Seabrook’s enigmatic mask lowered into place. “Did I?” He stood, stepped over his garments where they lay on the floor, and rounded the foot of the bed, heading in her direction with clear purpose in his eyes.
“I believe that was my question.” She sidestepped away from the bed. “Did you? Or, rather, did we?”
He looked away from her, staring across the room for several long seconds. “We did not,” he said with a sigh as he turned back. “Not for want of your rather colorful invitation, but because I was raised to respect women too much to accept such an offer when the lady in question is not in a state to be making it.”
“Get out,” she ordered softly, praying he would leave before she gave in to the insane urge to whisk back the shock of hair that fell across his forehead.
“Annie,” he said in that infuriatingly indulgent tone he’d used to placate his grandmother.
“Annabella!” she snapped. At the twin pricking sensations in her palms, she realized she’d curled her hands and dug her fingernails into flesh, so she concentrated on relaxing, and then she folded her arms over her chest. “Now remove yourself from my presence.”
One side of his mouth twisted upward. “Or you’ll do… what exactly? I am, after all, your husband.”
Annabella scowled at his unwelcome reasoning. She could hardly scream. Even if anyone heard her, the fool servants would likely think she was having some sort of hysterical fit or that she screamed in the throes of passion. She moved to the right, and he blocked her path. She dodged left and he again stepped in front of her. The odd dance continued until she found herself on the opposite side of the bed and standing over his coat.
“We shan’t be married for long,” she informed him. Then, stooping, she grabbed his coat and waistcoat in one motion, rolled the garments into a fat ball, and hurled them through the open bedchamber door.
He made no move to follow his clothing, so Annabella shrugged and grabbed a vase of lilies from the dressing table. Taking careful aim, she flung it. He dodged the projectile and the vase struck the wall behind him, shattering into hundreds of tiny pieces. The lilies fluttered to the floor like giant red and pink snowflakes and water flowed over the silk wall covering, turning the brilliant red to a deep burgundy.
Seabrook flicked his gaze over the damage and sighed. “Well, that’s ruined.”
“Oh!” she shrieked.
A miniature marble statue of a young woman swathed in a flowing gown stood on a matching pedestal near the armoire. On weighing it in her hand, she discovered it was heavy. Perfect for use it as a weapon.
“Get. Out!” She sent it sailing in a spectacular arc heading directly for her intolerable husband’s head. It was heavier than she’d planned on, however, so it fell short of its mark and landed with a dull thud at his feet.
The candle on the dressing table flickered, revealing murderous intent in Seabrook’s eyes. Annabella made it to the door just before he did, and when he reached for her, she ducked beneath his grasp and whirled. He was still looking away from her, so she planted her hands firmly against his upper back and shoved with all her might.
The move obviously surprised him. He stumbled forward but caught himself and turned. Annabella glimpsed shock in his eyes just before she slammed the door in his face and set the lock.
“Open this door, Annabella!” Seabrook’s roar was followed by thunderous pounding on the door and jiggling of the handle.
“No, you scurrilous, objectionable, insufferable, black-hearted man! I will not open this door!”
The pounding grew even louder. “Annabella, we must talk. Let me in.”
“Ha!” She slapped at the door. “It wasn’t talking on your mind only a moment ago.”
A muffled curse filtered through the door. Then the hammering abruptly ceased.
The sudden silence brought Annabella’s head up sharply. He was up to something. Heavens, maybe he’d decided she wasn’t worth it and had gone to fetch his grandmother’s pistol! Frantic, she glanced around the room for another weapon in case he broke through. Her gaze landed on a narrow door on the other side of the bedchamber. Where did that lead? Maybe she could use it to escape.
Or he can use it to get in!
She raced to the door. The bolt was old and rusted, apparently no longer used. After some effort, she managed to slide it into place just as the door handle rattled.
She backed away from the door, unable to tear her gaze from it. Tears of frustration and anger ran down her cheeks and splattered onto her hands. I can leave now. We don’t need to maintain this ridiculous farce. We needn’t have married in the first place.
Why didn’t the realization thrill her? In truth, she wasn’t even terribly angry. Not over that, at any rate. Of course, nothing could force her to allow that fool into her bed after his disclosure.
Even if his touch had brought her alive.
Even if just being near him made her body buzz and tingle with awareness and her heart thump like a hammer.
He’d had no right to force her into a marriage that—
“No one forced you,” he’d pointed out — quite truthfully.
Had she simply refused both his offer and that of Vicar Hamilton, the scandal would have passed in due course. Had she… wanted to run off with Seabrook all along? “No…” she whispered, her knees buckling. She grabbed onto the bedpost to keep from dropping to the floor and gulped in several breaths. “No!” she repeated more firmly, irritated that she had even entertained the thought. Of course not. The notion was ludicrous. He just… intrigued her, was all.
Annabella worked her way around to the side of the bed and sank onto the edge. She should have known nothing happened.
Part of you did, whispered her heart. Deep inside you knew. Hadn’t she and Juliet secreted themselves outside the servants’ quarters at a tender age and listened to the scullery maids tittering about wedding nights? Hadn’t they stared at each other aghast at some of the things the women described? Hadn’t both their faces colored at the bawdy joking that a “proper” wedding night caused a girl to walk gingerly for a week?
Yes, I knew. I knew nothing had changed but I chose to believe otherwise. Why had she done it? And why had Seabrook let her think such a thing?
“Annie…” His muffled voice, calmer than before, came through the main door. “Annie, if you can hear me… I’m sorry. That’s what I came to tell you before we— It’s what I came to tell you.”
She used the hem of her gown to dry her eyes but didn’t answer him.
“I’ll not bother you tonight. We’ll talk things out in the morning. Just… please don’t do anything… impetuous. Don’t try to leave.”
She held her silence and glared at the door, wishing he would just go away as she’d asked.
“Right. I’ll see you in the morning then,” he said.
Stillness fell over the room.
Why had he lied? He couldn’t possibly have wanted her. Why did he lie?
“Did I?” Seabrook had countered to her accusation.
The candle burned down, but Annabella sat unmoving on the bed, mulling over her last days at Rose Cottage… in particular, since she’d awakened to find herself in Seabrook’s bed.
“He never said so outright,” she whispered. “I accused him but he never admitted to anything. Not even when he talked to Vicar Hamilton…” Annabella sighed. “You chicken brain.”
When he’d returned her fan, he had said he wanted to talk. Annabella frowned. They certainly hadn’t done much of that. What had happened to her fan? A quick glance about the room turned up nothing. She must have dropped it when he—
She must have dropped it.
Her footfalls scarcely raised a whisper as she crept to the bedchamber door. If Seabrook was waiting on the other side… But when she opened the door, the room was empty. You know you wish he’d been here.
Scowling at the intrusive thought, Annabella retraced the path he must have taken when he’d carried her to the bed. One slipper la
y in the middle of the room. Her fan was nowhere to be found. Dropping to her knees, she looked beneath the chair but only found her other slipper. Then she scooted over to the drum table. No fan. Her gaze drifted to the hearth. Would he have…? Did he hate her enough to destroy something he’d taken such trouble to return? And where was he? He’d promised to leave her alone, but where had he gone? Shivering, Annabella shuffled back to the bedchamber.
To the bed where she and Seabrook had almost—
What did it matter where he went, so long as he kept to himself? Tingles began in her fingers and toes and danced along her skin.
“Liar,” she called herself in a harsh whisper. For suddenly it mattered very much.
****
Jon sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the dressing room and watched narrow fingers of blue-white moonlight play across the floor, poking their way into the shadows, pushing them back — showing who was the master — and then moving on. He’d given up hope of sleeping as emotions churned and tumbled over one another like the crashing surf in wintertime.
Annabella’s fan opened easily at his hand. He had no notion as to why he’d snatched the confounded bit of silk and lace from the parlor floor where Annabella had dropped it. Tracing the lacy edge with one finger, he sighed. Once again, he’d handled the matter badly. He’d had every intention of telling her the truth of their situation and then perhaps sharing a bit about his own dilemma.
But her spark, her verve as she’d spoken her mind had distracted him from his mission. Merely being in her presence never failed to electrify his senses. He shouldn’t have kissed her. And when she’d kissed him back… He should have put a stop to it all until they’d talked.
Jon lifted his gaze and stared at the door connecting the dressing room to the bedchamber. She’d bolted it. He hadn’t known it was possible to move the bolt still, but she’d managed it. Driven by desperation to keep him at bay, she had set a lock that hadn’t been set for years. As if to pound home the thought, a ray of moonlight crept up along the doorjamb and caressed the iron hinges that held the door in place.
How could he make things right? Annabella could be the most maddening creature he’d ever known, but since meeting her, he’d felt more alive than he had since he’d been a boy at play. And he’d spoiled it all by not tempering his lascivious reaction to a lovely woman. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was more than his poor handling of the matter that rankled. His pride had taking a stunning blow.
To be chased from his own bedchamber, locked out by a reluctant wife. Gran would hear about it. The servants at Blackmoor were fiercely loyal to the dowager duchess, and she’d hear about the confrontation before the morning was out. To say the least, she wouldn’t be pleased.
Blast his ardent nature! Nay! He couldn’t cast the entire blame on his nature. In truth, he’d never been with a woman who set molten fire racing through his veins as Annabella did. When she was near, he became ruddy unhinged.
Unhinged.
Jon sat bolt upright. “Unhinged, indeed.”
Chapter Seventeen
Annabella rolled over and stretched. When had her bed grown as soft as a cloud? Where am I? Yawning, she forced her eyes open. Red silk walls brightened into focus. Golden toned draperies framing the floor-to-ceiling windows hadn’t been pulled, and midmorning sun erupted through polished windowpanes.
Scattered bits of fine white porcelain glinted on the cream and burgundy carpet. A sad pile of wilted lilies brought memories flooding back. Annabella let out another unladylike yawn, quite proud of the way she’d stood up for herself. I showed Seabrook I wasn’t to be trifled with. The man needed a good set-down. Lying to me…
True, had it not been for his revelation that they hadn’t… that they needn’t have married, she wouldn’t have been awakening to face the day alone. She had that to be thankful for, at least, didn’t she?
Now that she knew, though, she would… She frowned. She would what? Go to London and rescue Juliet? Truth be told, she hadn’t a notion how to get to London. The sooner she put Blackmoor Hall and Seabrook behind her, though, the better. Seabrook had wanted to talk. Well, after she’d bested him the night before, he could expect to be doing a lot more listening than talking.
Giddy delight raised a bubble of laughter. Oh yes, she had plenty to say, and he would listen. Annabella sat up and rang for the maid, anxious to get dressed and down to breakfast.
Moments later, Marie entered from the withdrawing room. “Good mornin’, my lady,” she greeted in a voice barely above a whisper. Her hand trembled as she drew back the heavy quilt. Her eyes flickered over the dinner gown Annabella still wore from the evening before but she turned away quickly, saying nothing.
The breath of chilled morning air splashing across Annabella’s legs worked like magic to wake her. She stood and crossed to the seat in front of the dressing table, but she didn’t sit right away. “I think the pink gown this morning.” Yes, the pink one that reminded her of the roses at Wyndham Green.
“O-o-of course, m’l-lady.” The maid tugged the door on the mahogany wardrobe. With practiced movements, she shook out the jonquil yellow gown.
Annabella giggled. “Marie? Perhaps you didn’t hear me ask for the pink gown?”
The maid dropped her gaze to the dress she held, and her eyes went wide. “Oh! Beg pardon, m’lady.” The yellow fabric slid through her fingers and pooled on the floor. She gasped as she stooped and snatched it up. Her hands fluttered as she laid the dress over the back of the gold brocade chair. After casting a sidelong glance at Annabella, she jerked the pink gown from the wardrobe and fluffed it.
“Yes, that’s the one,” murmured Annabella, smiling. Poor Marie really was in a state. “Thank you.”
“Y-yes, m’lady,” she whispered. “Shall I choose undergarments or do you have a preference?”
Straining to hear, Annabella furrowed her brow. “Oh, whatever comes to hand,” she said breezily as she sank onto the green velvet bench.
Sheer relief settled over Marie’s face as she gave a nod and returned to the wardrobe. But she cast a startled glance at Annabella as she pulled a garment from the needlepoint valise.
The nearly transparent chemise was made of fine Indian silk and Italian lace instead of serviceable muslin. The snowy white undergarment seemed to add luster to the already bright room.
Annabella tried to swallow but her mouth had gone dry. “Oh, my,” she whispered. Her aunts had given her several such decadent undergarments on her last birthday. Annabella hadn’t known when she would wear any of them, but after one glimpse of the stark horror on her mother’s face, she’d embraced the gift. Then she had locked the unmentionables away, certain only whores wore such things.
Abbey must have packed them.
Shock coiled like a den of adders in her middle. After Seabrook’s unsavory talk the day before… and what had almost — Well, she couldn’t wear such — such wicked garments…
…could she?
The snakes struck, sending tingling frissons through her like lightning bolts. Annabella squirmed in her seat, suddenly unable to breathe. Chills raised goose flesh along her arms, but her face felt like she’d gone up in flames.
“Is this — acceptable, m-m’lady?”
Calm settled like a down quilt on a winter’s eve. Annabella smiled. She would wear it. She’d wear it and enjoy the knowledge that it would likely send Lord Seabrook over the edge into madness if he saw it. Her smile widened. And yet he’d never see it.
“That is absolutely perfect,” she said as she watched Marie scurry across the carpet with her clothing. Never in her life had Annabella felt more in control. Elation filled her as the maid helped her to dress.
The distressed servant appeared near to tears and kept her head down, eyes averted. It took her three tries to fasten Annabella’s dress. When the girl jerked Annabella’s head back sharply while brushing her hair, Annabella’s patience snapped.
“Marie! Is something amiss?”
&nbs
p; “A-a-amiss, my lady?”
Annabella put her hands on her hips and swung around. Weak sunlight spilled in from the adjoining room. “Yes, amiss. You’re skittering about like a mouse. You nearly broke my neck just now. I have a mind—”
She stared at the perfectly made-up bed, just visible through the arched doorway. Two cast iron hinges slashed across her view like black half-swords, suspended from the doorjamb.
But the door she’d so carefully bolted the night before was gone.
Fury coiled from deep within and blossomed into a rage greater than any Annabella had ever known. “Why that— Where’s the ruddy door?”
Driven by her wrath, she opened her mouth and spewed a string of curses as she leapt to her feet. Her half-boots sat next to the dressing table, waiting for her to don them. Uttering a final murderous curse, she kicked them out of the way and stormed to the door.
“My lady, your hair,” protested Marie, one hand clutching the brush and the other pressed to her chest. “I’ve not finished.”
Annabella waved her off. “Never mind my hair.” With the toss of a hand, she pushed her tresses behind her shoulder and lifted the door latch. “That spawn of Satan to whom I am rather unfortunately wed is about to meet his devil father!”
****
“Make sure to remove the knives from the sideboard, Samuel.” Jon had no intention of keeping anything sharp within reach of his wife. “Probably should take the candlesticks from the table and the decanters as well.”
“As you wish, my lord.” The butler motioned to the footmen, who began gathering the objects and hurrying from the room.
Jon surveyed the array of mince pies, fruit, and breakfast pastries, a banquet of breakfast foods covering one end of the formal dining table, the result of Gran’s standing orders regarding taking breakfast in the main dining hall because that was where the cats preferred to eat. His gaze strayed to the felines’ table, already set up with steak and kidney pie and dishes of warm cream, and shook his head. It was good to be home.
Kay Springsteen Page 19
