Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance)

by Counts, Wilma

  Annabelle’s blue riding habit set off the honey-brown color of her hair. Designed on the popular pseudo-military style, it was trimmed with black epaulettes and black frogging. Her black silk hat was also a feminine version of masculine headgear, the light blue veiling on it adding a softness to the whole look. Thorne thought she looked very fetching—even before she flashed him that glorious smile.

  When she was mounted, she gathered up her reins and waited for him to mount, then shook an admonitory finger at him. “No wagers today, Thorne. I am inclined to think you and that black beast there took unfair advantage of poor Jessie and me the other day.”

  “Unfair advantage—? May I remind you, my dear, that her real name is Jezebel?”

  She patted the mare’s neck. “Do not pay him any mind, will you, Jessie?”

  They rode aimlessly and in comfortable silence for a few moments.

  “Have you a preference on where you would like to go?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “I reread Mr. Wordsworth’s lines on Tintern Abbey last night. I should like to see that view again.”

  “By all means. We shall come upon it from a slightly different direction, though.” Her wanting to repeat an experience they had shared pleased him.

  As they rode through a wooded area, the sounds of birds and the mild wind soughing through the trees mingled with occasional creaks of leather and the horses’ hooves on rocky trails.

  Annabelle took a deep breath. “The country has its very own perfume, does it not?”

  “Wood and pine and dead leaves—that is your idea of perfume?” He gave her a teasing smile.

  “I smell violets as well—and ... perhaps honeysuckle?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I freely admit I am not much of an English country girl. My earliest memories are of Jamaica and the plantation. Then I came to England and that first—truly horrid—school.”

  “I think most boarding school experiences—male or female—can be pretty awful at times,” he said sympathetically.

  “Mine was better than some. The best thing to come out of it, though, was my friendship with Letty.”

  “Interesting. Winters and I were good friends at school, too.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You do?” He was mildly surprised.

  “Letty told me.” She pulled on the reins to stop her mount and pointed at the side of the path. “See? Violets.”

  “Yes. Now—if we find honeysuckle as well, you will be fully vindicated, my dear.”

  They rode on at a leisurely pace.

  “Well,” she said, returning to their topic, “school was tolerable, but I really learned more useful lessons from Marcus and Harriet. She was my principal instructor for nearly a year.”

  “Was she?”

  “Then Letty and I both changed to a school Celia attended. That was great fun. However,” she added in a firm tone, “should I ever have children, they will be educated at home until they are about . . . oh, thirty, I think.”

  He gave a bark of laughter at this absurdity.

  “Well, maybe a little earlier,” she conceded. “But, believe me, my children will not be sent off to a boarding school to be rid of them.”

  “Will your husband not have some say in the matter?”

  “Oh, yes. But if he intends any degree of domestic felicity, I believe he will cooperate on this small matter.”

  “Small matter.” He laughed again. “I can see you will be a wife to be reckoned with!”

  She blushed furiously and laughed. “However did we get off to such a topic?” They broke out of the shade of the trees and there was relief in her voice as she said, “Ah, we are here, I see.”

  He dismounted, then reached to help her dismount. He grabbed his walking stick, which he had thrust into a special loop on his saddle. It was still early and the sun shone on the scene below at an oblique angle, casting strange and interesting shadows. They stood very close and in utter silence, taking it all in. He caught a whiff of the lilac scent of her hair and leaned closer to breathe more deeply of it. Just then, she turned and their heads bumped.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “My fault.” He was embarrassed, but not uneasy. “You are wearing a lilac scent, I believe.”

  She gazed into his eyes and said, “Yes, they are my favorite flowers.” However, the words were lost in the message of her eyes.

  “I like them, too,” he said meaninglessly.

  He pulled her close and lowered his mouth to hers. He dropped the stick and tightened his arms around her, conscious of her arms around his neck. She was neither shy nor coy. Her response was open, honest, and enthusiastic. When he pulled back, she seemed dazed.

  “Thorne?” It was a question.

  “I ... Annabelle ...” He could not help himself. He took her lips again in a kiss that was at once firm yet gentle, demanding and seeking. And—wonder of wonders—what he demanded she gave. What he sought, she supplied.

  He finally gripped her shoulders and put her from him slightly. “My God!” he breathed. “I never . . .”

  “Nor did I,” she said, almost as though she read his mind. She wrenched her gaze from his and turned in his arms to look out on the increasingly sunny scene below them. He wondered fleetingly how much of it either of them actually saw. He clasped his hands around her waist and pressed his face against her neck. He drank in her scent, lilac mixed with some special essence of her, and touched his lips against the soft flesh beneath her ear.

  “Annabelle? You felt it, too. I know you did.”

  “Yes, Thorne, I did.” Instead of gladness, there was remorse in her tone. “But it cannot be.”

  He released her. “I see.” He stared silently out on the scenery before them. But he did not see—not at all.

  He bent to pick up the abandoned walking stick and it crossed his mind that perhaps that was the cause of her hesitation. Well, he thought bitterly, why would a young, vibrant woman such as Annabelle Richardson—a woman who could have practically any man of her choosing—why would such a woman welcome the addresses of a cripple?

  He helped her remount and they turned the horses toward the stables. They engaged in polite conversation, but later he remembered not one word either had said—and he would have wagered she did not remember either.

  That kiss had unnerved Annabelle as nothing else in her life ever had. The previous kiss, in the garden at the Finchley ball, had been but a prelude to what this one had done to her. She had noted his casual use of endearments. It probably meant little, but she hugged it to her. She had been on the verge of telling him about Emma Bennet, but she could not stand the thought of seeing his warm regard for her turn to disgust. She had foolishly compounded the initial problem by not owning up to writing that infernal story. Of course, she had had no notion of falling in love with the man—

  Falling in love?

  Had she indeed fallen in love with the one man in all of Britain who had the strongest of reasons to dislike her?

  Surely not.

  But she had.

  And her own foolishness, her own cowardice had doomed that love before it had even blossomed.

  Thank goodness she and the Wyndhams were leaving Rolsbury Manor on the morrow, she thought miserably.

  Thorne returned to the house in despair. But he was also angry. He could not believe Annabelle would reject him only because he walked with a limp. Not after that “dance” at the Finchley ball. Yet she offered no other reason. And she had certainly not been repulsed by his kiss. However, he was damned if he would go crawling to her, begging for an explanation. That really would be the mark of a weak cripple!

  He tried—none too successfully—to put the matter from his mind. She had not yet come back down when he went to the breakfast room. He hurried through the meal, chafing at the necessity to keep up with the inane chatter around him. He finally escaped briefly to the library.

  He was sitting, staring unseeing at papers on hi
s desk, when his housekeeper asked for a word with him.

  “What is it, Mrs. Petry?” He noticed she had a sheet of paper in her hand.

  “My lord, while your company was away for the day at the picnic, the staff took the opportunity to do a thorough cleaning.”

  “Very good,” he responded absently.

  “One of the maids found this paper in the desk in the drawing room. It appears to be waste, but she wasn’t sure and neither was I. There is no name of a guest on it.” She laid the paper on his desk.

  He glanced at it. It was a letter—or the beginning of one. To a Mr. Murray. Now why was that name familiar? He examined the thing more closely. The tone was quite formal. A proposal for a book? Then he remembered. Of course. Murray was a publisher. Emma Bennet’s publisher, among others! He looked more closely at the script.

  With a sinking feeling, he opened a desk drawer and retrieved the sample of Emma Bennet’s handwriting he had obtained from the printer. It was a perfect match.

  Good God! The woman had been a guest in his home for the past week! But who was she?

  “Mrs. Petry, will you please find Lady Conwick and ask her to wait upon me here?”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  A few minutes later, his aunt came in with a puzzled look on her face. “What is it, Thorne?”

  He held out the paper. “This was found in the drawing room yesterday. It must have been written the previous day.”

  She took the paper and sat down in a chair opposite him to peruse it. She turned it over. “There is no name on it. You think one of our guests . . . ?”

  “Must be one of them that wrote it. It was found in the writing desk in the west drawing room.”

  “Would you like me to ask the ladies who might have written it?”

  “I doubt any of them would own up to it. Did you notice anyone writing at that desk?”

  “Not really. I think several letters have been written in the last few days. Have you not franked some of them?”

  “Yes. But none from this hand.”

  “What is so particular about this? It appears to be waste paper with all these ink splatters.”

  His voice was grim. “This was written by Emma Bennet.”

  “Emma—? Ohhh.... Are you sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  “Right here in your own home?”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “That’s right. A viper has been in our midst.”

  “Oh, dear. What will you do?”

  “I am not sure. I need to think on it. At least this narrows the hunt down considerably.”

  “How is that?”

  “Instead of all the women in London, it has to be one of the twelve or fifteen who have been guests here the past week.”

  “But which one?”

  He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “I cannot call them all together and ask for handwriting samples. I am sorely tempted to do so, mind you, but I am no Bow Street Runner.”

  “You had best act quickly, dear boy. The Meltons are leaving after luncheon today and most of the others depart tomorrow morning.”

  “I am aware of that,” he said glumly.

  “Wait! I know!” She leaned forward eagerly.

  “You know who wrote this?”

  “No. But I know how you may find out who did.”

  He raised a quizzical brow and waited.

  “Thank-you notes!”

  “Thank-you notes?” He wondered if his aunt spent too much time talking only with her dogs.

  “Yes. Do you not see? Each of the women will undoubtedly pen you a thank-you note. It is the polite thing to do. And then you will have your answer.”

  Thorne was dubious about this solution. If it produced no results, he would, by God!, hire Bow Street Runners to track down every woman who had been here in the last week!

  The house party wound down and he bade his guests farewell. Mrs. Wentworth seemed disappointed and Helen sighed heavily, but finally they, too, were gone. Annabelle and the Wyndhams were among the earlier departures.

  Luke seemed at loose ends for a few days and finally took himself off to join a friend’s yachting party. There was no mention of his calling on Annabelle. Thorne buried himself once again in estate business, often going out to join laborers in hard physical work. However, Annabelle’s passion and rejection and Emma Bennet’s deceit were never far from his mind. He mentally ticked off the female guests. Who among them would have the intelligence and talent to produce Miss Bennet’s work?

  There was Lady Wyndham, of course. Reclusive as he had been in recent years, even he had heard the stories—never openly confirmed—of her being the political writer known as “Gadfly” some years before. Fiction seemed rather a far cry from political tracts, though.

  Lady Hermiston? Wyndham’s aunt was a possibility. He remembered suspecting her before. Celia and Letty were intelligent enough, but he wondered if Celia had such powers of concentration. Letty was a better possibility, for the marchioness certainly moved in the most exalted circles.

  Helen Rhys seemed most unlikely—she had never indicated any interest in literary matters—except as a means to an end, he thought ruefully. He frankly doubted Helen’s friend, Mrs. Sawyer, was bright enough to have created the characters and flow of prose that delighted so in Miss Bennet’s early work.

  Annabelle? He finally let himself come to her. Please, God, not her. But he had to admit that many things clicked with her. Her ready wit, her knowledge of the literary scene—she was no mere bystander at the meetings of the Literary League. Even the name Emma Bennet, now that he considered it closely, would appeal to Annabelle and her love of Miss Austen’s work. Had the inimitable Jane Austen not used those very names with key characters? Against his will, he concluded that Annabelle was, indeed, a likely prospect.

  The next day, he knew for sure.

  His aunt had been right.

  Annabelle Richardson’s thank-you note was written in the same script as that printer’s sample of Emma Bennet’s handwriting.

  Twelve

  Thorne sat for some minutes, stunned. It was one thing to suspect, quite another to be hit on the head by the truth of one’s suspicions. Soon enough his shock became fury and the fury intensified to a white-hot level.

  It was not enough that she had written that ridiculous piece—she had compounded her treachery with this elaborate hoax. She had been laughing at him for weeks! While he was falling in love with her, she was enjoying a great joke at his expense. That must have amused her mightily!

  How could he have been so wrong about her? He had thought her so honest—and possessed of a generosity of spirit that was entirely natural. Instead, deceit and mean-spirited shallowness marked her character....

  He congratulated himself on having learned the truth before he had made a complete fool of himself. Why, he had virtually given Luke permission to bring her into the family! Good God! Face it, Rolsbury, he sneered at himself, you came within a hair’s breadth of offering for her yourself. In his mind he again heard her say, “It cannot be.” Had she been laughing inwardly even then?

  Hamlet was wrong. It was not frailty whose name was woman, but deceit.

  How could he have been so damned wrong about her? How could he have misinterpreted her response to his kisses so? She had not appeared to be an accomplished flirt. She seemed to be open, honest, and giving. Yet, there it was—Annabelle Richardson was Emma Bennet.

  He gave the bellpull a harsh jerk. When Larkins, the butler, answered, he said, “Bring me a bottle of brandy.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Larkins was obviously surprised at such a request at this hour of the day, but was too well trained to betray his emotion.

  “And I am not to be disturbed—for anything!”

  A few minutes later, Larkins returned with the bottle and a single glass on a tray.

  For three days, the Earl of Rolsbury remained shrouded in an alcoholic fog, trying to shield himself from pain. However, Annabelle’s image ke
pt intruding. Her golden brown hair, laughing brown eyes, and that delicate lilac scent—all assailed him when he least expected them.

  He was vaguely aware that members of his staff were perplexed by his behavior. He even ignored important decisions on estate matters, refusing to see his steward. On the third day he sat in disheveled splendor in a chair in front of the fireplace in the library. He had spent the better part of each of the last two days in this same spot—brandy bottle at hand.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Go away!” he shouted.

  But the door opened and his aunt entered, carrying one of her dogs. “I have come to bid you farewell. I am returning to town.”

  “Deserting a sinking ship, are you? Well, I cannot say I blame you.”

  He struggled to rise, but it was obviously such an effort for him that she waved him back to his seat and quickly took the opposite chair.

  “If I thought for even a moment that I could be of help to you, I would, of course, stay. But there are things in town I could be doing.”

  “Have a good journey.”

  She did not move. Her eyes expressed puzzlement and sympathy. “Thorne, I have never seen you like this. Can you not tell me—someone—what has put you in such a state?”

  He knew she worried about him, but how could he possibly explain the degree of his humiliation? “Suffice it to say, I have suffered g-great disappointment,” he said in a mockingly dramatic tone, his words slurred only slightly by drink.

  “I can see that much,” she said in mild disgust. “I strongly suspect this has something to do with Emma Bennet. Have you discovered who she is?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And . . . ? Are you—or are you not—going to share this information?”

  He did not answer for a long while. Finally, with that same studied precision of one far gone in drink, he said, “Not just yet, I think. Need to c-contemplate the matter and decide on a course of action.”