Annabelle, The American

by Lavinia Kent

  He turned toward home. Annabelle would need comforting. She’d never taken to London as he’d hoped and he didn’t wish her to be all alone to face this mess.

  He took two steps and stopped. What would he say to her? Even now, he could not imagine confessing the whole story—and short of that, what was there to say?

  Perhaps she wouldn’t even know. She didn’t have many friends in Town and the servants were unlikely to gossip, so who was there to tell her? Maybe if he just ignored the situation, it would go away on its own.

  He snorted at his own foolishness.

  Annabelle might not have many friends, but those she did have would not hide this from her. He knew that several of them had been involved in their own scandals in past weeks, scandals all caused by these blasted cartoons. He almost turned back to smash the window after all. It should be a crime to print such foolishness—true or not.

  It would be the barrister then. He turned away from home at the next corner and headed towards the legal offices. Perhaps there was something that could be done to stop the blasted prints. He would certainly do his best—and he was sure his father would help. The Duke of Stonebridge had never been fond of scandal and normally had enough power to quash them before they began.

  Thomas could only hope that his father—and his father’s barrister—would be truly willing to help—and that the price would not be too great.

  “What do I do?” Annabelle said the words aloud, although there was nobody else present.

  Lucille had scampered off as quickly as she was able once Annabelle had seen the god-awful cartoon. Annabelle’s sister had never been brave in the face of unpleasant circumstance.

  Smoothing a hand across the cartoon’s cheap paper, Annabelle wished that she could start the day anew, wished that she could simply hide her head under the pillows and refuse to rise, wished that she could lock her door so that Lucille could not enter, not tear her heart to pieces.

  Her fingers traced the curve of Thomas’s cheek on the paper. He was truly a handsome man.

  A man she did not love.

  Annabelle pulled that morning’s memory to her. She did not love Thomas and therefore this was survivable—as long as he was not married to the other woman—and she refused to even think about that—she could go on.

  She would let herself feel the fool, feel the anger, and then she would put it away and life would go on—if she didn’t kill him first.

  How could he do this to her? He might have said he didn’t love her, but he’d promised to care for her, to protect her.

  She certainly didn’t feel protected at the moment.

  Picking up the paper with care, she walked to the window and held it to the light. His mistress was certainly pretty, perhaps even beautiful—and so very young. That was what hurt the most. The girl would have been a child when he left England for America. It was impossible that she had been his mistress then. No, he had found her, taken her, loved her, since his return to London this past year—the year he’d returned with Annabelle, his wife.

  And the baby. And who was the older child? She was too old to be Thomas’s. A sister?

  It was, however, the baby that bothered Annabelle. It was impossible from the drawing to tell how old the child was, all that was visible was one chubby hand, but given that they’d been in London little over a year, he must have found the girl immediately if there was already a baby.

  Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and she could only be glad her sister had left. Nobody could be allowed to see the pain that she felt, to see how her heart felt ripped in half.

  No, that could not be her heart. It must be only her pride.

  Any woman would be upset to know that her new husband had taken a mistress, a mistress even younger than her own twenty-one years—a mistress he had clearly taken since their marriage.

  The first tear wound its way down her cheek. How could she be feeling old at twenty-one?

  If she’d been unmarried, and scared she’d stay that way, it might have made sense, but she had everything a woman could want—she should not be feeling this way.

  Another tear fell.

  She didn’t love him. She didn’t. She’d said that even before she’d seen this horrible scrap of paper.

  In one smooth gesture, she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it across the room. It bounced along the top of the bureau before slipping off the edge and falling behind.

  Well, that took care of that. If she didn’t redecorate, it might be years before it was seen again, perhaps generations.

  Wiping her cheek clean, she went and rang the bell, hard, for the maid.

  She did not love Thomas. She did not.

  And if she didn’t love him, this could not be that bad. Men had mistresses. It was unfortunate that Thomas’s had been displayed in public, but Annabelle could survive that.

  It wasn’t as if she had hundreds of friends and piles of invitations. Her life would not change because a few more people laughed at her. They’d been laughing at her and ignoring her anyway this past year—the marquess’s brash American bride.

  She did have some friends. Kathryn, Elizabeth, Annie, and Linnette would understand how she was feeling. They’d all been plagued by cartoons, too. She would call on them and commiserate, but not yet. Now she wanted to be alone.

  She sniffed and sniffled, but only once.

  That was enough. The reasons she’d married him had not changed. He was still the right man—even if slightly less right than he’d been an hour ago.

  The patter of footsteps announced the coming of her maid.

  Annabelle turned her face from the door, wishing there were not more tears to brush away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Thomas approached the door with some trepidation; a rueful smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He was afraid of his own front door. The planters full of early summer blooms mocked him with their cheerfulness. He knew the cheer would fade once he passed through the heavy door.

  Temptation to turn away and return to his club filled him.

  He could spend the night with a large measure of brandy and the week’s paper. A good angry glare would keep away all who wished to approach him. He might even try his hand at cards. Things could not get much worse than they were at this moment.

  Unless his father’s man found him. The duke was not pleased with the situation. Thomas didn’t know how his father had found out so quickly, but the barrister had been expecting Thomas—and Thomas had left the barrister’s offices with a summons to call on his father. A summons he was going to ignore—for the moment.

  He stared at the door again, wishing it was the previous day. He could imagine entering the house then, imagine finding Annabelle at her desk, writing all those notes that ladies seemed to write, or sitting in the back garden staring at her flowers. She’d look up and smile when she saw him, that secret twinkle in her eye, that twinkle that said she might not be quite as well behaved as she appeared. She’d wonder at his early appearance—he was never home at this hour—and then . . .

  He didn’t actually know what would happen then, because he truly was never home at this hour. He had his manly fantasies about how an afternoon should be spent, but he couldn’t say he’d ever put them to practice.

  He took the last step up to the door and then almost turned away. Annabelle wouldn’t be expecting him yet. It would be so easy to put it all off a few hours, to hold back the explanations he wasn’t sure he knew how to give.

  How could he ever explain Margaret and Grace? He should have just told her when he proposed. She might have understood then. Now—now the thought brought ice to his veins.

  He turned about to head away when the door swung open, his porter waiting for him.

  Damn. Life had been better before he had so many servants, before he had this house.

  He closed his eyes for half a second and imagined the life he’d thought he’d led. The house in Boston, less than half the size of this one, the soft, smiling wife, the bro
od of children. How had that all faded and left him here?

  He nodded to the porter and stepped into the hall—and paused. He didn’t even know where to look for Annabelle. Was she even home this time of day?

  Before he could finish the thought, there was a sound from above and he looked up. She was standing at the top of the stairs, an angelic vision in pale muslin, her blonde hair curling about her face in a halo. She took a hesitant step toward him.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Your father? Or . . . ?” She let the words trail off, her face a vision of concern with no trace of that bewitching twinkle.

  She didn’t know? She couldn’t know or she would never have looked at him like that with care, without anger.

  He swallowed. “No. Nothing is wrong.”

  It was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Annabelle stood at the top of the stairs and stared down at her husband, glad that the light was behind her, that her face must be partly veiled. Her soft smile felt frozen.

  She waited for his response. He could only be here because he’d seen the cartoon, knew his secret was revealed. She took another step forward, down to meet him.

  “No, nothing is wrong.” His deep voice echoed through the hall.

  Nothing wrong. She felt so brittle that a puff of wind would shatter her and he felt that nothing was wrong? She took another step, holding her face bland.

  She wanted to scream, but scream about what? He had told her he didn’t love her from the start. How could she cry foul now?

  She could scream about the embarrassment, about how she would ever face her friends, but he knew that she didn’t have many friends, or even many acquaintances and that those she did have had faced their own scandals recently and would be unlikely to put her aside because of a cartoon.

  “You are home so early. Did I forget some event?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Thomas avoided society as much as possible. She was confident that he received far more invitations than she ever saw, invitations he turned down or simply ignored without consulting her. She felt a sigh growing deep in her chest, but held it back. She had never been one to fuss over that which she could not change.

  She had not married him for his contacts. Although, granted, she had imagined her life would be in Boston, where her own long-lasting friendships would have given her as full a social life as she wished.

  He still had not answered. Her own thoughts were distracting, but surely Thomas should have said something by now.

  Her foot hesitated as she moved to take another step. Did she go to him? Could she keep up the pretense that nothing was wrong, that she did not know?

  Her toe remained pointed, barely touching the step below, as a million thoughts, a million considerations raced through her mind.

  She placed her weight forward and stepped. She was married. There was no going back—at least not yet. At some point she might announce she wished to return home to Boston and simply leave—heading back to her father, to her past life, to the world she knew—but that point was not now.

  She had chosen the marriage. It might not be quite what it had been when she chose, but still it was hers, he was hers—for better or for worse—she just wished she wasn’t stuck in the worse.

  She knew. He didn’t know how he could tell, but he could. Her shadowed features betrayed not a flicker of emotion, her steady glide down the stairs, was smooth—there’d been a brief hesitation, but now she proceeded with her normal elegance.

  But there was something, something subtle, something different.

  So what did he do? Should he say something?

  He’d dreaded being confronted by a screaming, upset woman—but this just might be worse.

  Did he bring the matter up? You know, my dear, there was a cartoon this morning, a cartoon featuring the both of us and . . . Do you wish to know the truth?

  Only he wasn’t prepared to tell her the truth. Was he?

  He’d sworn to protect Margaret and Grace—and the baby. He’d promised to watch out for them always, to put them before himself. Hell, he’d married Annabelle in large part to help take care of them.

  He certainly couldn’t tell her that. I married you to support my other family, my first family.

  She was almost upon him. He had to say something. His mouth felt dry, filled with cotton. His tongue tried to form words, but they would not come.

  He swallowed, wishing for moisture to ease the way. “I—I —”

  She took that last step down, standing on the second step, her face level with his own. Reaching out, she placed a gentle hand upon his cheek. “Are you well? You seem not quite yourself.”

  Blast, why didn’t she say something about the cartoon? He’d never thought of her as an actress before.

  Her hand stroked up his face to his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish. Did you come home because you are ill?”

  He stepped back, more abruptly than he’d meant to. “No, I am fine. I just wanted—I just thought—thought that it was a lovely day for a ride. I thought perhaps I could drive you through the park, show off my new horses.”

  Her cheeks grew tight at his words, her face thinning. “I am not sure.”

  “It was only an idea.” He turned away. He should say something. Surely this needed to be addressed.

  “I am simply afraid that it may be a bit warm. But I am sure you are correct. I will fetch my bonnet.”

  She turned and walked back up the stairs, her back stiff and straight.

  He wanted to put his fist through something. He hated feeling helpless. Annabelle was clearly not herself and he should be doing something about it—but what? He had depended on her to start the conversation, to come at him with accusations that he could calm. He was at a complete loss about what to say otherwise.

  What if she didn’t know?

  Was that possible?

  And if she didn’t, should he tell her? He hated the thought of someone else telling her, but it seemed almost cruel to raise the issue before she actually needed to know.

  And what if she did know?

  He stared up the stairs after her, watching her skirts swish around the corner to her room. If she did know, why would she not say something? Did she have a plan of her own?

  He turned and strode to the front parlor, staring out the window at the sunny street. He’d always wondered if there was more to his bride than was apparent. She always appeared refined and agreeable, but sometimes he saw that spark, that something more.

  It was that something that had finally driven him to propose to her. He’d known for several years that he had to find a way out from under his father’s thumb. He loved his father, but the duke was a controlling man and being his second son, the spare to the heir, had never been easy. Even well over a decade in America had not improved their relationship. If anything, it had made it worse.

  Damnation, even before he’d gone to America his father’s opinions and his own had often clashed—and his father almost always won.

  He’d only held out against his father once—and that had not ended well. It was why he was in this mess to begin with.

  Bloody hell.

  He’d needed a wealthy wife. The sad truth was that a man from a good family was raised without a clue as to how to make a living. He’d hardly been able to offer himself as a day laborer. He had no training for any profession and little opportunity of gaining any. Taking a commission had been an option, but he’d never wished for a military career. The only thing he knew was how to manage an estate, to plan the proper plantings, to care for tenants, but even that opportunity had been closed to him.

  His father’d had plans for his second son—very particular plans, plans that actually had a name. Judith Covington. Lady Judith Covington. The second daughter of the Marquess of Covesbrush. She came with a fortune, an estate, and his father’s blessing.

  And Thomas had never liked her. Even at twenty-one he’d seen through her. She was vain and mean and would flirt with any man about.

&
nbsp; She was not who he’d wanted for a wife.

  He turned from the window.

  He hadn’t called for his curricle. Annabelle would be down in a moment and would expect it to be waiting.

  Where was his mind?

  He quickly summoned the porter and gave the order.

  It was better not to think of all this now. All he needed for the moment was to understand what his wife was thinking.

  This was a mistake. Annabelle should have thought ahead and suggested anything but a drive through the park. She couldn’t help noticing all the people looking at—no, staring at—Thomas and her. It was intolerable. Her skin burned with the intensity of their curiosity and it was all she could do to keep a calm façade.

  A year ago, during those first weeks after Thomas had brought her from America, the gossip had been bad enough. For almost a solid month people had stared at her and whispered about the brash, American girl who’d stolen the marquess. She’d squirmed then and been sure it would pass—and it had, although she hadn’t expected to be almost completely ignored afterwards.

  She surely wasn’t being ignored now. Imagining the conversations taking place in loud whispers was easy. Everyone was wondering if she knew. If it was true. Were they just trying to put on a good face? Thomas had never taken her driving before. Why was he now?

  The worst of it was she’d taken the drive to avoid talking to him and now was wishing she could. She turned and looked at his strong profile, wishing she could reach out and stroke him.

  Instead, she curled her fingers tight. Did he even realize what was going on? Did he see the glances, understand the laughter and the titters? Men could be extremely obtuse about these things. But surely he must see something.