Just then an older couple appeared in the doorway, and the gentleman informed Magnus they were leaving. “It was a most enjoyable evening, Mr. Wallis. We appreciate the invitation.”
“My pleasure, Stanford. Let me show you out.” Magnus turned to Annabelle and bowed slightly. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course.”
She watched him leave, listening to his laughter and conversation outside as she looked around the tastefully decorated office. There was another painting on the wall where The Fisherman had been hanging before. She didn’t recognize it. Right in front of her on the coffee table was a vase of fresh chrysanthemums.
Her gaze then drifted to the large desk and ornate brown leather chair. The desktop was clear except for her lacy shoe and the jar of glue, and a basket containing a stack of letters and papers.
She leaned forward and glanced out into the gallery where Magnus was still conversing with the Stanford couple, and wondered how long he was going to be, because it was getting late, and she was beginning to feel more than a little uncomfortable with her all too intimate rapport with Magnus. Whitby would definitely not approve.
Besides, the room was clearing out, and she did not want to be the last person here.
Rising from the sofa, she limped on one foot to check her shoe. The glue wasn’t completely dry, but at least the heel was attached. She could probably walk on it, if she kept most of her weight on her toe.
Annabelle set the shoe on the floor, and while she slid her foot into it, her gaze fell upon the basket of letters. One brief note was open on top, and before she knew what she was about, she was so overcome with curiosity about Magnus and everything he was doing here in London that she was reading it.
Mr. Wallis,
There’s a problem with the wiring at Brownlow and Northington. Perhaps you could drop by in the morning.
George Smith
P.S. The electrical in the other building was finalized today.
Well, that didn’t tell her much, except that Magnus was putting electricity into the two buildings he was renovating.
“I doubt it’s dry,” he said, startling her as he reentered the office.
She became instantly flustered, not because she’d been reading his correspondence—though she did feel a little guilty about that—but because he was handing her a red rose.
“What’s this for?” she asked, presuming he’d just picked it out of the bouquet outside the door. She lifted it to her nose and breathed in the fragrant scent.
“It’s to thank you for coming tonight,” he replied. “It wouldn’t have been the same without you. Though I’m sorry about your shoe. Perhaps you should have worn your other boots—the ones you used to wear at the lake. Do you still have them?”
He seemed to remember everything. “I have a newer pair, but they’re very similar.”
They stood in the half-light gazing at one another for a quiet moment, until Annabelle began to feel afraid. Yes, afraid. It was the only way she could describe it.
She checked the time. Her driver would be waiting outside by now, thank goodness.
“I appreciate everything,” she said shakily, struggling to smother the tension she was feeling. “But I really should be going.”
Magnus’s voice dropped to a slow, tantalizing hush. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay a bit longer?”
All at once Annabelle found herself unable to muster an appropriate reply. She imagined remaining here until all the guests were gone. What would occur?
Oh, she knew very well what would occur. They would end up on the sofa, and she’d be lucky to keep her garters in place.
Struck with a sudden alarm, she fortified her resolve.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He casually nodded. “But when will I see you again?”
Feeling the heady combination of his sexual appeal and the lingering effects of the champagne, Annabelle strove to make a firm reply.
“That’s rather presumptuous, don’t you think?”
Magnus discreetly glanced around to ensure no one was standing in the doorway behind him.
“Perhaps it is,” he replied, his voice now a seductive whisper. “But I know you, Annabelle, and I know you can still feel the fire between us. So this can’t be the end.”
It was astounding, how potent sexual desire could be when it took hold with full force. It eclipsed all reason and sanity.
Thankfully, however, she did possess some degree of discipline, so she cleared her throat and endeavored to cool this madness—because that’s exactly what it was. Madness.
“No, Magnus. I won’t go there with you.”
She simply could not venture into the fires of temptation and certain doom, because she could not trust this man. Her heart was still horribly scarred because of him.
Just then two other guests interrupted and thanked Magnus for the evening, and while he shook their hands, Annabelle managed to regain her sanity, realizing with a fright how quickly the situation had just spun out of control. A few minutes ago she had imagined herself lying with him on his sofa.
Touching her flushed cheek, she brushed past Magnus and started toward the door.
He followed, however, leaving the others standing where they were. “Wait, Annabelle, don’t go.”
“I have to.” She met the doorman, who quickly retrieved her cloak from the front closet and held it up for her. She did not meet Magnus’s gaze as she buttoned it. “Thank you for including my paintings in the show.”
“You’re welcome, but I will be in touch.”
In touch?
“About the sales,” he clarified, as if he knew the workings of her mind. She supposed he had been able to read her like a book.
Annabelle simply nodded. “I must go. My driver is waiting.”
She turned to leave, limping to keep from breaking her shoe again. Magnus escorted her out onto the street where the coach was waiting.
“When are you going back to the country?” he asked, opening the door for her.
Annabelle climbed in and slid across the seat. “The day after tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you stay in London a little longer? We have to settle the sales, if nothing else.”
The insistent fire in his eyes upset her balance, for it looked as if “settling the sales” was the last thing on his mind.
To be honest, it was the last thing on her mind, too, because the shocking truth was—she was still burning to touch him. He was the only man in the world she had ever truly desired, and now he had come back into her life and he wanted her.
He’d said there was still a fire between them, and it was true. It was raging hotter than ever before. But heaven help her, she could not be so foolish as to risk her heart. Not with him.
“You can send me a bank note,” she said at last, struggling to grab hold of her cautious, sensible self. “I think that would be best. Driver!”
But Magnus was still standing there, holding the door open.
“I have to go,” she said firmly, and she shut the door on him before he could say another word.
The coach lurched forward, and Annabelle turned in her seat to look out the window at Magnus, who remained on the sidewalk, watching her drive off.
As soon as he was out of sight, she faced forward again and held up a gloved hand to see how badly it was shaking.
Quite badly indeed.
Annabelle inhaled and held her breath, wondering if she could relax now that the gallery opening was behind her. Perhaps she’d survived the worst of it.
But then she pictured Magnus’s face and heard his husky, alluring voice in her mind when he’d asked her to stay in London a little longer, and was forced to acknowledge the very disturbing possibility that the worst might still be ahead of her.
Chapter 13
T he only thing that kept Annabelle sensible through the night and into the next morning was her constant focus on all the wretched things she knew about Magnus. She thought of
her brother’s aversion toward him, and the eminence of his reputation as a villain in her family, and naturally, she thought of the way he had treated her years ago.
But by doing that, she had to struggle to overlook the fact that last night she had not found him villainous in the least, nor did anyone else. He had been charming and considerate, and made her laugh and feel comfortable. Nothing he had said or done seemed to match the opinions everyone held of him. Which only served to confuse her while she ate her breakfast that morning.
Later, while sipping a second cup of coffee, Annabelle read the paper, but found herself distracted again by memories of the night before—her conversations with the Duke of Harlow and the other artists, the flavor of the champagne and the tang of the spiced shrimp, not to forget the image of Magnus repairing her shoe in his private, dimly lit office.
She thought of the letter she’d read, about the wiring in the buildings he’d purchased, then recalled that during their previous meeting, Magnus had told her that his properties were located at Park Lane.
Annabelle sat back in her chair and stared at the wall. The letter last night had mentioned the corner of Brownlow and Northington. That wasn’t right.
Had Magnus lied to her?
For a moment she sat bewildered, wondering why he would lie about something like that, unless he had some darker purpose with his business ventures.
If that were true, she had to admit she would be vastly disappointed, because that morning, for the first time in thirteen years, she had actually let herself hope that she and everyone else had been wrong about Magnus all this time.
It was a wish she had never let herself acknowledge before now, because she was certain it was a foolish one, but after last night, she wasn’t so sure.
Annabelle sighed and reminded herself that she could not fall into that trap. She could not be too quick to presume that Magnus’s amiable behavior was completely sincere. She had to keep her head and continue to be cautious.
And although she did not want to be unreasonably suspicious, either, given his past transgressions, she couldn’t help but question this. Whitby certainly would.
Consequently, two hours later she was stepping out of a hansom cab at the corner of Brownlow and Northington, looking up at the building Magnus had supposedly purchased, for she was determined to find answers.
The property was a large home with paned windows and a wrought-iron fence all around. In the front yard, a bricklayer was making improvements to the walk.
Annabelle’s cab drove away, so she crossed the street to take a closer look. When she reached the gate, she read the plaque set into the ironwork: NORTHINGTON STREET ORPHANS’ HOME FOR BOYS.
An orphans’ home? She looked up at the second story windows, wondering what Magnus planned to do with the property. He’d explained he bought and sold buildings for a profit. Would he sell an orphanage out from under the boys who had found a home here?
It was exactly the kind of conclusion Whitby would come to. His heart is cold as ice, her brother had said.
Finding it all very unsettling, but not quite ready to make any drastic assumptions herself, Annabelle opened the creaky gate and approached the man who was on his knees, laying bricks. “Excuse me, do you work for Magnus Wallis?”
The man stood up and wiped his hands on his coveralls. “Yes, miss.”
“I see you’re making some improvements,” she said. “Do you know if Mr. Wallis is intending to sell?”
The man wiped a finger under his nose and sniffled. “Oh no, miss, he doesn’t own the place. He’s just improving it. Having the whole place wired for electricity, and he’s adding indoor plumbing as well. It’s a changing world, wouldn’t you say?”
Annabelle tried to clarify what the man was telling her. “But why would he make improvements to a building he doesn’t own?”
“I reckon he’s generous,” the man replied. “Not like some people.”
It was not what Annabelle had been expecting to hear, and she couldn’t help feeling guilty for presuming the worst, when in fact Magnus appeared to be doing something quite charitable. He was renovating an orphans’ home.
“Thank you for your help,” she said to the man, smiling politely before she turned to leave.
“He’s inside if you want to have a word with him,” the man called after her. “He’s checking the electric.”
Annabelle stopped. Magnus was here? Now?
She felt an odd mixture of excitement and apprehension, and turned to look up at the windows, wondering if he’d already seen her out here on the walk, covertly interrogating his workers.
“Perhaps I will have a word with him,” she replied, even though she knew she shouldn’t. After last night, she should know better. But this charitable bequest—which seemed so out of character for a man whose heart was allegedly twisted—was petitioning her hopes.
Annabelle approached the front door and knocked, and was greeted by a plump older woman who was wiping her hands on her apron.
“I’m here to see Mr. Wallis,” Annabelle said.
“Yes, come in. He’s in the back garden. I’d take you, but I’ve got bread in the oven. Just go down that hall and there’s a door at the end.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle replied.
There was a tingling in the pit of her stomach as she made her way toward the back of the house, but she tried to ignore it, for she was here only to ask him why he hadn’t told her about what he was doing for this orphanage. Why had he kept it secret?
She reached the back door and stepped out onto a covered entrance, where her gaze fell instantly upon Magnus.
He was standing on the grass with his back to her, playing cricket with a group of boys. He’d taken off his jacket and was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, along with a dark, patterned waistcoat. He was laughing at something, waiting for one of the boys to throw the ball.
They were all smiling and shouting, and soon Annabelle found herself smiling, too, laughing as a young lad fumbled with the ball until he fell over backward onto the ground.
Annabelle stood and watched for a few more minutes, until one of the boys pointed at her and said, “Who’s the lady?”
Magnus turned. Annabelle felt a jolt when their eyes met, and her pulse began to pound even harder when he started walking toward her.
“That’s it for me, boys,” he said, his gaze intent upon Annabelle. “You’ll have to finish the match on your own.”
They all groaned, but quickly returned to their game.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” Magnus said, reaching the bottom step. He was slightly out of breath, and the hair around his face was damp with perspiration.
Annabelle inclined her head at him. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? I’m thrilled to see you, Annabelle.” He climbed the steps. “How did you know I was here?”
She hesitated a moment before she answered. “I saw the note on your desk last night when I was putting on my shoe—the one asking you to check the wiring this morning. It gave the address, so I took a chance.”
She refrained from telling him she’d wondered if it was all part of some dastardly master plan to harm her family.
“Well, I’m glad you did,” he said. “Why don’t we go inside?” He opened the door for her.
Annabelle entered and let him show her to the front parlor, where she could smell fresh paint on the walls. A few boys came bounding down the stairs, taking no notice of Annabelle and Magnus as they dashed toward the back door.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she asked when the house quieted down again.
“It didn’t come up.”
“But you told me you were making improvements to two buildings on Park Lane,” she said.
He shrugged casually. “I am, and this is where the profits are going. Here, and to another girls’ home across the river.”
Annabelle’s brow furrowed. This was not at all what she had expected. “I didn’t realize y
ou were such a generous philanthropist.”
“I’m not really,” he replied. “I just remember what it was like growing up in London, feeling like an orphan myself sometimes, having nothing.”
Annabelle took a few steps closer to him, feeling as if there were many, many things she did not know about him. All she knew was what Whitby had always known.
“You never told me any of that before,” she said, “when I knew you as Mr. Edwards.”
Where had that come from? She shouldn’t have said it.
His eyes were wistful, yet surprisingly tender. “There were a lot of things I didn’t tell you.”
She continued to gaze at him, waiting for more.
“I was only nine when my father died,” he finally explained. “And my mother…Well, she wasn’t much of one.”
Just then two boys burst in through the front door, one shoving the other. “Bugger off!” the younger one said.
Magnus turned and watched them for a moment, and when the older one shoved the younger one again, he strode toward them. “Perhaps you could behave yourselves, gentlemen. There is a lady present.” He put an authoritative hand on the older boy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you both go and join the cricket game out back. They’re in need of a few extra players.”
As soon as they were gone, Magnus returned to the parlor where Annabelle stood watching. “Boys like those two just need something to do.”
She smiled and nodded in agreement.
“Can I offer you a ride home?” he asked.
“That would be very kind,” Annabelle replied. “Thank you.”
A short time later they were sitting across from each other on the soft cushions in Magnus’s luxurious private coach, heading down the street.
Annabelle sat with her knees squeezed tightly together, her gloved hands clenched upon her lap while she looked out the window.
She could not believe that she was sitting here with Magnus—Magnus!—when for years of her quiet, uneventful life, she’d never thought she’d ever see him again.
Not to mention the fact that they had been lovers once. They had been intimate, then parted in the most brutal, excruciating way.
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