by Lavinia Kent
That was true. But surely if he had been there, Margaret would never have been so foolish—and young Lord Jack would never have been so daring. Although given that the boy had died racing between Bath and London, maybe he would have been even more daring if challenged. But, bloody hell, he should have been there for his daughter regardless.
“Don’t looked so tormented, Thomas. What is done is done. We all would have acted differently if we could have seen the future. Even your father.”
There was not much he could say to that. He didn’t know what he could have done differently, but there would have been things. He might even have told Annabelle the whole truth, right from the beginning. It would certainly make his life easier now.
“Do you know when father will be back? I should talk to him about what he plans to do.”
“No, I am not sure. I believe he had to pay a visit to the king when he was finished. The king is planning a Tudor pageant and the duke is uncomfortable at the thought of wearing hose and short pants in public. He always did hate to dress up for a masquerade.”
“I had best be leaving then. The king can require hours of attention.”
His mother rose. “Won’t you stay for a little refreshment?”
Her voice was tinged with loneliness. He knew she wanted to see him more, but his emotions felt too raw. He needed to decide exactly how to handle his problems and no amount of tea and motherly concern was going to get him to that point. “I really must be going. I will see you tomorrow at your small dinner—I imagine about two hundred guests. I do love your idea of small, Mother. And perhaps early next week Annabelle and I could both come to tea or even luncheon. I would like you to get to know each other better.”
“That would be lovely. It is well past time.”
Stopping to kiss his mother on the cheek once again, Thomas headed for the door. His club would be dark and quiet at this hour. The perfect place to think. His gut still clenched with the despair of trying to explain it all to Annabelle—assuming she was even willing to listen. He definitely needed a drink first.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Her husband had not come home. Bright morning sun was filling her bed chamber and her husband had not been home since he’d left the previous morning—and he had not even bothered to send a note. In the past when he’d been called away by business—or cards and brandy—he’d always let her know.
He was no doubt with his mistress, comforting her about the cartoon in a way he hadn’t been willing to comfort Annabelle.
She stormed across the room again. This was not to be borne! She had done nothing wrong. Why was she being punished?
She’d been a good wife—a far better wife than Thomas deserved—and this was her repayment.
She glanced at the clock. The hour was early. She’d probably still have been in bed herself under normal circumstances—but nothing was normal right now.
Damn him. She glanced at the clock again. One whole minute had passed. She’d probably seen every minute pass for the past four hours. Where was he? It was not unusual for him to return in the early hours of the morning, but he’d never stayed out all night before without letting her know.
Was he with the girl?
She should have asked more questions when she had the chance.
Why was she dwelling on this? If Thomas wasn’t sparing her a thought, why should she spare one for him? It might all have been easier if he’d just gone off adventuring like Elizabeth’s husband. Then she wouldn’t need to think of him at all.
Calling for her maid, she dressed quickly and hurried out.
A good walk was what she needed—and perhaps if she was out long enough, she’d treat herself to an ice, maybe even visit Linnette. If she stayed out long enough, she could return just in time to dress for Stonebridge’s affair.
Given that it was a command performance, her husband might even show up—assuming he ever returned home to discover the invitation.
She added a definite stomp to her step as she walked down the steps.
It was a beautiful day. It was a simple sentiment, but as Annabelle left Linnette’s house she felt herself again. While she didn’t exactly have hope, a few hours of conversation with her friend had convinced her that she would survive. It was, very simply, what women did.
Her hand slipped down to her belly—and if she was right, and everyday it seemed more likely that she was—she’d soon have even more reason to survive. She’d heard tales of wild animals protecting their young and already she could feel those urges rising with in her.
Shoulders back, she marched down the street ready to take on her husband.
“With a look like that it is no wonder your husband does not come home at night. I am surprised he comes home at all. Perhaps he’ll join the Earl of Westhampton, sailing the seven seas and never returning at all. Or perhaps he’ll just find another bed to sleep in, if he hasn’t already.” The voice came from behind her, unfamiliar.
With some trepidation, Annabelle turned. Mr. Swatts. He was somehow related to the Duke of Doveshire, Linnette’s husband, but Annabelle was not sure how. She’d had a most distasteful encounter with him at the opera a few weeks before when he’d verbally attacked Linnette and the duke. There were few people that Annabelle would have wished to avoid more.
“And what business of yours is it where my husband spends his time?”
“More business than it seems to be of yours. I know where he spent this last evening. Do you?”
Wishing she could breathe fire like a dragon and scorch him where he stood, Annabelle considered her options. There was no way that she would ask the bloody man about Thomas no matter how much she wished to know. “Do you enjoy spreading rumors?”
Swatts laughed. “I daresay you mean that as an insult, but I must admit that I do. It is such a delight to hurt those who have hurt you.”
“When did I ever hurt you?” she asked.
“I had Doveshire ready to pay me the funds that I needed and you had to give your little speech at the opera. I can assure you that I find my lack of funds very painful. It has forced me to be quite resourceful in seeking alternative forms of income.”
There was no point to this conversation. The man clearly only wished to anger her—and perhaps hurt her. Nothing would be gained by engaging in such conversation.
“I must go. I have an engagement to prepare for.” She turned and started to walk away.
“You don’t even wish me to tell you who she is, the woman in the cartoon? The very beautiful woman in the cartoon?” Swatts’s words trailed after her.
Her feet slowed.
Then she picked up her pace. She was desperate to know—but not from him.
Was she ever coming down? Thomas peered up the stairs and waited. They should have left for his father’s house half an hour before. The duke was a great believer in punctuality.
Was she even coming? What would happen if she didn’t?
He wouldn’t blame her. Between his lack of response when she’d asked about Margaret yesterday morning and his father’s visit she must be fuming. And he wasn’t even considering his behavior last night. He’d been appalled when he woke this morning in a guest room at Harrington’s. Apparently Robert had found him well into his cups at a local gambling hell and had tried to take him home—only Thomas had refused to go home, refused to let Annabelle see him in such a state. And so he ended up being carted to Harrington’s house and put abed there. He was not sure that it had been better to face Harrington’s wife than his own. Harrington’s duchess had shone with icy disapproval when he’d taken his leave this morning. He could only hope that she did not report too much to Annabelle. He could barely remember what he’d been rambling last night.
He paced across the hall once, and then again.
Should he go on without her? Send someone up to fetch her?
Should he go himself?
That was probably the best. He still didn’t know quite what to say to his wife, but it was time for honesty.
He should have had this conversation with her last night, not spent it getting drunk and avoiding the whole matter. He should have learned long ago that avoidance magnified problems.
Yes, he would go up himself. He would give Annabelle the chance to yell at him here, in private. Not that he expected her to yell. He’d never seen his wife show her temper, for all that she always let him know exactly how she was feeling. A polite tirade that left him reeling for days was her style.
Was he actually looking forward to it?
He grinned. Yes, he was. Life would be better once this was all out in the open.
And then they could make up. He’d always enjoyed reconciliation. His wife was very talented at reconciliation.
With that thought in mind he headed up the stairs—and stopped.
Annabelle stood at the top of the stairs, an Annabelle he’d never seen the likes of before. Her dress was silver, not overstated or shiny, but simply glowing. She was glowing. She might have been an angel she was so perfect—and so radiant. Her blond hair was swept up, sleek and smooth, but still full of life. Somehow it gave the impression that it could tumble about her shoulders at any moment, and it was a moment a man could long for, dream of.
He swallowed as she took the first step down the stairs and he realized just how low her gown was cut. What was holding it up? He’d thought of dreaming about her hair, but it was suddenly clear that there would not be a man there tonight who would even notice her hair. He doubted that any man would raise his glance above her chin. A sudden urge took him to pull off his coat and drape it about her, to cover the delights that should be only for him.
He forced his own gaze up and met her cool glance, her deep blue eyes felt as if they saw through him. She knew exactly what he was thinking and dared him to comment. Against his will his gaze dropped again. Was that a hint of rose peaking out? Exactly how much was she willing to show the world?
He bit his cheek hard, holding back the words he longed to say and restrained himself to only holding out his arm.
She took another step, then stopped and did not did not move forward.
He looked up to her eyes.
She nodded and proceeded, stopping just short of reaching for him.
He kept his arm out, sensing the importance of the struggle.
She pulled in a deep breath. Yes, that was a flash of pink at her breast. It was all he could do not to look down, not to stare.
Hell, it was all he could do not to sweep her into his arms and carry her back up the stairs—up the stairs to his bed.
This whole evening be damned. His father’s wishes be damned. Annabelle’s anger be damned.
She was his and his greatest desire was to prove it in the most basic of ways.
Instead, he kept looking into her eyes, kept his hand extended—and waited.
Should she do it? How had reaching for Thomas’s hand become a test of wills—and of faith? In taking his arm she was accepting something, she wasn’t sure what. She doubted he knew. But it was clear that in wrapping her fingers about him she was agreeing to go on.
She pulled in a breath, expanding her lungs and her chest. She watched Thomas’s pupils widen.
Shrugging her shoulders just enough to set her breast jiggling, she watched as he worked to maintain her gaze. A part of her wanted to reassure him that her gown was secure, that it might look like it could descend to her waist at any moment, but that its interior architecture was a true miracle of science. She held her tongue and let her own glance drop to the long fingers that still awaited her.
Had it been a minute that they’d stood there? It felt like ten.
The moment two nights ago when she’d faced a similar test came back to her. What did she want from her life? What was she willing to settle for? To work for? What was she willing to do to get what she wanted?
She exhaled in one slow long breath, then reached out and wrapped her fingers about his sleeve. Not tight, not with the normal little squeeze of comfort, but she did take his arm.
“Thank you.” His voice was low and soft. Then he made a half turn and led her down the stairs and out to the waiting carriage.
He helped her in and then followed, sitting beside her on the wide bench seat.
They did not talk; instead they listened to the rattle of wheels as the carriage began to move.
It should have been awkward. They’d never needed to chatter, but never had they sat in silence as the minutes moved on either.
“We must be almost there,” she finally said.
“Yes.”
And even as he said the word they pulled up at the grand ducal home. Annabelle pushed the curtain aside and stared out the window. The house was ablaze with lanterns and candles and a long line of carriages waited to pull up. Only a duke could have commanded such an affair on such short notice.
“I thought your father said a small dinner.”
Thomas smiled in the dim interior of the carriage. “This is small, by my mother’s standards. When she actually throws a ball, the line of carriages takes well over an hour to go through.”
Annabelle had no answer to that. Her nerves were beginning to fray.
How was she supposed to survive this evening? How could she face everyone and act like she and Thomas were a united couple when there was still so much unsaid between them? A sudden curse ran through her brain. She’d never told Thomas of the duke’s mentioning that he could bring the girl—not that she’d had a chance.
She looked ahead at the long line of carriages. They had at least ten minutes to reach the entry, unless Thomas wanted to descend now and walk up to the house. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He did not look like he was moving.
“You know that your father stopped by yesterday,” she began.
“Yes, my mother told me,” Thomas answered. “I am sorry I have not had a chance to talk to you.”
Was that an apology for being out all night—and when had he seen his mother? Had he spent the night here, at his parents’ home? But then he would have seen his father, not just his mother. “We do have much we need to talk about.”
The carriage moved up a length. “Yes.”
It was now or never, she did not wish the duke to say something and for her not to have talked to Thomas. “Your father left a message with me. He said you were free to bring the girl, as well.”
“The girl? Are you sure he was not talking about you? Or perhaps Lucille?”
“I am quite sure that he didn’t mean either of us. What other girl could he have been referring to?” He knew damn well who the other girl was. Why did he persist in this game?
“I suppose he meant Margaret, though I cannot believe that he would relent and allow me to bring her someplace.”
“I cannot believe it either.” Her teeth were aching with the pressure she exerted upon them as she spoke. It felt as if they’d been glued together.
“It is not what you think.”
The carriage moved another length.
“If it is not what I think, then tell me what it is.” She glanced out the window. “I would say we have five minutes. Tell me, who is she, this Margaret, this woman that you do not deny loving?”
“She is hardly a woman. Your earlier word was better. She is just a girl.”
“A girl with a baby.”
The breath caught in his chest. It took effort to push it out, to form the words. “It is not Margaret’s child.”
“It’s not?”
“No, I thought that she was. I could not believe that she’d been so foolish—and so young. I know I was not much older than her—but she is still too young. I was ready to tear the boy apart, even though he was already dead—that is a story for later. Hell, everyone thought the baby was hers.” He was rambling, still not able to believe his daughter had lied to him for over year. “I was shocked when she told me the truth. The baby belongs to a girl she went to school with.”
“Then why does she have it?” He could hear the confusion in Annabe
lle’s voice, the further questions she refrained from asking.
“It’s a very long story. It took me much of yesterday afternoon to hear it all—and it is not really important to us now.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
Her lips pursed in a way that would have resembled a kiss if there had been even the hint of warmth in her eyes. “Then what does concern us? You still haven’t told me who she is, this Margaret. And how old is she that you think she’s too young for a child? And if she’s that young, why are you involved with her? And why do you care?”
He would answer the easy part first. “She is almost eighteen—and the child is over a year.”
“I still don’t understand—not any of it.” There was a sad note to her voice.
“God, I know. I should have told you long ago—years ago when I proposed.”
“But, if she’s only just eighteen, how can you have known her years ago? She would have been a child then, a small child.”
“Yes, she was, and the most adorable little girl you have ever seen.”
She let out a long sigh. “What are you not telling me, Thomas? I feel like since this whole thing began—was it only two days ago—that the secrets just keep growing, twisting, and that although we talk I never get any closer to the truth.”
“Margaret is my daughter.” There, the words were said.
Her mouth dropped open, her blue eyes shining in the lamplight. “But she’s only a few years younger than me.”
“I know. Five years.”
“You would have been but a boy yourself.” She shook her head lightly as if trying to make sense of it all.
“I was—but I did not feel so at the time. I was only fourteen when I met Mary, but I felt every bit a man.”
“Mary?”
“My first wife.” It still hurt to even say the words. He had let her down in so many ways—both before and after her death.
Before Annabelle could respond, the carriage jerked to a halt. There was a light tap on the door before it swung open to reveal the footman standing, hand held out, to assist them down from the carriage—down from the carriage and into his father’s house.
