by Kim Bowman
~~~~
The servants had done a fair job of surreptitiously watching her. Oh, by all means, please follow me around. It certainly wouldn’t do if Lord Seabrook’s bride got lost in her new home — or worse, got caught making off with the family treasures. And she’d certainly seen plenty of those.
If the oil paintings and marble sculptures prominently displayed in every room she’d poked her head into were any indication, Lord Seabrook apparently had plenty of feathers to fly with. Or was it only family money? Annabella snorted. Perhaps her husband was purse-pinched. That might explain the harrowing ride on the mail coach.
Well, she certainly wouldn’t have to worry about finances in the foreseeable future. She smiled as she crept through the salon toward the rear of the house. No one would find the banknotes where she’d hidden them under the mattress.
Each step across the plush carpet molded it around her satin slippers like a crimson caress. Portraits hung at intervals along the wall, stern faces she didn’t recognize, except a couple bore a resemblance to Seabrook without his irritating grin. She shivered. It must be some sort of ancestral gallery.
On the stone wall at the far end of the salon hung a long leather shield decorated with metal knobs around the edge. A simpler version of the family crest sculpted over the door to the castle had been tooled into the leather. A lethal set of medieval battle axes formed an X on the stone wall to the left. On the opposite side, a pair of battered broadswords mimicked the placement of the axes. A shudder raced through her. Had some ancestor of Seabrook wielded these weapons in battle? Had the cold metal armaments tasted human flesh as they delivered mortal blows?
She turned to the right, anxious to remove herself from the deadly tools. The hallway was narrower. Charcoal sketches and small paintings clung to the walls on both sides, spaced between lit sconces, which provided only light enough to negotiate.
She paused in front of a drawing of three women standing in a meadow, dresses fluttering about their feet, dark hair cascading over their shoulders. Two of them seemed to be plucking bows while the third looked on.
“Well, they certainly do like weaponry here,” she murmured.
As she took another step forward, candlelight danced off a modest oil painting of a black-haired woman standing alone in a field. A pale cream dress in the fashion of a previous generation kissed the ground, completely obscuring her feet. Her hair was piled on top of her head, but she wore no hat, and Annabella could almost feel the wind rifling through the dark curls framing her face. A bow had been slung over her back and just showed above her right shoulder. She cradled a gleaming silver arrow in the crook of her right elbow like one would an infant. But it was her grin that halted Annabella’s next breath.
Seabrook’s grin.
“I’ve married into a family of grinning jackanapes.” With a sigh, Annabella moved on.
The door at the far end was the first she’d seen that hadn’t been open. She’d had never liked closed doors… never appreciated being told she must stay out. The smooth oak cooled her palm as she defiantly pushed on it. Surely the staff wouldn’t follow her through. But she glanced over her shoulder nonetheless. Seeing no one, she shut the heavy door with a firm click, turned, and surveyed her surroundings.
The room overpowered. It loomed around her, intimidating. Bookshelves lined every wall from the floor to the ceiling, making the study seem much smaller than it was. Although several lamps shined and the curtains were drawn back, the dark décor seemed to cast everything in a dominating shadow. Yet, it didn’t seem dim, just… depressing, not happy.
Nothing at all like Seabrook.
Annabella tried to picture him sitting at the oversized mahogany and bronze writing desk, but she simply couldn’t imagine him working in such a study. At least not the Seabrook who’d stayed at the cottage. But what of the Seabrook who had grown up at Blackmoor Hall? Did he enjoy living there? Now that they were married, would they live there together, or did he have a home of his own?
She shook her head. Why should she care? It wasn’t as if she’d be with him very long, so why worry overmuch about it?
Her heart seemed to drop just enough to make her stomach flutter. The sensation was foreign. Something she’d never experienced before. Disappointment? No, that couldn’t possibly be. She was just anxious about being caught snooping was all. Would one of the servants alert Seabrook that she had invaded what was obviously a very private room?
I should leave. But she didn’t want to. She was doing nothing wrong. Besides, as her inconvenient husband seemed so fond of reminding her, she was Lady Seabrook.
With a sigh, she moved to the matching mahogany armchairs in front of the desk. Exotically sculpted griffins with their wings thrown back as if holding up the armrests dominated the chairs. Annabella trailed her fingers over one of the carvings. Each feather had been etched out with precise detail. Her hand continued up to the head. The cold bronze stood in sharp contrast against the smoother wood of the rest of the body.
She glanced behind the desk to the window. A bronze pedestal stood on each side, but the bright sunlight streaming through the glass made it difficult to make out the figures on top of the stands. Transfixed by curiosity, Annabella stepped around the desk to get a closer look. The pedestal on the left held a wolf statue. “Oh!” Annabella jerked backward and shied away. The animal seemed to be leaping off the stand, teeth bared, eyes intent on his prey — her.
She stepped to the other pedestal. No less intimidating was the griffin. Wings expanded, beak open, it appeared to be swooping down on her. They were both breathtaking and frightening at the same time.
She backed up until the desk chair stopped her. With a final glance at the statues, she sat at the desk. Everything was quite neatly arranged. The writing dais held a fresh brown blotter. A pewter sculpture of a griffin’s leg and foot to the right of the platform turned out to be an inkwell with several quills resting in tiny receptacles around the base.
Annabella caught her breath. “I can send a letter to London,” she whispered. Surely one of the servants would be willing to earn an extra bit of coin to post the letter from the mail depot in Coventry. She frowned. How could she work out the problem of sending Juliet some funds with which to return to Wyndham Green? Would the servant know how to handle the matter?
Seabrook would know.
She didn’t want to involve him. She still had no idea as to his intent. Why hadn’t he simply held his tongue when Vicar Hamilton had discovered them at the brook? He couldn’t possibly want to be shackled to her any more than she desired the union.
She opened the narrow drawer beneath the writing dais. Fine ivory-toned paper had been stacked inside as though waiting for her. Her shoulders relaxed for perhaps the first time since her untimely marriage, and she smiled as she lifted out a fresh sheet, smoothing it on the blotter in front of her.
Then she chose a quill, pleased to find the well filled with black ink. She placed the tip of the quill to the paper, paused, and lifted it again. Should she address the note to “Annabella” or to Markwythe? The idea of writing to her stepbrother in the guise of her mother left a bad taste in her mouth. He’d know. He already knew she’d sent an imposter. The quill tickled as she brushed it along one cheek. Aunt Charity! Her aunt would see that “Annabella” received her message. She had to warn her friend and help her leave London.
She set the quill to the paper again.
“Please don’t do that.”
Annabella jumped, jamming the quill into the paper. Ink spilled from the snapped feather, and she let out a curse. Then she narrowed her eyes at the annoying man standing in the doorway.
“Seabrook, it’s terribly rude to sneak up on someone,” she mumbled as he crossed the room toward her. “If I had one prayer it would be for the devil to put me out of my misery and take you now!” She looked up and caught his somber expression. Her breath hitched.
“Annie, please don’t.”
How could she answer whe
n she had no idea what he meant?
“Annabella, please.” Jon touched her arm. Liquid warmth ran up her arm and exploded in her heart. Her heart? At his touch?
The breath left her lungs, and she jerked away. But something in his face… his eyes… gave her pause. A part of her wanted to confess everything to him. Beg him to help her. But she was still so angry at him for allowing Vicar Hamilton the knowledge he’d compromised her so they’d have to get married…
“Don’t what?” she asked, injecting a chill into her tone.
“Don’t alert your friend to the fact that you’ve been found out,” he said simply.
“Seabrook, I—”
“Annabella, for once in your life — I’m sorry.” He ran one hand through his hair. “I believe it is past time we had a conversation.
“A conversation about… what precisely?”
Seabrook eased into the room, wariness gleaming in those nearly black eyes that he kept locked on her. “I sent Grey a message — the morning after my arrival at Wyndham Green. He was…” He shrugged. “…concerned regarding your welfare. I dispensed with his concern by confirming his suspicions that you were, in fact, not in London, and I assured him of your wellbeing.”
Horror chilled her blood. “You knew?” she murmured slowly, trying to work it out as she spoke. “All that time and you knew who I was? I thought the vic—” She shook her head. “Why did you let—” A purple mist swamped her vision.
“Annie!” barked out Seabrook, startling her with the alarm in his voice.
Breathe! Annabella inhaled sharply, and the room cleared. Seabrook leaned in close, and she retreated another step, rapping her ankle on something hard. Frowning, she glanced down at the griffin’s pedestal.
“Did you find it amusing to have me acting as your maid?”
Seabrook quickly glanced away. Not so fast, however, that she didn’t catch the twitch of his lips and the merry little twinkle in his eyes. Fury swarmed through her veins.
“You horrid, wretched, vile—” She rolled her hands into fists. If she could get just one good strike in before he reacted, it would be worth whatever he might do to her. “I’m not some pathetic child to be toyed with like — like—” She broke off with a gasp.
A message to Markwythe! Juliet!
Seabrook made an impatient slicing gesture in the air. His dark eyes hardened into black onyx. “I never considered you someone to be trifled with. I wasn’t certain who you were. And I didn’t know for certain who was calling herself Annabella in London. I suspected, but I didn’t know at the start.” He took a step forward, crowding her against the window. The air between them became charged.
“Why did you say nothing?”
“I—” He pulled a hand down his face, drew in a deep breath, and shook his head. “I can’t answer that. I… don’t know.”
Annabella willed her heart to slow its incessant charge against her chest. He didn’t know? What manner of answer…? She stole a closer look. She must have gone mad, for he looked almost… vulnerable.
“What reason do you have for asking me to refrain from contacting Juliet?”
“Your broth—” He sighed. “I merely confirmed to his grace that the lady in London is not you and that you are unharmed. He has no idea she is the daughter of a servant. When I left he was… tolerating her presence. I think she fascinates him, actually. And I do not believe the two of you intended… harm. If you send your missive…”
Markwythe will know. Already does know. A message would compound their deception, and it might cause him to go harder on Juliet.
“What am I to do? I cannot just leave her there,” snapped Annabella.
Seabrook’s expression softened. “On my honor, Grey will not harm your friend.”
Desire to believe him rushed the words from her mouth. “How can you say that? How do you know?”
“Because I am closer to him than to my own brother.” Shaking his head, Jon spread his hands. “He’s intrigued by her… and he is aware she is not you. Had he in it to harm her, he’d have called her out.”
Annabella pondered his words. Perhaps she might wait…“If it means so much to you, then—”
The soft knock on the study door startled them both.
“Come.” Seabrook stepped away from her and turned, carrying his electrifying intensity with him.
Samuel entered slowly, his spine straight, chin tucked. “Begging your pardon, my lord. Her grace requests your presence at dinner along with your wife. The attire is to be formal.”
Seabrook might have cursed under his breath, though Annabella couldn’t be certain, and the butler showed no indication in his stoic features.
“Thank you, Samuel. You may inform her grace that we shall be there.”
“Robert Carson has been assigned as your valet, my lord, and Marie Penny shall take on the responsibilities of Lady Seabrook’s maid.” With a quick nod, Samuel turned and walked from the room, closing the door with a soft click.
Seabrook turned and held Annabella in his regard. “I assume you brought something suitable.”
She shuddered. “I shall not be — joining you for dinner. I’m…” What excuse could she use? Perhaps the one her mother had often used when she was avoiding callers. “I fear I’m far too exhausted from traveling to accept an invitation to dinner.”
Seabrook’s grin returned. “You misunderstand, Lady Seabrook. My grandmother was not issuing an invitation. That, my darling wife, was a summons from the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jon tugged at his cravat — he’d tied the blasted thing too tightly and already wanted only to remove it. Where was Annabella? Did she not understand the importance of presenting in a timely fashion?
He’d no sooner thought her name when the door to the bedchamber opened, and she stepped through, stealing his ability to breathe.
Glorious curls adorned her head and framed her face like a golden crown. An arrangement of lace and pearls clung to the left side of her head. A few strands of hair had been allowed to fall along the back of her neck, and he longed to brush them aside and press kisses where her neck met her bare shoulders.
Jon swallowed hard and forced his eyes to move on to the cream-colored puffed sleeves that held fast to her upper arms, the ivory silk gloves that slouched just below her elbow. The silk of her gown gathered about her womanly curves like a caress.
Unbidden, his fingers stirred against his thumbs. A ribbon of rosebuds crafted from blush-colored silk circled her skirt about midway to the floor, and below that, three tiers of finely stitched lace overlapped one another, each darkening in hue. The lowest tier reminded him of the pink roses at the cottage.
He shifted his eyes upward again. Their gazes met and the barest hint of a smile teased her lips as she performed a slow pirouette. Her gown flared outward, skimming the floor with her movement, revealing the tips of pale blue and silver slippers.
When she stopped, she spread open the blue fan clasped in her slender fingers and raised it so only her eyes showed. Tipping her head to the left, she regarded him over the edge. “Do you find my attire suitable enough for her grace’s formal dinner, Lord Seabrook?”
Words failed him as he just stood gaping at his bride. What secrets had she hidden behind those emerald eyes?
One sculpted tawny eyebrow raised.
“It’s… quite appropriate,” he said softly and held out his hand. “You’re lovely.”
Annabella laid her fingers against his palm, and he lightly grasped her hand. His heart leapt about in his chest like a deer crashing through a bramble patch.
“Shall we go, then?” he asked, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.
With Annabella gliding gracefully at his side, Jon hardly felt the floor beneath his feet. Their steps matched perfectly as they descended the main staircase from the galley to the salon. Midway down, he paused, unaccountably overcome with emotion at the familiar tableau before him.
Annabell
a angled her head and smiled up at him. “I trust we won’t have to observe the evening’s festivities from the stairs.”
Jon pulled in a deep breath and released it slowly. By evening’s end, she might well wish they’d remained on the grand staircase. He smiled, and they continued to the bottom.
The butler appeared at Jon’s elbow.
“Good evening, Samuel,” greeted Jon with a smile. “I see her grace has not yet come down. How many for dinner this evening?”
The butler’s face took on a pinched expression. “Other than yourselves and her grace, the number is five, my lord.”
Jon nodded as a caustic sensation invaded his belly. Five…
Annabella tittered behind her fan. So she could behave like an insipid young lady after all. “To look at your face, one would think you are about to head for the gallows instead of a dinner party. Do you not like your grandmother’s guests?”
It wasn’t his like or dislike Jon was concerned over. “Annie, there’s something I should—”
“Gladys Cecily Siler Durham, the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor,” announced Samuel from the bottom of the stairway.
Too late.
Her face devoid of expression, Gran held her head with regal grace. Dressed in rich crimson velvet edged in gold, with a gossamer veil that cascaded from a jeweled head ornament and fell over her right shoulder, she looked more like a queen than a dowager duchess, and the glide in her step belied her true age. She halted at the base of the steps and waited.
Jon’s breath backed up in his lungs. She hardly seemed to have aged in the time he’d been away. Her dark hair had been shot with streaks of gray for as long as he could recall. In contrast to Annabella’s elaborate style, Gran’s tresses were pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck from which not a single strand dared escape. Her gaze touched on him briefly before moving on to Annabella and then to the butler, to whom she gave a barely perceptible nod.
Samuel’s voice rang across the salon. “Announcing Queen Dorothea.”
