Kay Springsteen

by Something Like a Lady

  Lord Seabrook inclined his head to the side with an air of expectation. “Is it not customary in the country to return the favor of an introduction?”

  “My name is Ann—” She caught her breath. She couldn’t give the man her name! Just when she’d found a way to carry out her plan, he would spoil everything by running to her stepbrother. And if Markwythe had come with him… “Annie, er — m’lord.” She nearly choked on the respectful form of address, but if she wanted him to believe the lie, she had to play her role.

  Both his dark eyebrows shot heavenward. “Ah,” he said softly, his lips curving into a far too-engaging smile. “Then you must be the maid sent to open the cottage.”

  Annabella stared, slack-jawed. Open the cottage? Of course. Her heart sank. The task Abby had been sent to do. It hadn’t been a routine cleaning and airing after all. Well, invited or no, as long as she was living there, he’d not cross the threshold.

  “I… that is, yes.” And now to be rid of the most unwelcome guest. “But I fear Rose Cottage is not at all suitable for living in. ‘Tis dusty and overrun with rodents.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Most definitely, m’lord. My apologies, but you will be much more comfortable at the main house in one of the guest rooms.”

  “Would I, now?” He widened his stance and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “And this discovery brought on an urge to sing and dance in the garden?”

  Heat rushed upward from her neck and flooded her face. “Of course not! I was on my way to tell Geoffrey and the beauty of the day brought a song to my lips, is all.”

  “And lovely lips they are, m’lady.” Fine lines crinkled the skin beside his eyes when he smiled. “I find myself wondering if you might grace me with another song, and perhaps allow me the honor of a dance.”

  As if she would deign to dance with a rake such as he. Annabella sought her most disapproving voice. “Are you seeking a dalliance with one of his grace’s servants, sir?”

  The insufferable lout leaned close. Close enough that his earthy scent tantalized, and her traitorous heart quickened. “I do beg your pardon, m’lady. I was merely seeking the pleasure… of the next dance.”

  “Oh!” Annabella stomped her foot. “I shall go and tell Geoffrey that the cottage is not suitable for housing guests.” She stalked across the unkempt lawn, uncertain where she was really going, for she could hardly present herself to the butler.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Seabrook called after her.

  Good. Maybe the lout would turn tail and head back to wherever he’d come from — under a rock in London most likely. She slowed her steps and allowed the dawning smile as she turned back to him.

  He offered another of his heart-stopping grins. “I’ll be staying as planned. So, if you will… kindly carry on the task to which you were assigned.”

  Anger boiled Annabella’s blood. He was actually ordering her to clean and air the cottage! She opened her mouth to voice the likelihood of that particular order being carried out, but just as quickly closed it. Of course, she was supposed to be a servant; she could hardly refuse an order without revealing her identity.

  You and your complicated tangle of deceit, Annabella. She nodded, not having the vaguest idea how one went about cleaning and airing a cottage. But the alternative — admitting her true identity — was as unpalatable as the lemon in her pantry. Juliet is correct. You are a chicken brain.

  ****

  “Annie” stalked across the lawn. The pale hair tumbling about her shoulders reminded him of spun gold. One look at those high cheekbones, that aristocratic nose, the pouting lips, and Jon knew he’d stumbled onto Grey’s stepsister. And without a doubt, the lady was hiding. Had it been known she was residing in the quaint stone cottage, he’d never have been given leave to use it, no matter what directive Grey might have sent along. Sorting it all out was bound to prove entertaining.

  Jon followed her into the cottage and found himself in a small sitting room. Most of the furniture stood shrouded, though a threadbare couch in dull red showed signs of use. Its cover had been dumped on the floor in a ball of disorganization. An ivory upholstered chair sat near the window next to a drum table, both similarly bare, but a companion chair remained cloaked in white.

  Interesting… she must have spent her days fluttering like an undecided butterfly between the couch and the chair. But why?

  She stood in the center of the sitting room, her eyes flitting about, landing first on the couch, then the fireplace — why did she not have a fire? – over to the window, to the chair, to the discarded shrouds. Her gaze drifted to the door through which they’d just entered, then to another that led toward the rear of the cottage. Finally, they wandered to the small stone staircase nestled at the back of the sitting room. Why the devil was she so nervous?

  “I…” Her eyes darted to the cover in front of the sofa, and she curled her lip. “I should…” She took a tentative step toward the couch then glanced over at the chair by the window. “That is, will you need all the furniture uncovered?”

  Jon’s lips twitched, but he reined in the smile and schooled his features into something between friendliness and censure. “It is customary, I believe, for the guest to have full access to the comforts of home.” Deliberately, he allowed his gaze to fall on the expanse of skin between her neck and the top of the gray dress that didn’t quite fit.

  Her eyes widened and she went as still as one of the statues Grey had scattered throughout his London home. Indeed, that intriguing expanse of creamy skin with its unblemished smoothness reminded him of polished marble, though he’d dare to say it would be warmer under his fingers. The imposter in Grey’s London home was a petite thing, and she’d seemed to shrink into the walls until Grey had pushed her limits. This one, though… combustible right from the start. But in his experience, the more temper a woman displayed, the more passion she had to tap. This one was tall with some curve to her that he’d wager would just fit against him with—

  Every inch of his skin tingled with the sudden need to find out. His heart pumped liquid fire through his veins, reminding him of just how hungry a man could become for things other than food.

  Annabella backed up a step, and Jon realized he’d likely been leering like Grey’s lecherous uncle. He cleared his throat and surveyed the room. “Yes, I see what you mean about the dust and disrepair.”

  Her eyes lit with interest. “So… you’ll be staying at the main house, then?”

  Well, well… how the chit did want him out of her hideaway. What game are you playing at, Lady Annabella Price? “The main house? No, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure if you start now you should be able to finish airing and cleaning before suppertime.” He gestured toward the staircase. “I presume those lead to the sleeping quarters?”

  Something danced in her eyes — surprise? Irritation? A pink flush tinted her fair skin, working its way up her neck and staining her cheeks.

  Because he wasn’t leaving? Or because he’d mentioned sleeping quarters? When she gave no response, Jon shrugged and walked to the steps. As he put his foot on the first one, a dull thud reached his hearing. Unless he missed his guess, she’d just stomped her foot like an irate horse

  The first door creaked as he pushed it inward and disturbed a cobweb clinging near the jamb. Jon whisked that away with the back of his hand and stared, uncertain if he should venture in.

  He might not make it back out.

  Something small and gray darted from beneath the bed and scrambled along the wall. As the mouse raced behind the green velvet curtain framing the window, Jon shook his head. She hadn’t lied about the rodents. Dust danced in the finger of watery sunlight poking through filthy glass. More cobwebs draped from the ceiling, wispy fingers that seemed to beckon him to come closer. The bed lay in utter ruin. The mattress — what remained of it — hung askew, pieces of wool and feathers escaping from seams that had split wide. More of the small bits lay on the floor surrounded by mouse droppings and tin
y footprints cutting a trail through the layer of dust. A bed rope hung low, its end rodent-chewed. If he tried to sleep there, he’d fall through to the floor within seconds of lying down.

  Right. He backed out and closed the door, taking care to latch it tightly. Not that doing so would keep the rodents inside, but it made him feel better.

  The hallway boasted one more door. The place really was fairly modest, just as Grey had warned him. But was his old friend aware of the near ruin the cottage had fallen into?

  The second bedchamber was in better shape. The bed had been tidied and made up with a tattered quilt. The dust cover lay wadded up against the still-shrouded wardrobe. A wooden ladderback chair sat next to the window.

  Did she sit there and look out upon the land like a princess in an ivory tower?

  Tapping his leg, Jon returned his attention to their situation. With only one workable bed between them, would she give up her ruse and run for the main house?

  Suddenly he didn’t really want her to give up her deception so easily. The idea of ferreting out her reasons for hiding had taken on a certain appeal. He took a long look at the bed. Of course, he should be a gentleman and sleep on the cramped Grecian couch in the drawing room… let her continue to reside in the bedroom with a small amount of privacy.

  But then, there was that one little thing… he wasn’t particularly regarded as a gentleman.

  He exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him, still mulling over his next course of action. How long would Annabella keep up the pretense? She obviously was not cut out to be a servant of any kind.

  Voices drifted from the sitting room. One of the servants? Perhaps his luggage had been delivered. He paused and listened.

  “So I can have it done by suppertime, can I?” muttered Annabella. Something thumped. “I’ll show him what he can have done. He can have his backside on the road back to London and then I’ll have done with him.”

  Jon raised an eyebrow as he waited for the other person to reply. But it was Annabella who ended the silence.

  “I presume the sleeping quarters are up there.”

  Jon jerked upright as she repeated his words in a particularly haughty tone. He peered around the corner. Annabella was alone. And talking to herself.

  She barked out a harsh laugh. “Well, he can have the bed and everything that’s been crawling in it, so long as he doesn’t expect to find me crawling about in it as well.”

  Jon pressed the back of his hand to his lips and held in a chuckle. He should let her know he was standing there. A gentleman certainly would. Blame it on his devilish nature, but he discovered he’d much rather listen to the lady — for she certainly was that for all her attempts to hide it — rant about his presence. He risked a glance around the corner in time to see her kick at one of the shrouds.

  She bent and picked up the cover using just the tips of her thumbs and forefingers. Holding it away from her body, she half pushed and half dragged it across the floor to a mountain of similar cloths. There, she dropped it and jumped back, but not quickly enough to escape the eruption of dust.

  A delicate sneeze overtook her. Then another. After a third, she sniffed and tossed her hair.

  “There, the comforts of the home await.” She stomped her foot. “I don’t know why it all had to be uncovered. It’s not like he’ll park his behind in more than one seat at a time.” She paused and leaned in close to the chair she’d just uncovered then chuckled. “And he won’t sit in this one more than once. Maybe a sudden trip to the floor’ll send Lord Seaside’s backside on its way.”

  Seaside? Jon smiled at the deliberate twisting of his name — as insults went, it was fairly mild. Well, then. No need to wonder about her opinion of him. He’d certainly take care to avoid that particular chair. A snigger escaped despite Jon’s best effort to contain it, and he covered the sound with a cough as he stepped off the stone staircase.

  Annabella whirled and placed her hands on her hips. She likely wouldn’t do that if she knew how the movement drew attention to her curvier aspects. Jon forced his gaze off her and around the room.

  The furniture had, indeed, been uncovered, but it might have been kinder to leave it hidden. The muted afternoon sunlight clawing its way through the grimy window showed off every gouge in the wood, every pulled stitch in the upholstery. Jon shook his head. The poorest tenant working the land at Blackmoor lived better.

  “Well? Are you going to stare at it or sit in it?”

  Jon forced back a grimace of distaste. He’d rather sit on the ground outside now that he knew the state of things.

  Then Annabella tilted her head and raised a questioning eyebrow at him. The gesture was so unconsciously arrogant, directly contradicting the image she was striving to present to him, he had to push back a laugh. Just who did she think to fool?

  “I’ll… sit.”

  Annabella’s mouth dropped open and she stared. Slowly, she straightened her back and allowed her arms to fall at her sides. After a moment, she closed her mouth.

  What did I just agree to? The words had just popped out, obviously surprising her. They’d certainly surprised him. But now they were out he had no choice. So he eased onto the worn couch. It held his weight just fine, so he leaned back and stretched out his legs.

  “Thank you. This will do nicely.” He nodded at the heap of furniture shrouds. “You can deal with those after you’ve brought me some refreshment.”

  Annabella’s eyes widened. “Refreshment?”

  Jon nodded. “Why yes. Some brandy would be excellent, though I doubt you have any here as yet — we’ll have to change that. Er… perhaps some tea? You… do have a cook fire going don’t you?”

  Annabella stared at him, her expression impossible to read except for the murderous glint in her eye.

  “As a matter of fact, I can offer you some lemonade.”

  “Thank you. Lemonade will do nicely.” He hated the slop, but something was happening… something Jon couldn’t quite figure out. If he had to drink the pale, tart liquid, so be it. Though he’d really rather have the brandy.

  She whirled and started toward the rear of the house, her hands balled into tiny fists at her side. As though experiencing a second thought, she halted her steps and turned back to him. Still with a lethal gleam in her eye, she dropped into a shallow and half-hearted curtsey. “If there’s nothing else, my — lord.”

  Chapter Three

  Using both hands, Annabella squeezed Seabrook’s neck. At least in her mind, it was his neck she twisted instead of the remains of her very last lemon. But it was so much more satisfying to imagine the infuriating visitor’s neck under her hands. She gave the yellow rind a vicious twist. As the juice dribbled into the goblet of water with pathetic little splashes, the sour smell tormented her nostrils. If she never had another lemon…

  She set the depleted rind on the table and paused. The yellow peel performed a slow unfurling, like the sudden bloom of a wild rose on the trellis outside, lending the impression it was somehow still living. She frowned. As revolting as it was, the bit of lemon was all that was left of her edible sustenance. Once she gave it to him, she’d have nothing to eat unless she wanted to consume sticks and bugs.

  A quick shake of her head dispelled the notion of starvation. Abby would bring her some food.

  Annabella crossed to the window and peered out, but no one strode along the pathway toward Rose Cottage. With a sigh, she returned to the table where she’d been preparing the lemonade for Seabrook.

  Her gaze fell on the little silver pot Juliet had tucked into her canvas valise. Annabella had danced with delight when she’d discovered it contained a generous measure of sugar. That had been the only thing to make the lemonade palatable. She reached for the container. The silver had gone black with tarnish. Wherever Juliet had pilfered the sugar pot from, it hadn’t seen use in some time. When she lifted the lid to discover only half of the white sugar remained, Annabella’s spirits fell a bit. If she added a pinch to his lemona
de, she’d have less for herself. Shouldn’t she save the confection for her own use? After all, she hadn’t invited him into her home.

  Still… The lemonade would be quite bitter without it.

  Of course, she wouldn’t be drinking it, so why should that matter to her? She started to set the lid in place but paused with her hand hovering over the sugar bowl. It would be truly horrid to offer him just lemon dripped into water with no sugar to cut the tartness. Adding just one pinch would help. And maybe it would improve his insufferable disposition to boot.

  All the sugar in the world won’t sweeten that one.

  A smile tugged at her lips. Well, she didn’t have all the sugar in the world, but maybe enough… The smile blossomed and her mood lifted as she set the lid on the table and lifted the sugar bowl. Humming to herself, she upended the pot and tipped the contents into the goblet then picked up a spoon and gave a hearty stir.

  “M’lady?” asked a soft voice from behind her.

  With a gasp, Annabella whirled, clutching at her chest where her heart beat wildly. “Gracious, you gave me a fright.”

  Abby stood in the open doorway, a wicker basket in one hand and one of Annabella’s best canvas valises looped over her other arm. “I sent Herbert to the front door with Lord Seabrook’s luggage… told him I was still working in the kitchen, that it’s a disgrace and in no condition for him to traipse through.” She glanced around the room as she spoke, her features well schooled, so it was impossible to determine if she had an opinion.

  Annabella studied the room as well, taking in the dust that coated everything and the cobwebs that clung to the ceiling. I did my best. A mutinous notion rose, and she pushed out her lower lip, but thought better of pouting and quickly arranged her features into a proper expression.

  When the maid placed the basket on the wooden table next to the lemonade, the aroma of roasted meat drifted up and curled into Annabella’s nose, beckoning for her to come closer. Closing her eyes, she bent and inhaled deeply, uncaring if Abby heard the appreciative rumble from her hungry stomach.