looked around. Then she stopped altogether and twirled slowly, lifting her gaze toward the ornate sculptured woodwork, the cutouts above the intricat
e railing in the galley that rimmed the upper level, and the mural on the ceiling. Her wide eyes and slightly parted lips reminded him of exactly how much he’d taken the splendor of his home for granted throughout most of his life.
“It’s astounding.” Her gaze darted here and there as though unable to light on any one thing, and she absently slipped a hand through his arm.
Though her touch was light, Jon found himself acutely aware of the pressure as they crossed the salon and began to ascend the wide marble staircase. When they were midway up, he caught a movement near the first landing and faltered. A flash of green reflected in the light from the sconces. Blast! He knew those eyes. The cat hated him, hated everyone but his grandmother, in fact, and went out of its way to make its opinions known.
Jon laid one hand on the balustrade and turned, angling his body so as to block Annabella’s progress up the steps. He swept a hand outward over the salon. “I used to stand here as a boy and look out on the room when Mother and Father were hosting dinner parties. Nicholas always watched from the galley, but I wanted to be as close to the action as possible without being discovered and sent off to bed.”
Annabella tilted her head and blinked up at him, her lips hovering just at the edge of a shy smile, her green eyes — so similar to those of the feline he was trying to avoid her seeing — dancing with mirth. “So your tendency towards interloping began at an early age.”
Jon chuckled and risked a glance over Annabella’s shoulder. The wretched cat performed an acrobatic leap to the top of the railing and crouched there. Keeping a wary eye on him, she licked her paw several times and brushed it over one ear. He tried glaring at her, but she simply stood and presented her back to him then hunkered down again and continued cleaning herself.
Unable to put it off any longer, he moved to Annabella’s other side, hoping to block her view of the galley to their right. “My suite is just along this way,” he said, pointing to the left.
