Annabelle woke from a deep sleep as if an alarm bell had gone off inside her head. Groggy and disoriented, she sat bolt upright and looked around.
The suite was quiet except for the ticking of the clock and a cart with a squeaky wheel rolling by outside the door. Light was pouring in through the crack between the drapes, and the room was still a mess. She had no idea what day it was.
She gazed down at Magnus asleep beside her, naked under a single white sheet, one arm draped over his face, and suddenly remembered what had occurred the night before. He had been making love to her, and somewhere in the wild, spinning fury of her passions, she had agreed to become his wife.
All at once the old familiar doubts and fears came rushing back at her, and she wasn’t sure she could move. She managed only to bury her forehead in a hand.
What had she done? She should have taken more time to think about the consequences of her decision, but she supposed she hadn’t exactly been thinking with her brain.
“Good morning,” Magnus said, his hand coming to rest upon her back.
Annabelle hesitated before she lifted her head to look down at him. “Good morning.”
For a long quiet moment he studied her face. He tossed an arm up under his head, and somehow she knew he understood what she was feeling. How could he not? He must have been expecting this.
His fingers began to brush lightly across her back. “Don’t worry,” he said.
Annabelle swallowed with difficulty. “How can I not? We’ve been out of our minds with lust the past few days, and last night I agreed to marry you. What will Whitby say when he finds out?”
Magnus’s eyes clouded over with momentary displeasure, but it vanished quickly as he continued to rub her back. “It won’t matter what he says. We’re together now, Annabelle, and I won’t let anything or anyone tear us apart.”
Still feeling unsure, she rested a chin on her knee and gazed pensively toward the window.
“Come here.” He urged her back down to lie beside him.
Annabelle rested her head on his shoulder, and the heat of his body warmed hers.
As she lay there, she contemplated the misgivings still hammering away in her mind, and suddenly a far worse fear overcame her.
She imagined taking Whitby’s side and telling Magnus she could not marry him. She imagined saying good-bye to Magnus, never making love to him again, never seeing him again—and quite frankly the thought of that was worse than death.
Nothing seemed to matter now but the joy he gave her. When he was holding her close in his arms like this, she didn’t care about the past or what other people thought. She didn’t want to be suspicious and worry that he was using her to hurt Whitby. She wanted to believe in him. She wanted to believe that he was telling her the truth—that he had come back to London for her, and revenge upon Whitby had nothing to do with it.
When it came right down to it, all she cared about was this crazy, mad love, and every instinct in her body was pushing her to trust him. Maybe that was all that mattered.
She leaned up on an elbow and looked down at him with love. “I don’t want anything to come between us, either,” she said.
Magnus took her face in his hands. “I’ll make you happy, Annabelle. I promise. You’ll never want for anything.”
“I don’t need anything except for you.”
His eyes flashed with desire, and he pulled her down for a kiss, but Annabelle laid a hand on his chest to stop things before the kiss progressed to something more.
“We can’t start this again,” she said with a smile, “because we have to get up and get dressed. I’ll need to go home today, Magnus.”
He settled back, disappointed. “Why?”
“Because I have to tell them.”
His chest rose and fell with a deep intake of breath. “Why do you have to go back there? Why don’t we just leave? You could write to them from New York.”
“No, I could never do that. They’re my family and I care for them—Whitby, Lily, and the children. I can’t leave without saying good-bye.”
He sat up against the brass frame of the bed, his dark eyes sweeping over her face with a measure of discontent.
“You don’t have to come,” she said.
“Oh, yes I do. I will not have you going alone, as if you are ashamed of me. We must stand together.”
“It wouldn’t be like that,” she assured him.
Magnus looked away toward the window. “He might think so. Or he might think I’m afraid to face him. He’ll certainly try to change your mind.”
Annabelle felt a chill come over the room with this change in Magnus’s mood. She wished he would look at her. “It shouldn’t matter what Whitby thinks,” she said. “And nothing will change my mind.”
Magnus looked off into the distance as if he hadn’t heard her, then finally returned his gaze to her face. His eyes warmed, and she was relieved.
“You’re right,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I am only thinking of you. I hate that you must do something so difficult. If you like, I could do it. I could go and face him alone.”
Annabelle tried to imagine that, but could not. Whitby probably wouldn’t even believe that she had consented to marry Magnus. Whitby would think it a lie, or that Magnus had kidnapped her or some such foolishness.
She squeezed Magnus’s hand. “No, you were right the first time. We must stand together. And I’m going to do my best to convince him that he’s wrong about you.”
Magnus merely nodded, and Annabelle’s stomach began to churn with a slow mounting dread. She rested a hand on her belly, thinking she would be very glad when this day was over.
Century House in Bedfordshire was hailed by some as one of the most majestic palaces in England, and though Annabelle had lived there all her life, she never failed to be moved by its magnificence whenever she returned after time away.
The coach rolled past the ornamental fountain and came to a smooth stop at the front entrance. Annabelle glanced briefly at Magnus, who was looking out the window in the opposite direction of the house.
He does not want to be here.
“Shall we?” she said nonetheless.
“Of course,” he replied. “Allow me.”
He climbed out of the coach and offered his hand to Annabelle to assist her down. She started off toward the front entrance, but stopped and turned when she realized he was not following. He was still standing beside the coach, his dark eyes moving slowly from left to right across the front of the house.
“I haven’t seen this place in eight years,” he said, “and I’ve certainly never made it past the front doors.”
Annabelle was uncomfortably aware of a change in him. There was no warmth in his eyes, no flirtatious spark or seductive appeal. Nevertheless, she spoke with confidence. “You’ll make it past them today.”
He nodded and followed behind her.
They walked up the steps and were met at the door by Clarke, the butler, who politely greeted Annabelle, but when he recognized Magnus, his expression turned to shock.
Annabelle removed her gloves as she spoke. “Mr. Wallis is my guest here today, Clarke. We wish to speak to Whitby, if you will please inform him.”
The butler stared perplexedly at her before he closed the door behind them and recovered his aplomb. “As you wish, Miss Lawson,” he said.
“Please tell him we will be in the gilded drawing room,” she added.
Clarke bowed at the waist before he turned to go. Annabelle could see the panic in his gait. It was not something she had ever seen before.
When she faced Magnus, he did not look pleased.
“It’s this way,” she said, wanting only to get through all this as quickly as possible.
They climbed the stairs, and Magnus looked up at the enormous ancestral portraits on the walls, some dating back as far as the fifteenth century. He was barely watching where his feet were going.
When they reached the top and entered the drawing room with its
ornately carved, gilded ceiling, Annabelle watched him with a mild sense of trepidation. His eyes scanned over everything—from the massive gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace, to the Chippendale furniture, the statues, the harp, the grand piano, the gold wall sconces, and the tall tree ferns.
“You could feed half the orphans in London for a month with what it must have cost to furnish this one room alone,” he said bluntly.
Annabelle didn’t know what to say.
“It’s a far cry from the place where I grew up,” he added, approaching the eight-foot portrait of his grandfather on the wall and looking up at it. “There he is.”
The derision in his voice was unmistakable.
Annabelle approached Magnus and linked her arm through his, seeking to remind him that the man in the portrait was part of the past and it was time to leave all that behind. Isn’t that what he’d tried to tell her when he asked her to return to America with him as his wife?
“I never knew him,” she said, looking up at the portrait. “He died long before I was born.”
“Which was probably fortunate for you, because I doubt he would have taken you in.”
Startled by the severity in Magnus’s tone, Annabelle shot a surprised glance at him.
His expression gentled. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head at himself. “That was thoughtless of me. I just never expected to see the inside of this house. It brings back old memories.”
He took her into his arms and held her, calming her misgivings with the affection in his embrace.
Just then someone cleared his throat in the doorway, and both Annabelle and Magnus stepped apart. It was her brother.
Annabelle took an anxious step forward. “Whitby…”
He appeared horror-struck. “What in God’s name…?”
Annabelle gestured toward Magnus. “I’ve brought someone.”
Whitby remained in the doorway. “I can see that for myself, Annabelle.”
There was a long drawn-out silence while Annabelle’s gut began to churn and her heart hammered against her ribs. These two men—both of whom she loved—despised each other. They had fought as children, each blaming the other for unfortunate circumstances in their lives, and Annabelle wasn’t sure it would ever be possible to change that.
She glanced anxiously at Magnus, who stood motionless, facing Whitby. “Why don’t we all sit down?” she suggested.
After a moment’s hesitation, her brother slowly entered the room, and Annabelle took a seat at one end of the sofa. As soon as she was settled, Magnus sat beside her, while Whitby took the facing chair.
“Where have you been?” her brother asked, sounding more than a little displeased. “We expected you home sooner.”
She squeezed her hands together on her lap. “I’m sorry about that. I was…detained.”
Whitby’s piercing gaze flicked to Magnus. “Detained.”
Magnus said nothing. He merely crossed one leg over the other and let Annabelle do the talking. She was very glad of that.
“Yes,” she said, resolving to be firm and forthright, for there was no point dancing around the issue. “You see…Magnus and I have spent the past few days together and we have come to realize that…that we are still in love.”
How foolish she must sound to Whitby, who no doubt could not believe his ears. She even sounded foolish to herself.
Whitby’s tolerance seemed to snap like a tangible thing in the room. Annabelle almost feared the ceiling was going to come crashing down on their heads.
“I’m sorry, Whitby, but I hope you can understand,” she said.
“Understand, Annabelle?” To her utter surprise, he spoke not with anger, but with gentle pleading, as if Magnus were not even there. “How can I? I’ve watched you go through your adult life without hope or optimism because of what he did to you. All this time, you’ve hated him.”
“Only because I was hurt,” she explained, though she did not feel confident. She felt ridiculous, for she had changed her opinions—opinions she’d held for thirteen years—virtually overnight, even after Whitby had warned her that Magnus would try to seduce her. Which he certainly had done, quite effectively.
Whitby wet his lips and shifted in his chair. He appeared shaken, but determined to convince her that she was making a mistake and was merely confused.
Meanwhile, Magnus was watching all of it, sitting back with quiet fortitude.
“No, Annabelle, you forget,” Whitby said. “Do you not remember the lies you could not forgive?”
“I do remember that,” she said, “but it was a long time ago, and I’m a different person now and so is he.” Magnus gave her an encouraging nod, and she was so very, very thankful he was here, because she wanted to be with him. She did. She could not let anything change her mind.
Whitby, however, watched the exchange from where he sat across from them, and all his gentle pleading flew out the window. He stood up. “Annabelle, you’re not stupid. Use your head.”
She shot him an exasperated look. “I am using it.”
“No, I don’t believe you are.”
She stared dumbfounded at her brother. “You need to give him a chance, Whitby. He’s not the villain you think he is. There have been misunderstandings, and he regrets what happened between us. He never wanted to hurt me.”
She looked at Magnus then, needing him to intervene, to defend what she was saying.
He recognized her entreaty, and turned to Whitby. “Indeed I am not the villain here. And I do regret what happened between Annabelle and me. But you have played a part in her unhappiness, too, Whitby. Annabelle has felt trapped here, as if she owes something to you because your family took her in. She needs to feel that she is free.”
“Is this true, Annabelle?” Whitby asked.
She paused. “You have been very kind to me, Whitby, which makes it difficult to do something that will disappoint you.”
Whitby shook his head at Magnus. “I’m not going to apologize for being kind to her.”
“Well, I have apologized to her,” Magnus said, “and she has forgiven me.”
Whitby’s face screwed into a disbelieving grimace. “You can’t be serious, Annabelle! You believe him? Tell me you were not so gullible. You assured me you were not.”
“I was not gullible, Whitby. It’s the truth. He is not the man you think he is.” She fidgeted and cleared her throat, striving to maintain a confident tone. “I think it’s time you stopped hating Magnus so much, and put the past to rest.”
“Put it to rest.” Whitby shook his head and strode to the other side of the room.
Annabelle felt like she was suffocating. She glanced desperately at Magnus, but he was sitting forward, watching her brother.
Finally, Whitby faced them again. “What do you mean to tell me today, Annabelle? Why did you bring him here?”
She sensed he already knew the answer to that question, but he needed to hear it just the same.
“We are engaged,” she said, feeling her heart break at what should have been the happiest moment of her life.
The ensuing silence carried enough weight to crush the house.
Annabelle sat motionless, immobile. She was aware of Magnus beside her, waiting for Whitby to oppose the engagement, and she wasn’t sure what would happen after that.
Whitby strode closer. “Can’t you see? He came back here to use you again, so he could finally feel he has won.”
“No, you’re wrong,” she replied, hearing her voice break because it was not something she wanted to hear, not after she’d suffered so much, fighting against her doubts and fears.
“It’s just because you are lonely,” Whitby spat. “You are not thinking clearly because you are desperate for a marriage of your own.”
Her lips fell open. “I am not desperate.”
At that moment Magnus stood, tall and ominous in the room. “I think I’ve heard enough.”
“I beg your pardon?” Whitby said bitterly.
“Shall I repeat i
t for you, cousin? I have heard enough.”
Whitby slowly blinked. “May I remind you of the fact, sir, that you are not welcome here.”
Annabelle stood also. “Yes, he is. It’s my home, too, and he’s my guest.”
But they both ignored her.
“Your sister is coming with me,” Magnus said. “She has agreed to become my wife, and I will be taking her back to America with me.”
Whitby spoke through clenched teeth. “You will do no such thing.”
Annabelle stood there stunned as she watched them, not knowing what to do or say.
“I will do exactly as I please,” Magnus shot back. “She belongs to me now.”
“I don’t belong to either of you!” Annabelle cried out, but again they both ignored her. They were glaring at each other like a couple of angry wolves.
“You insufferable bastard,” Whitby said, his voice low, but brimming with a dangerous, repressed fury.
The grandfather clock chimed once, and before Annabelle had a chance to say another word, they both simultaneously charged at each other.
Chapter 16
M agnus and Whitby grabbed hold of each other in the drawing room, knocked over a plant, then slammed hard up against a tapestry on the wall. The heavy fabric jostled as they shoved each other, then they hurled back to the middle of the room, shouting as they fell against a table, knocking over a lamp, which smashed on the floor. They fell beside the broken glass and rolled in the other direction, grunting and cursing until Annabelle shouted, “Stop it! Both of you!”
Whitby pinned Magnus down and punched him in the jaw, then Magnus sat up and bashed his forehead against Whitby’s. Her brother fell backward.
“Stop!” Annabelle shouted again, and suddenly Lily was beside her, grabbing her husband under the arms and scrambling to pull him off Magnus.
“What’s going on!” she shouted in disbelief.
Portrait of a Lover Page 19
