Kay Springsteen

by Something Like a Lady

  “Whatever are you squirming for?” the dowager demanded, lifting the pot of chocolate.

  Annabella answered with candor. In truth, the dowager scared her so much, she dared not fabricate any other answer. “The undergarments that were packed for me at Wyndham Green are… er, they’re very sheer and cut from silk and lace, your grace, and I’m not accustomed to such. They feel… strange.”

  In the middle of pouring her second cup of chocolate, the dowager’s hand jerked, and a few pale brown droplets spilled over the edge of the cup and onto the saucer before she stopped pouring with a sigh. “Gracious, you do speak frankly, don’t you, my dear?”

  Annabella sighed. “My apologies, your grace, but you did ask.”

  The dowager stiffened. Pursing her lips, she set the chocolate pot aside and stared at Annabella for an endless moment.

  Devils fire! Would she never learn to hold her tongue?

  “That I did, Frenchie!” The dowager chuckled as she picked up her cup of chocolate. “That I did. Now, your… unmentionables are French also, are they?”

  “No, your grace. My aunts despise the French. The garments were sewn in London of Indian silk and Italian lace.”

  The dowager pursed her lips. “Your aunts, eh? Do they know your own tastes run a bit differently than theirs?”

  Heat rushed into Annabella’s face. She opened her mouth to deny the subtle accusation but closed it again and remained silent.

  “Did you pack a nightdress?”

  Annabella nodded.

  “Serviceable and warm, I suppose?” Why did she sound so disapproving?

  “It is adequate, your grace.”

  The dowager snorted. “My dear, if we’re going to make my grandson regret removing that door, he needs to be made aware. You shall have to wear your fancy silk and lace to bed tonight and leave your serviceable garment in the wardrobe.”

  Annabella stared, unable to believe the dowager was serious, but the old cat had already turned her attention to the plate of scones.

  “The bed’s been turned, m’lady,” murmured Marie, returning to the dressing table. “And I’ve laid a new log on the fire. Will there be anything else?”

  Juliet would have stayed for a bit of conversation. But once again, Annabella had to remind herself that this maid was not her old friend. Juliet…

  “Did you collect the paper and pen I requested?”

  “I did, m’lady.” Marie nodded. “I left them on the writing table near the window with a fresh inkwell.”

  “Thank you, then. I shall need nothing more for the evening.”

  The maid scampered from the bedchamber as though making a narrow escape from the devil’s lair.

  Annabella wandered to the writing table but she didn’t sit. Running her fingers over the polished oak surface, she contemplated the revelations of the past day. If Jon were to be believed, Markwythe already knew the truth of the ruse she and Juliet had affected, and yet he had not done anything about it.

  But would the situation stay that way?

  I have to get word to her… give her a way to get away from him before things go from bad to worse.

  She sank onto the chair in front of the desk, struggling in her mind for the right words. She’d let her friend down but she didn’t want Juliet to feel as if she had no hope.

  Could she trust Seabrook’s assessment that Markwythe wouldn’t bring harm to Juliet? Annabella sighed. Seabrook had nothing to gain by lying. Did he?

  And yet, he had misled her about their night together and for what? To cause her misery by locking her into an unwanted — and unnecessary — marriage?

  She smoothed her dressing gown and brushed her hand over the gray damask of the armless chair, enjoying the feel of the fine material. Wyndham Green had once shown such splendor. Of course, she’d been a child and hadn’t appreciated such finery then. She flushed as she recalled an adventure involving a sewing needle and one of the duke’s fine wooden tables. Glancing at her present surroundings, she tried to imagine carving her initials in one of the mahogany dressers and chuckled. His grandmother would likely mount her head on a pike in the garden with the cat statue. No, Annabella just couldn’t picture Seabrook marrying for money. And in any case, she hadn’t any more than a modest dowry to contribute to their marriage. Her father’s estate had been quite small. She didn’t imagine much was left from that.

  Unless the late Duke of Wyndham had provided for her in ways she was unaware — and he might have, she acknowledged, as she never paid attention to such things. Either way… next to the obvious wealth at Blackmoor, any meager amount she did have would seem pitiful at best.

  But that left… her. Certainly, the man had made it clear he desired her… that way. She shuddered but if asked, she couldn’t have called it an action of revulsion.

  She shook her head, impatient with the direction of her thoughts. It no longer mattered why Seabrook had married her. They need not stay married — surely she could find her way out of the mess she found herself in. And Juliet could return to Wyndham Green.

  Annabella picked up the pen, another swan’s quill, and dipped it into the inkwell. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to write, forming each word with painstaking care. She had so much to tell Juliet, but most of it would have to wait until they were together again. When Juliet could call her a chicken brain. For the moment, it was enough to simply explain that Markwythe was aware of their plot and that Juliet must leave London.

  She signed an A at the bottom of the missive, since there was no longer any point to pretending to be her mother. Annabella yawned and stretched. She would decide to whom the note should be posted on the morrow. Carefully, she folded the paper into thirds. Her eyes drifted to the bed, where she’d secreted the banknotes. Perfect!

  She checked the adjoining bedchamber. A fire had been lit but the lamps remained dark. Of Seabrook she saw no sign, not even when she poked her head into the parlor. She left the door to the parlor ajar by an inch so she would hear him if he entered. Then, she retrieved the velvet bag and slid Juliet’s message into it alongside the banknotes. Quickly, she replaced the bag in her hiding place under the mattress.

  The click of the door closing in the outer room was barely noticeable. Had Annabella not been listening sharply, she’d never have heard it. She loosened the tie on her dressing gown as she stepped away from the bed. Would Seabrook enter her room and try to take up where they’d stopped the evening before? He’d been cordial enough at supper, though largely impersonal.

  Almost as though she’d been no more than an uninvited guest for the meal.

  Except she had been invited, hadn’t she? The prick of a thousand needles raced along her skin like a blanket of irritation. No, not invited. Carried to Blackmoor with neither her knowledge nor her permission. She glared at the door to the parlor, willing it to open, ready to continue their battle.

  Nothing happened. She could hear movements on the other side but Seabrook never opened the door. Annabella forced slow, even breaths. A flash of light through the adjoining door caught her eye and she turned. With his back to her, Seabrook rounded the bottom of his bed and crossed to the window.

  This would be her moment. She arranged her dressing gown to fall open in the front, fluffing it to give a more natural drape. Then she turned to gaze in the long mirror next to the wardrobe and gave a delicate cough, watching his shadowy figure reflected in the mirror.

  Seabrook startled and whirled about. He held a candle in his right hand. A golden glow spilled upward and bathed his face in an intriguing mix of light and shadow, darkening his skin to bronze. His eyes became glittering diamonds in the dark.

  And they were sliding over her form, raising heat every place they landed, though he was several feet distant.

  She hadn’t counted on that. Her heart quickened, her breaths came shallow and short. All the possibilities Seabrook had murmured to her at breakfast the previous morning tumbled over themselves in her imagination and the gentle warmth from the
stoked fire didn’t compete with the inferno raging within her.

  I can do this. It’s not unseemly. He’s my husband.

  What had started out as a means of tormenting the man became the way she could entice him. She chanced another look in the mirror, seeking his gleaming eyes, wondering if his blood had become as heated as hers.

  He was gone.

  Annabella blinked. She whirled, certain he was sneaking up on her, unable to resist what she offered, what she now knew she wanted to offer.

  No one was there.

  Gone! Through the door, she could see the abandoned candle flickering on his dresser. She barely felt her footsteps as she rushed across her room to the open doorway. Would she find him waiting just beyond? She no longer cared if he perceived it as weakness. His friendly politeness at dinner had left her on edge. They were married. I am Lady Seabrook, for better or—

  He wasn’t there.

  —worse.

  He’d rejected her. Utterly. The fires of arousal became icy darts of humiliation. She lowered herself to the bed blinking back hot tears.

  ****

  A soft knocking on her door dragged Annabella from blessed sleep. As she rubbed her eyes, the knocking continued. Why was the room so dim? The fire had burned low, allowing some chill to steal in.

  The knock sounded again. Then the door opened a crack. “M’lady?” inquired a soft voice.

  “Marie?” Annabella sat, drawing the covers up to her neck. She needn’t have bothered, as she still wore her dressing gown. The bedclothes had wrapped themselves around her feet, neatly tying her in place.

  The door was pushed inward. “Good morning, m’lady,” murmured the maid as she crept into the room. “Her grace requests that you dress in fresh, sturdy clothing and meet her at the shooting range.”

  Frowning, Annabella rubbed her gritty eyes. “I’m sorry, her grace requests what?” She leaned forward and began working at the covers that held her legs prisoner.

  “She wants you to meet her on the archery range.” Marie drew the heavy draperies back.

  Beyond the window, tones of mauve and melon pushed against the turquoise and black of the star-dotted night sky.

  “Saints!” snapped Annabella, finally freeing her feet. “What time is it?”

  Marie curled her lower lip into her mouth and stopped walking toward the wardrobe. “‘Tis almost six o’clock, m’lady. Her grace likes to practice early when the weather is clear.”

  “Of course she does,” mumbled Annabella, rolling to sit on the edge of the bed. The old harpy probably never closed her eyes in case the ruddy French marched on Blackmoor. “What has that to do with me?”

  Marie stared, wide-eyed. “Her grace says you shall be practicing with her while you and Lord Seabrook are staying here.”

  “At six in the morning?” Annabella blew an errant strand of hair from her face and stood. “Not likely. I’ve never heard of such barbaric—”

  A splash of blue on the bedstand captured Annabella’s attention. Stunned, she stared at her fan, apparently no longer misplaced. Where had it come from? It hadn’t been there the night before when she’d blown out the candle.

  “Seabrook,” she whispered, her blood already heating at the thought of him. He must have crept in while she slept. Had he stared at her, too, that wicked miscreant? She curled her hands into fists and sent a glare toward his bedchamber. Her breath left her lungs in a rush as she recognized the wooden door back in its place. Slowly, she sank back onto her bed. “Seabrook,” she whispered again.

  “How about this simple blue gown, my lady?” asked Marie, holding up a morning dress.

  Annabella’s gaze slid back to the closed door. Quite suddenly, her fingers itched to shoot some arrows. “Yes, the blue.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Jon eyed the platter of pastries. Should he grab another? If he hurried, he might have time to enjoy it before he was joined by Gran or Annabella. He’d managed to avoid them both at the morning meal for the better part of a week by alternating between arriving early and arriving late, and one time passing on breakfast altogether.

  He had the beginning of a headache and found himself in no mood for the verbal sparring that continued between the pair of them from sunrise to sunset.

  “Now, Dorothea, if you’re going to behave that way, I won’t have Lord Seabrook pick up the fresh fish when he goes into Coventry.”

  Too late! Jon frowned at the berry tart as though it had somehow summoned his grandmother.

  Coventry! Was it Thursday already? How in blazes could he have forgotten he’d promised Gran he’d stop at the clinic? And what was that business about picking up fresh fish? Blackmoor had no shortage of servants who could run such errands. The Earl of Seabrook wasn’t going to lower himself to retrieving fish for his grandmother’s felines.

  Jon sighed. At least an excursion into Coventry would provide a welcome excuse to get away from Blackmoor — and the uncomfortable proximity to Annabella —at least for a time. Staying awake until long into the night to ensure she would be asleep by the time he retired had taken its toll, as had awakening earlier than the ruddy sun just to avoid the sounds of her moaning her way out of bed and the rustle of her clothing as she dressed for her archery lessons. Even replacing the door between them hadn’t sufficiently dulled the noises that emanated from her bedchamber.

  He’d not hold out much longer before the nearness of his untouchable wife drove him into madness. But the alternative of seeking her out before she was truly ready to make their marriage real was unthinkable. It might well frighten her off.

  He pushed away from the dining room table and stood just as the door from the hallway pushed inward.

  “Good morning, Jonathan.” Gran’s hearty voice boomed across the dining hall. “Up and at the day before the sun again, I see.”

  He forced a smile. “I was about to make the same observation regarding you, Gran.” He peered over her shoulder but other than two of her blasted cats, Gran was quite alone.

  And that wasn’t a faint stab of disappointment that pinched in the vicinity of his heart. It was simply the pastry he’d eaten not agreeing with him. Good thing he hadn’t nabbed the second one after all.

  Jon rose to his feet, stepped to the side, and pushed his chair toward the table. “I see your apt pupil is missing her early meal this morning.”

  Gran smiled. “Oh, she’ll be along. It takes a lady a bit longer to dress for travel these days.”

  Jon’s heart lurched upward to crowd his throat. He gripped the back of his recently vacated chair until his knuckles turned white. “Dress for traveling?” By the saints, if she thinks she’s leaving—

  “Yes, Jonathan, traveling.” Gran shooed the two felines in the direction of the cat table and lowered herself into her seat. “You know very well it would be inappropriate for Annabella to accompany you to town wearing one of those day dresses she wears around here.”

  Blood thundered in Jon’s ears, blocking out Gran’s words. In truth, he could not care less what his wife chose to wear. As long as she wore it at Blackmoor Hall. “Accompany me to town?” he finally exploded. “Whatever for? You didn’t tell me I’d be—”

  A sharp gasp resonated through the dining hall and he glanced up. Annabella stared at him from the doorway. Clad in her blue traveling gown, hair neatly arranged on top of her head, she clutched a blue velvet bonnet in one hand. The restless fingers of her other hand plucked at the dried flowers adorning one side.

  Every muscle weakened, and Jon lost his grip on the chair back. How long had she been standing there? Long enough to hear his outburst, obviously. Her face had gone pale at first, but presently deep crimson was seeping its way into both cheeks.

  “I beg your pardon,” she snapped, sending him a glower that matched his own sour mood. “Am I to understand I’m now considered a prisoner in your home, Lord Seabrook? Am I not allowed to leave? Or is it merely my company you find objectionable?”

  She whirled as though to leav
e the room.

  That should have been the end of it. He should have been relieved that she was obviously opting out of the excursion.

  Then, quite without his permission, his mouth opened and words poured out. “Wait. Please. I should like you to visit the town with me.” Jon’s stomach tied itself into a knot. Was he mad? She might bolt in Coventry. He had no way of knowing who she might be able to convince to assist her in getting back to Wyndham Green. Or on to London… and Grey.

  …considered a prisoner… considered a prisoner… considered a prisoner…

  Her charge echoed like a mad parrot’s ramblings through his mind until he wanted to clap his hands over his ears. She’d hit on more truth than fabrication, and he couldn’t deny it — rather, the only way to deny it would be to prove her accusation wrong. That was the reason he invited her.

  That’s not the only reason, sang the insane parrot. He squashed the thought. It was the only reason he was willing to entertain at the moment. He inched in her direction, expecting his movement to send her edging away from him. When she merely cocked her head but didn’t move, Jon felt as though the floor tilted beneath him.

  She stood as though frozen, one hand on the door. Her mouth was drawn in a grim line, but her green eyes flashed with all the fire of first water emeralds. The fight hadn’t left her at all. She was merely calculating how to take it to a higher level.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Seabrook. My grandmother’s plans…” He swept a hand in Gran’s direction, and his voice faltered over his next words when he realized the old woman was watching the two of them with ardent intensity, almost as though she drew energy from the charge in the air. He narrowed his eyes at Gran. “My grandmother’s plans took me by surprise.” He concentrated on relaxing his stance as he turned back to Annabella. “I can think of nothing I would like better than for you to join me.”