“Abby! Who was here…?”
The maid was gone. The silverware case had been left open next to the meal waiting on the worktable.
Well, what did you expect? You did send her away.
Sighing, Annabella returned to the dining room. “This isn’t all that difficult, I suppose.” She fluffed open the tablecloth and laid it on the table. Far better than removing those dusty furniture draperies. She paused and looked across the room. Just as she might have expected, the haphazard pile of dust covers had disappeared.
A quiver rolled through her and settled in the pit of her stomach. She had to get out of there. But if she didn’t set up the dinner table as Abby had instructed, Seabrook might complain and Abby would be chastised.
Her hands shook as she spread the linen cloth over the table and righted the edges. The corners stuck out at odd angles, but Annabella didn’t take the time to fold them. Quickly, she threw the lace over the linen. Then she settled the long cloth over the side buffet and adjusted it. She’d been correct. It hardly took any effort at all. She was barely breathing hard as she hurried back to the kitchen for the dinnerware.
It took her only a couple of trips to set the table with fine china and silver. The pair of crystal candlesticks glistened in the light of the white tapers she’d lit at the kitchen fire. It took slightly longer to carry in the evening’s fare. She had no idea how to arrange it on the sideboard. Or perhaps she should have placed the dishes on the table? With no one to serve, that made the most sense.
She set the platter of grouse in the center of the table, followed that with the basket of bread. By the time she finished, the arrangement looked a bit clumsy, with the food spread slapdash over the top.
“He’s got enough food here to serve six guests,” she muttered, straightening the corner of linen that kept flapping at her as she moved against it.
“A splendid table you’ve set here, Annie.” Seabrook’s soft voice came from behind her.
Annabella stiffened then straightened and turned. He stood next to the hearth as though posed for a portrait, magnificent in gray trousers and Egyptian blue tailcoat. The gold buttons decorating the front of the coat glinted in the light of the tapers. Her breath caught at Seabrook’s sheer handsomeness. What would it feel like to push back that errant wave of hair that brushed across his forehead?
With measured movements, he plucked the tinderbox from the mantelpiece and then crouched and saw to lighting the fire. She couldn’t see his hands but the muscles in his broad shoulders bunched and glided beneath the blue wool. He didn’t stand again until a spectacular flame danced along the kindling.
With a jolt, Annabella realized she’d been staring at Seabrook’s back.
Seaside! You’re ogling Seaside.
He turned and pinned her in his scrutiny. A mouse wouldn’t have felt nearly as helpless caught in the glare of a stalking cat. Swallowing hard, she willed her heart to stop racing — or, barring that, to stop altogether if it would relieve her of his rapacious gaze.
She pulled in a deep breath. “The food grows cold,” she squeezed past her frozen lips. “I fear if your guest waits much longer to arrive, it will be inedible.”
Seabrook’s lips twitched, and for a moment, Annabella wondered if he was about to break into another of his horrid grins. Instead, his dark eyes glinted with merriment and his mouth turned gently upward. For the briefest of moments, she could almost see her father’s smile of indulgence.
The memory was such a shock, Annabella reeled backward. Lord Seabrook was nothing at all like her father. What had driven that recollection to her mind? Throwing her hands behind her, she grasped the back of the tall dining chair and righted herself.
“It appears my… guest… will not be making an appearance after all,” murmured Seabrook. His gaze warmed until he almost palpably caressed her, though he stood several feet distant. He flicked a glance at the table. “It seems a shame to allow such a splendid meal to go to waste. Will you join me?”
Annabella’s heart stammered and rose to her throat, where its mad beating threatened to pinch off her breath. “J-join you? For supper?”
“I’ve never particularly enjoyed dining alone. What say you, my lady fair?” He bowed, reaching out at the same time to capture her right hand. “Would you care to take supper with me?”
He knew! Somehow he knew she’d been pilfering the food that had been sent for him. Of course, she hadn’t been terribly skilled at hiding her trail. She never should have indulged in that second scone.
Seabrook inclined his head and raised one eyebrow.
Annabella took a step back, but bumped into the chair. Trapped! Heat rushed to her face. She couldn’t seem to think straight. No, if he knew she was pinching some of his food, he’d have said something. Why would he invite her to take a meal with him?
His smile widened and a calculated gleam entered his eyes. Of course… He’d expected a guest, maybe an evening’s loving entertainment. And now that his visitor hadn’t arrived…
“You have such an aversion for dining alone you would lower yourself to take your meal with a servant?” She narrowed her eyes. “And what would such a fine meal cost the servant with whom you dine?”
Confusion clouded his expression. “Cost?”
Annabella jutted her chin outward. “Yes. Cost. What would you expect? A few stolen kisses? An evening’s dalliance, perhaps? Was that the nature of your… guest? Some little trollop who didn’t keep to your bargain?” She rolled her eyes, enjoying the look of discomfiture that settled over his fine features. “Such women can be so… unreliable. I do hope you didn’t pay in advance for her services… my lord.”
Crimson seeped from beneath his cravat as a predatory glint replaced the confusion on his face. “I wonder if you might have more knowledge of that than I, Annie.” He cocked one eyebrow and took a step forward. “I assure you, had I desire for a woman, I would not need to seek one from the streets.”
Oh, what had she done? Her mother often warned her that she allowed her tongue too much free rein. Was she about to pay for her wicked remark? She shrank away from him, but the table hadn’t moved. Her mouth worked as she tried to force an apology, but though she knew what she wanted to say, the words hung in her throat.
Seabrook lifted his hand and moved it toward her face. Trembling, Annabella darted a gaze at the kitchen door, just visible over his left shoulder. Escape. If only she could—
He stopped just short of touching, his fingers hovering so close she could feel their warmth even without the contact. Something softened in his eyes, stripped the edginess from his intent. “What happened to your face?” he murmured.
“M-my face?” Annabella hated the tremor in her voice, but she couldn’t seem to make it stop.
“You’ve scratches on you cheek.” He leaned closer. “You look as though you’ve been fighting with a cat.”
Annabella lifted a hand to her cheek and winced when she brushed the skin just to the side of her left eye. It must have been the brambles. She dropped her hand and pushed out her chin. “I expect you’d know more about cat fights than I, given the company you likely keep.” Filled with disdain, she swept the table with a glance and when he followed her motion with his eyes, she adeptly side-stepped and pushed past him. “Or in this case, apparently do not keep. Enjoy your… supper. My lord,” she tossed over her shoulder as she all but stumbled into the kitchen.
After she shut the door, she leaned against it, willing her traitorous heart to stop its mad pounding. For just a moment, she’d been tempted by his offer. Oh, to enjoy a fine meal with intelligent company.
Not his company. Intelligent perhaps, but also insufferable, overbearing, infuriating—
She opened her mouth and drew in a sharp breath, but she suppressed the scream of frustration that begged for release, turning it instead into a long, harsh sigh. Her gaze strayed to the pantry, where her measly supper of bread and cheese awaited.
Annabella slumped, her mood deflated.
She’d done it again. She might have at least allowed herself to enjoy a decent meal and fine wine before she ran off in a fit of pique.
Her mouth watered at the memory of those asparagus tips smothered in creamy sauce. Odd, how once she’d balked at eating them. With her father’s encouragement, she’d tried the green spears and discovered herself to be quite fond of them.
And now, Seabrook sat at the dining table — her dining table — eating the tender shoots. Even if he left any, they would be cold, the sauce congealed into an unappetizing lump. She kicked at the bare floor.
The pantry had the same dusty smell when she entered. Suppressing a sneeze, she walked directly to the barrel and pried open the lid. Wine… wine would go nicely with her cheese at least. She ran her fingers over the velvet bag shrouding the bottle she’d stashed with her pilfered food. Surely a taste would hurt nothing. If she didn’t like it, she would recork the bottle and place it back in the barrel.
Annabella gathered the cheese and bread, picked up the velvet bag with the wine, and hurried back to the kitchen. After she set her food on the worktable nearest the bank of windows, she crossed to the oak storage hutch that contained the chipped and battered dishes. With thoughts of mice on her mind, she slapped the outside of the wide drawer a few times, hoping to frighten off anything that might be lurking inside. She jerked on the drawer and jumped back, waiting to see what might pop out.
Nothing moved except the iron ladle that had been jostled with her motion. Annabella frowned. The ladle was the only thing in the drawer. She couldn’t very well open the bottle of wine with that. What did the kitchen staff use to open bottles of oil? She slammed the drawer shut and opened the top cabinet to grab her plate. Struggling against disheartened feelings, she shuffled over to the table.
The velvet pouch had sagged down, exposing the top of the dark green bottle. The thing mocked her as she loaded her plate with cheese and bread. To make matters worse, the aroma of Seaside’s lavish meal lingered in the air. She broke off a chunk of orange cheese and nibbled on the edge. Smoky sharpness tickled her tongue and heat pervaded her face.
Idly, she scraped one fingernail along the wax coating the corked top of the bottle. A little of the burgundy sealant flaked off. Another nibble of cheese and a bit more scraping, and more wax peeled loose. Then she set the cheese down, stripped the velvet from the wine bottle, and began gouging at the wax. Some of it got beneath her fingernails but most ended up on the table. When she had bared the cork, she tried twisting it, but it had swollen into the mouth of the bottle and was stuck fast.
Annabella poked at it with her dinner fork, but it still wouldn’t budge. “Oh, what’s the use?” Frustrated, she shoved the bottle across the table. It teetered and rolled onto its side with a dull thud. “Well, that was silly!” Sighing, she picked up the bottle again. “You might have broken it, you ninny. And then you’d have nothing.”
In the middle of standing the bottle upright, she froze. That was it! She could break the top off. Of course, that meant she wouldn’t be able to re-cork it, but if Seaside finished off his wine, she could pinch one of his decanters and fill it with whatever she had left.
A giggle slipped out. The solution was so simple. She tripped over to the hutch and removed a goblet, then fairly danced back to her place at the table. It took three strikes of the bottle’s neck against the heavy wooden table before she heard the soft crack. After one final blow, the neck of the bottle popped off the body and flew across the room, where it struck the door and then bounced to the floor. Reddish liquid sloshed from the opening and coated her fingers.
A sweet, fruity, cedar aroma wafted up to stroke Annabella’s awareness. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, inexplicably reminded of Papa’s cigar box. Oh, how she’d loved lifting the lid and smelling his fine cigars. She’d had to be careful to do it when her mother wouldn’t catch her at it.
“Annabella! Close that at once. Such things are not in the least ladylike,” announced Regina, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“But, Mama, I like the smell!” Annabella stomped her foot and looked to Papa for help.
“Let her be, Reggie,” he said with a soft chuckle. He ruffled Annabella’s hair. “She’s only seven years old. Plenty of time to grow into being a lady yet.”
“And plenty of time to grow into a hoyden if we let her,” snapped her mother, slamming the lid on Papa’s cigar box.
Scowling at the memory that had stolen her moment of happiness, Annabella raised the broken bottle and waved it beneath her nose, inhaling slowly. Almost giddy with her success, she brushed a shard of glass from the broken edge and then tipped the bottle and poured a generous measure into her goblet. The garnet colored liquid sparkled as it caught a bit of light from the nearby candle flame. The bouquet rose to permeate the air as Annabella lifted the goblet and sipped.
Sweet blackberry and cedar splashed over her palate. She swished the wine a bit before swallowing. The mild burn in the back of her throat was instantly quieted by the silkiness of the flavorful blend. Annabella moaned softly. None of the wine served at Wyndham Green had ever been this smooth. She took another sip, swirled the glass and took another. Smiling, she broke off some of the crusty bread and bit. Then she sank her teeth into a piece of cheese, enjoying the bite of the cheddar against the yeasty taste of the bread. Another sip of wine soothed away the sharpness.
Seaside could have his fancy supper. She was quite enjoying her makeshift meal. She lifted the glass and drained it, then stared at the bottle. Such a lovely bottle, all green and shiny… and such pretty red wine that sparkled as it sloshed into her goblet. Right. Just one more glass then.
****
Jon punched the mattress into something resembling a comfortable bed and eased himself onto it. With a few wiggles of shoulders and hips, he found an arrangement he could live with.
Pity he’d gone to such trouble to arrange for Annabella to have a proper meal instead of pinching portions of his, only to have the little tib turn up her nose at his efforts. Oh, she’d wanted to eat with him, all right. He’d seen her casting those longing gazes with her mossy green eyes.
Why hadn’t she pilfered some of the banquet before she’d served it? Perhaps she would have had he not interrupted her. But he’d been too eager to invite her to hold his tongue. Had been so certain she’d accept. But she’d sooner scratch in the dirt like a chicken than eat with him.
A smile tugged at his lips as his eyes drifted closed. She’d certainly made that plain enough. He should be on his way, working at solving his own problems, and yet… and yet, something about her just—
“Rei…lly… Rei…lly…”
Jon’s eyes sprung open as he bolted upright. “What the devil?” Had that screeching been Annabella?
“Rei—” She broke off, cackling like a magpie. Something banged.
Jon pushed to his feet, wincing at the chill of the bare floor through his stockings. Not again.
“Oh!” More cackles, closer this time. She must be in the great room. “Rei—Reilly’s daughter…”
Jon gave his boots half a thought but another bang from downstairs drove him to the door. He followed Annabella’s singing — if one could call it that — down the steps.
“O-o-oh… ‘Er hair was bla-a-ack… and her ey-ey-yes were bloooo.” She cackled again.
Was that supposed to be a laugh? Merciful angels! The cold stone steps stole his breath as he raced down them. He rounded the corner and stopped short.
Near the dining table, Annabella swayed back and forth, holding onto the back of one of the tall chairs. She almost appeared… If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was dancing with it.
With another obscene noise, this one closer to a giggle, she staggered backward and gave a shaky curtsey. “I beg ye’r pardon but I do… dooo… do not believe we are prop-proper-erly ac-quaint— ed.”
Good Solomon! The chit was foxed.
She stopped and stared at the bottle cradled in her hand. The top had be
en broken off but it looked like it had once been one of the long-necked bottles the French used for storing wine. She lifted it and peered inside, one eye narrowed, then gave it a shake.
“Oh, rot! We’re out of drink.” The bottle landed on the table with a clatter then rolled onto the floor with a dull thunk. “No matter! We still have song!” She tossed back her head and began to screech in a hideously loud voice, “The colonel and the major… and the cap-captain sought her… But they never had a chance… with mean old Reilly’s daugh— ter…”
She lurched into a dizzy whirl but ended up clutching for the back of the chair. When she missed it and landed with her palms pressed against the tabletop, Jon stepped into the light. Time to put a stop to her ridiculous behavior before she injured herself.
Her eyes widened and a foolish grin lifted her mouth. “Seaside!” She cackled again. “Were y-you waiting for Reilly’s dau-daughter tonight?”
“What?” He couldn’t stop staring at her hair, spun gold cascading in waves down her back. Thick as a curtain — did it feel like velvet? His thumbs brushed across the tips of his fingers as interesting images formed in his mind. He shifted his gaze to the floor. Bad choice. She had no shoes or socks on. Bare toes peeked from beneath her gown. His body, previously ready for sleep, was suddenly alert and very, very aware of the feminine beauty standing not five feet away.
“Reilly’s daughter is a…” Annabella giggled and lowered her voice. “She’s a virgin.”
Jon shook his head, unable to make sense of her jabbering. But then it didn’t matter, as she was off again, pitching away from the table and toward the sitting area. Heavens, if she’d consumed an entire bottle of French wine, it was a miracle she was still on her feet. Though it didn’t look like she’d be on them long. Jon followed her, praying she didn’t tip over before she got to the couch.
But she only began singing again as she wove her way back and forth across the room. “Maids when you’re young… Stay and have some fun… And never marry an old man.” She stumbled forward, bumping into him.
Kay Springsteen Page 8
