by Julia Quinn
Anne gasped, her fingers gripping the lapels of his coat.
She tasted like everything he’d ever wanted and never had. He craved more and slowly fitted his mouth fully over hers, his hand leaving her waist to cradle her cheek and hold her closer, exactly where he wanted her, needed her. She didn’t protest, murmuring her acquiescence as he tested the angle and fit of her mouth beneath his. He was lost, submerged in heat and a driving need to possess, stunned by the depth of pleasure that swamped him.
A rhythmic thump interrupted him, tapping insistently on the edge of his senses. He tried to ignore it, push it away, but it grew louder, drawing him back to an awareness of his surroundings.
Damn it. Hoofbeats. The steady trot of a slow-moving horse was growing closer. He knew he had to release Anne, now, or risk discovery.
Reluctantly, he lifted his head, sucked in a breath, and nearly lost himself when she opened her dazed eyes to look up at him.
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, forcing himself to take a step back. She swayed and he caught her, hands closing over her upper arms as he shifted to place himself between her and the drive, blocking her from view. “Someone’s coming.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending, and then stiffened, stepping back and away from him. Her gaze flew over his shoulder and down the graveled drive, the swift panic on her features giving way to recognition and relief.
“It’s George,” she said, naming her groom.
“Good,” Rhys said. “He likely didn’t see us, but even if he did, I’ll have a word with him.” He searched her features but she wouldn’t look at him. “Anne,” he murmured, “I’m sorry. This shouldn’t have happened.”
She jerked, stiffening, her gaze flicking to his. Hurt and rejection, devastation, blazed in the emerald depths before she lowered her lashes. “I know,” she said with relative calm. “And we shall pretend it did not.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Rhys cursed his clumsy wording. He reached for her, intent on telling her he regretted their first kiss happening on the side of a public byway. He didn’t regret the kiss itself. In fact, quite the opposite. Though he knew it could lead nowhere, Rhys would not regret it. No, he would cherish it for the rest of his life.
She stepped away, avoiding him, and moved quickly across the grassy verge from the tree to the gravel, lifting a hand to wave. “George,” she called. “Over here.”
The groom kicked his mount and hurried toward them, his presence preventing any private conversation as the three focused on the mare and returning her safely home.
Anne effectively blocked Rhys from any discourse beyond the occasional polite comment as she insisted upon accompanying the groom and her mare. George provided a more than adequate chaperone as the trio slowly traversed the city blocks from Hyde Park back to Belgrave Square. As luck would have it, her uncle was just descending the steps as they arrived and he lifted Anne down, then kept Rhys engaged in explaining the mare’s injury. When the groom took the horses to the mews in back, Anne slipped into the house, leaving William and Rhys in conversation before they parted ways.
Frustrated, Rhys swung aboard his gelding and left the square.
Anne couldn’t avoid him forever. He would have opportunity to clear up the misunderstanding this evening, for they were both due at the Hanscomb fete.
But Rhys searched for Anne in vain at the gala. He finally located Marguerite late in the evening and was told Anne had stayed home with a headache.
Rhys was very sure Anne suffered from a distinct aversion to seeing him.
Bloody hell. She can’t avoid me forever, can she?
By the fourth day, he was beginning to wonder if she could.
Determined to speak with her, he set off for Belgrave Square just after lunch.
Chapter 10
Timms welcomed Rhys and showed him into the anteroom, promising to inquire whether Miss Anne was at home to visitors. A few moments later, the butler returned and led Rhys to a sitting room, ushering him inside before closing the door on his back.
Although the butler hadn’t promised Anne was waiting, Rhys hoped to see her in the blue and gold room. Disappointment flooded him when he didn’t find her seated on the divan, or in any of the matching chairs.
“She’s not here.”
Rhys turned quickly, his gaze searching the room. Anne’s uncle stepped out of the shadow where he’d been half concealed by a gold-tasseled, blue brocade drapery and crossed the carpet, halting several feet away.
“Good afternoon, General.”
“That remains to be seen,” the older man replied.
His voice was cool, underlaid with incipient anger. Rhys braced himself.
“What are your intentions toward my niece, young man?”
And there it was. Rhys was surprised Anne’s uncle hadn’t approached him long before. He hated deception of any kind and felt a wash of relief that the moment had finally arrived.
Still, he wasn’t certain he wanted to be completely candid. Not yet.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t be daft, son.” The general waved a hand, indicating their quiet, intimate surroundings. “You two have been spending time together in rooms like this for weeks. You know you endanger her reputation. So I’ll ask again: What are your intentions toward my niece?”
Rhys sighed. “Only the most honorable, I assure you, General.”
“Then I’ll expect you to call on me tomorrow morning with an offer for Anne’s hand in marriage.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t do that.”
The older man stiffened, seeming to loom larger and more intimidating. “Explain yourself.”
“Your niece . . .” Rhys paused, searching for words that wouldn’t bare his soul. He found none. Blunt truth appeared to be the only option. “Anne wants a biddable husband, without the annoying encumbrance of love. I find myself unable to meet her requirements.”
William’s eyes narrowed, probing as he studied Rhys. “I know what she wants from marriage and I don’t agree with it. I wouldn’t expect you to allow her to manage her own funds.”
Rhys thrust a hand through his hair, scraping it back off his brow in frustration. “I don’t give a damn what she does with her money. She can throw it on the grate and burn it for all I care. I have far more than her fortune, many times over. I don’t need her funds.” He glared at the general.
“So,” William replied almost genially, his body relaxing into a less threatening mode, “if it’s not the matter of her fortune and how she spends it that’s holding you back, what is it?”
Rhys ground his teeth, unwilling to answer. The general, however, merely waited, his expression calm. He looked as if he was prepared to stay in this room, forever if necessary, until he had an answer.
“First, I’m not biddable. Just because I don’t care about her damn fortune doesn’t mean I’d allow her free rein in all things. I want a partner in life, sir. Someone who is as interested in offering her opinion on my affairs as I would be in hers.”
“Rather progressive of you, Dorset, but not entirely insane.” The general nodded his head in agreement. “And the second thing?”
“I find myself unwilling to contemplate spending the rest of my life with a woman who doesn’t”—Rhys couldn’t force the word “love”—“care for me and is only marrying me to gain control of a fortune.”
“Hmmmm.” William eyed him consideringly. “Yet that’s the basis for most ton marriages,” he said mildly. “The man is sufficiently well funded while the woman is of good family and ready to be the mother of his children. Why is yours and Anne’s situation any different?”
“Because she isn’t any other woman and our situation isn’t comparable to most ton marriages,” Rhys ground out.
“Cut line,” William barked. “Out with it. Why isn’t the usual arrangement good enough for you two?”
“Because I love her,” Rhys shouted. “I love her,” he repeated in a whisper, sa
voring the feel of the words on his lips.
William stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then he harrumphed, the sound a second cousin to Anne’s adorable groan. He slapped a meaty paw on Rhys’s shoulder. “Marguerite and Sylvia assured me you’d come around. In all honesty, I wondered if you had the bollocks to say it.” He turned and crossed the room to the collection of crystal decanters on a silver tray atop a credenza. “Let’s drink to women, son. They’re never easy, and that’s the truth of it.” He eyed Rhys. “I’ll give you a bit more time to convince Anne but know I expect you to settle this between you. And soon. I’ll tell my solicitor to begin preparation of the marriage contracts.”
“Yes, sir.” Rhys took the glass, saluted William with it, and tossed the brandy down, unbelieving of what had just transpired. “You are aware of my reputation?”
The general nodded before finishing his brandy with one large swallow.
“And yet you’ll allow Anne to marry me?” Rhys pressed, aware he was in fact looking a gift horse in the mouth, but needing to be reassured he was not, in fact, asleep and dreaming this conversation.
The general poured them a second round. “I am a military man, through and through. Great displays of affection are not in me. But let me make myself clear: I could not love that girl any more if she were my own daughter. When Marguerite and Sylvia told me of their scheme, I was inclined to kill you myself. But they assured me you are the man for Anne. So don’t muck this up, young man. Or I will kill you.”
He had the general’s approval to court Anne. Now all he needed was Anne’s consent. He downed the second glass of brandy and wondered if a decorated general could be harder to convince than the woman he loved.
He held out his glass for a third.
Anne paced across her bedroom carpet, sat at her writing desk, stared at the blank sheet of foolscap for several moments, then stood and paced once more.
She simply could not settle. She had never been this indecisive and emotionally fraught in her entire life. It was pathetic.
She groaned. Even her groaning was pathetic.
I cannot avoid Rhys forever but how can I face him?
Not knowing if she would be able to control her emotions if she had to say more than hello to him was terrifying. He regretted kissing her. After he’d shattered her belief that she was immune to any interest in passion and made her rethink her convictions as to romantic connections—he was sorry he’d kissed her. The knowledge she had been alone in having the foundation of her world well and truly shaken was devastating.
And this was Rhys. No doubt he’d kissed many women, perhaps dozens, or hundreds. How could she face him, knowing that she was one of many and she alone had been affected?
Oh dear God. It didn’t bear thinking about. She dropped her face into her hands, awash with the heat of mortification, regret, and pain. The wall she’d erected between herself and any passionate feelings had crumbled and disappeared at the press of his mouth on hers, and he wanted her to forget it had happened. How could she?
She’d tried to wrest back control of her feelings over the days since he’d held her in Hyde Park. She’d failed miserably. Those moments kept replaying in her head. The heat of his body against hers, the strength of his arms, the warmth of his bare hand cradling her face, the aching need for something more when he’d set her away from him . . .
She couldn’t stop thinking about him and how he’d made her feel, made her want, made her body ache in ways she had never before.
Was this what her mother had felt for her father? If so, Anne no longer wondered why she had acted with such abandon.
I will not become my mother. I will not.
Perhaps what she needed was distance from Rhys to recover her balance. A trip to her uncle’s country estate might be in order. Surely a break from the rush of the season would refresh and settle her into her accustomed equanimity.
The dainty French clock on her mantel chimed the hour. With firm steps, Anne left her room for the dining room and breakfast with Marguerite.
Chapter 11
“There you are.” Marguerite looked up from her seat at the table as Anne entered the room. “I’m delighted you feel well enough to join me, although you do seem a bit pale. How is your headache, dear?”
“Much better, thank you.” Anne slipped into a chair across from Marguerite. She did not like lying to the woman, but Anne had no choice. The truth was simply too much to share.
“I’m so happy to hear that.” The older woman’s smile held affection. “I was becoming quite concerned.”
The two chatted casually about Marguerite’s visit to the dressmaker yesterday and the progress being made on a new day dress. They lingered over tea, and Anne prepared to broach her desire to spend a few weeks in the country. Before she could begin, however, Marguerite leaned forward and fixed her with a serious gaze.
“Anne, I really feel you should accompany me today. Our friends are asking for you and I know they’ll be much relieved to see you out and about. We can make calls on only a select, small group of friends and stay only the shortest of acceptable visits.”
“Must I, Marguerite?” Anne nibbled on a remaining bit of toast spread with marmalade, putting off replying before she looked up at last. “I have no desire to go out. I fear I’m still not feeling myself. In fact, I’ve been considering the benefits of a sojourn at Uncle William’s country estate for a few weeks. I’m hoping you would like to accompany me.”
“No.” Marguerite returned her cup to her saucer with a decided clink. “I’m afraid that won’t do, not at all.” She studied Anne before her worried gaze softened and she sighed. “Anne, won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Rhys asked about you at the Hanscomb fete the other night and seemed concerned. I know you’re good friends. Has something happened between you to change that?”
Anne sipped her tea, mulling how she should proceed. She didn’t feel as though she could share the entire story. But perhaps there was a way to answer without answering. “I believe we are not as good friends now as we were,” she finally said.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the older woman murmured. “Can you tell me what happened to change things?”
Oh now, really. The woman wasn’t playing fair. The polite thing to do would be to change the subject. And if Marguerite refused to do so, Anne would have to. “Wouldn’t a stay in the country be lovely this time of year?”
“You are avoiding my question,” Marguerite answered flatly, not taking the bait. “Anne, what happened with Rhys?”
Well, the woman had some nerve, Anne had to give her that. But Anne had more. “We . . .” Anne halted, dreadful, ridiculous emotion clogging her throat. “I fear I . . .” She lowered her cup to its saucer, staring at the Wedgwood china pattern, willing herself not to cry.
The silence stretched. Marguerite leaned forward, her slim, cool fingers closing over Anne’s where they fisted on the linen tablecloth.
“My dear Anne, I’ve thought for some time that you may be developing a . . .” She paused delicately. “. . . a tendre for Rhys. And he for you. Did something of a romantic nature occur between you?”
Anne turned her hand over, gripping Marguerite’s fingers. This was exhausting. And clearly pointless. The woman had far more years of wisdom and wiles to draw from. “Yes.”
“I see.” Marguerite squeezed Anne’s hand encouragingly. “When you were riding a few days ago?”
Anne nodded. “We were exercising the horses. Guinevere picked up a rock and we stopped to care for her. While we were waiting for the groom to reach us, Guinevere pushed me. Rhys caught me. And”—she looked up, meeting Marguerite’s kind eyes directly—“he kissed me.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. But then he told me it should not have happened. I told him he was right, of course, and we should pretend it did not.”
“And then what?”
“George arrived almost immediately and we came home. Uncle was here when we arrived, and I lef
t them discussing Guinevere’s injury and entered the house. I haven’t seen Rhys since.”
“I see.” Marguerite studied her. “Am I right in assuming you are avoiding Rhys?”
“Well, yes. What else am I to do?”
“Were you upset by the kiss? Do you wish he hadn’t kissed you?”
Anne set her cup and saucer down. “Yes, I was upset—am upset. He said it himself: We should not have done such a thing. Obviously he was upset. And I am upset. Seems the natural order of things in such a situation.”
Marguerite winced. “Can you tell me what about it upset you? Did you not find it to your liking?”
Anne sighed. “It was lovely. While it was happening,” she hastened to add. “But after . . . Rhys regretted it. Clearly, it was not to his liking. And, if I’m being absolutely honest, I truly dislike the emotional chaos that has resulted from that kiss. All of this,” she said, waving a hand in the air, “from one silly kiss.”
Marguerite blinked, confusion crossing her fine-boned features. “My dear, I doubt very much that Rhys did not enjoy kissing you. However, I am concerned that you appear distraught over the event.”
The word “distraught” caught Anne’s ears, sending a jolt of sudden panic through her. “Don’t worry about me, Marguerite. You know I am not one prone to such dramatics. All I need is a bit of time away.” Anne gripped Marguerite’s fingers tighter, leaning that slight bit forward to underline her words. “Which is why I want to retire to the country. Just to find my balance. Will you go with me?”
“Anne, I’m afraid going away will not be helpful.”
“But I . . .”
Marguerite shook her head, her voice gentle but firm. “I’m afraid it doesn’t matter how far you go, Anne. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. You need to see Rhys and clear up what I am certain is a misunderstanding.”
Anne adored Marguerite, but she was beginning to annoy her. “I don’t need to see him over a silly misunderstanding.”
“But you do.”
“No, I don’t!” Anne ground out, shoving her chair back and standing. “That is the last thing I need to do.”
