Annabella turned slightly, allowing the moonbeam shining through the window to spill over Jon’s face. His eyes seemed to glow, twin pools of molten obsidian. But underneath the edge of arousal, she saw honest caring, even — dared she hope? — love.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything… of anyone,” she whispered, tracing the dimple in his chin with her thumb. Pushing up onto her toes, she leaned in again and laid her lips against his.
The scent of fresh air with a hint of Madeira clung to his skin and rose to tease her nostrils. Annabella pulled in a deep breath, savoring the fragrances of their day together. With a feral moan, Jon wrapped her in his strong embrace and deepened the kiss. When he touched his tongue to her lips she opened to him.
Sensations she’d never experienced pummeled her as his hands roamed freely over her body, tugging at the ties on her nightdress until the garment loosened. He stopped his kisses long enough to lift her and carry her to the narrow bed on which he’d been sleeping for the past months. When he laid her down, he followed, fitting against her with such perfection, she became the lock, and he the key.
He murmured things, beautiful words, naughty words… words filled with passion and longing as he showed her with every touch, every kiss, each sigh-filled moment what it meant to be loved by Jonathan Durham.
As the fire in the hearth burned low, the fires of Annabella’s love for her husband rose. Whatever her future might hold, from that instant on, she would always have those first moments of tenderness intertwined with passion. Breathless, her heart pounding so hard surely it would leave her chest, Annabella lay locked in Jon’s arms listening to his ragged breathing deepen and slow.
For once, he’s falling asleep on me instead of the other way around. She tamped down a giggle as she groped for the bed covers and drew them up. Jon stirred and murmured but then sighed, and his sonorous breathing resumed as he sank back into slumber, one arm thrown possessively across her middle.
I didn’t know it was like this… I had no idea… Sudden tears stung her eyes, and she let them fall, recognizing they weren’t tears of sadness but of deep emotion. She nuzzled into Jon’s neck and closed her eyes, feeling truly safe for the first time in her life.
This is home…
****
Annabella rolled over and stretched. Predawn light crept over the intricately carved ceiling and delved into the shadows. Jon’s arms tightened around her when she moved, and he began to press kisses to her jaw, sought and found her mouth with a growing display of urgency.
Happiness exploded in her soul and she kissed him back, fast and hard. “Good morning, Lord Seabrook.” She lightly dragged her fingernails along the skin from his shoulder to his chest, raising fine bumps in their wake. Fascinating… how her every touch seemed to elicit a response in her husband.
“Mmm, good morning, Lady Seabrook.” Jon grazed her ribs with one hand as he propped himself on his other and gazed into her eyes. “Did you sleep well?”
Giggles rose. “When my husband allowed sleep, yes, I slept very well.” She wound her arms around his neck and clung.
“And in between sleeping?” he asked with a chuckle.
The mild heat of embarrassment invaded her face, but she didn’t look away. “Seabrook, really, are you asking me to rate your prowess as a lover?”
“Not at all,” he answered, dropping a kiss to the tip of her nose. “It’s just that you moaned and cried out so loud and so often I felt the need to make certain my lady has not taken ill.”
The heat blossomed into a raging inferno. “I most certainly did no such thing.”
His lips twitched into a smile and he began raining insistent kisses over her face and neck. “No? Well, perhaps this time you should pay closer attention…”
The brilliant light of midmorning splashed into the room the next time Annabella awakened.
And she was alone in the narrow bed.
Hushed voices and faint rustlings of fabric drifted through the partially open door to the parlor. Annabella moved to draw the coverlet up but found it had already been carefully tucked around her shoulders like a cocoon.
The voices continued their rise and fall and Annabella strained to hear. They were both male as far as she could tell. Was that Jon’s honeyed bass?
“I’ll get straight on it, my lord.” That was Jon’s valet… Carson. Oh, dear heavens! She was lying in Jon’s bed. Marie would doubtless be looking for her soon — if she hadn’t been already — so she could dress for the archery range with Gran. She struggled to sit without dropping the protective covers.
With the thud of the outer door closing, silence fell in the parlor. Annabella held her breath and listened. Had they all left or merely gone quiet? Should she rise and race to her own bedchamber? Where had her nightdress fallen?
The parlor door pushed open and Jon’s face swam into her vision.
“You’re awake,” he said, smiling.
“As are you,” she responded in a weak voice, tugging the cover closer. In the harsh midmorning light, it seemed positively wanton to be lying abed in her particular state of undress.
Jon gazed at her as he entered the room, seeming to be struggling against a smile. Easy for him, since he had the benefit of being clothed in his burgundy dressing gown. The smile won when he reached midway from the door to the bed, and she saw that he was holding out her blue silk dressing robe.
The one that would cover everything and hide nothing at all. His normal grin slipped into place as he reached the bed, bent, and plucked her muslin nightdress from the floor. “Looking for this, Lady Seabrook?”
Modesty warred with her newfound self-confidence. Surely he wouldn’t expect her to dress in front of him. For all her aplomb when teasing her husband about Lady Godiva, the thought of actually following through on any of it intimidated her.
He moved his hand and she jerked. Was he going to yank the cover away from her? She stared, holding her breath. But he only laid her nightdress and dressing gown across the bed, turned, and walked away. At the door through which he’d just entered, he paused without looking back. “Chocolate and pastries out here. I thought a private breakfast upstairs was in order.” Then he glanced over his shoulder and winked. “I’ve also given instructions that we not be disturbed until further notice.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jon sat forward in the desk chair and studied the papers Mr. Webber’s assistant had delivered only that morning. All he had to do was affix his signature and provide his solicitor with proof of his marriage. Right. Annabella’s marriage lines. He had yet to have that particular conversation with her. He took up the quill and poised it over the line, but still he hesitated.
Why was he suddenly finding it so blasted difficult to sign his ruddy name?
He tossed the pen on top of the papers, stood, and prowled the floor of the study. Did a wild animal feel similarly when thrust into a cage? He wasn’t trapped, so why should he feel as though the room had suddenly sprung bars? He stalked to the window and peered out.
Gran and Annabella had gone off to practice archery an hour earlier. Apparently, his grandmother felt the need to prepare his wife for her next tournament — even though it wouldn’t happen until the hottest part of the summer passed.
Had it been up to him, they’d have spent an entire decadent day discovering all the little secrets of the newly married. He should take her on a proper honeymoon — away from archery ranges and the prying eyes of family members.
And wills with outrageous demands.
Afternoon sun flashed on a cluster of white lilies growing in the midst of a patch of purple larkspur. The snowy plant seemed to beckon — the extraordinary standing out among the ordinary. That was Annabella.
Their night of passion had exceeded his every expectation save one. But then, he’d always known he’d never get enough of her. Her responsiveness and her daring abandon would have been shocking had he not already been acutely aware of her fiery spirit. A smile lifted his mouth a
nd thoughts of his wife gladdened his heart. Her shyness in the light of day had been unexpected and had tickled him to his soul.
He turned from the window as the memory faded. He knew what the problem was. For all his bravado when defending his actions to Gran, he knew Annabella should have been told about the will. As far as he was concerned, the point was moot. If no clause, no inheritance existed… he’d still want Annabella. He loved her. It was that simple.
But now, thanks to his grandfather’s belief that he’d never marry without some financial enticement, he was in a position to collect on his estate by virtue of his marriage to a suitable wife. That he’d married a woman he’d fallen deeply in love with didn’t matter a whit to any of it.
It shouldn’t have been a problem.
But it was. Because he loved Annabella, collecting his inheritance suddenly felt a bit like using her as a means to an end. He could, of course, decline to claim it, but that would be insane. Not only were the funds rightfully his, they would set him and Annabella up for a life of comfort. Of course he could provide for her without it, but they would be far more secure if he simply did the prudent thing and signed those ridiculous papers. Surely Annabella deserved all the finest in life, no matter how it came to them.
Of course, it all would have been easier had he just shared the information with her at the outset. But he hadn’t. The opportunity simply had never presented itself.
So why not tell her now?
He rubbed his forehead with one hand. That was the answer, of course. He had to tell her. She’d likely be mildly offended at his grandfather’s mention of a well-bred woman… But he could tease her out of her temper. And once she was aware and they’d had a good laugh together, he’d be free to accept the payment and begin building their future. Sighing, he stepped to the desk and lifted his black wool coat from the chair back.
The soft knock on the door brought his head up with a snap. Had she come looking for him? No… she’d not bother with knocking.
“Yes, come in,” he called.
Marie, Annabella’s maid, stepped into the room. Her face bore a strong resemblance to the ashes in the hearth, and her wide blue eyes darted about the room before settling on him.
“Sorry to trouble you, m’lord…” She twisted her hands together and for the first time, he noticed she clutched a long drawstring bag made of black velvet. A French fleur-de-lis in shining gold had been embroidered midway down, and beneath that, a name. He strained to make it out. Lascombes.
“What is it, Marie?” he asked, taking care to speak in a gentle tone. Given the maid’s nervous state, perhaps the French themselves had delivered the velvet bag.
“I was cleaning your — that is, Lady Seabrook’s room as instructed… looking for the spiders, you know.” She sighed and glanced around the room. Then she lowered her voice and continued. “Mrs. Miller and I — we turned the mattress because them mouse spiders like to hide in the cracks.”
Jon raised an eyebrow, growing impatient for the story to reach its conclusion.
“We found this under the mattress, m’lord.” She trembled so badly the bag began madly swinging to and fro.
Jon scooped it out of the air. It wasn’t heavy so much as bulky. Stuffed with something. He shook it but nothing stirred. Probably not family silver or jewels then. He set it on his desk.
“We didn’t open it, m’lord! But this was shoved into the top and it fell out.” Marie pulled a folded piece of paper from the deep pocket of her uniform. “We — Mrs. Miller and I — we don’t know as to whether we should tell Lady Seabrook or just put it back where we found it… Mr. Franklin has run an errand, so Mr. Carson thought I should bring it to you straightaway.”
Jon accepted the note with a murmured thanks, perplexed. No one else had stayed in his rooms as far as he knew, and the bag was not his. So the odds of it belonging to someone other than Annabella were slim. He glanced at the paper the maid had passed to him.
Juliet had been written in tidy script across the middle.
His heart slammed against his chest. “Thank you, Marie. I’ll see to this.”
The poor girl offered a quick curtsey and fled from the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Jon scratched his chin as he stared at the folded letter. It wasn’t sealed. She’d never know if he read it.
I’d know.
He had no way of deducing when she’d written it, but in any case, it wasn’t addressed to him, and he trusted his wife. He dropped the letter on top of the papers from Webber. The velvet bag with the gold fleur-de-lis puzzled him. He’d seen bags like it before, usually containing fine French wine, and once given as gifts to those who hosted house parties. Of course, with the advent of the war, that practice had ceased. He took up the bag. It looked far too new to be a remnant left over from the days when French wine might be a welcome offering.
The wine Annabella had foxed herself on had been French. He’d barely paid attention to the label — might it have been Lascombes? Was that where she had acquired the wine, then? Curiosity ate at his conscience, but he set it aside as merely another matter to discuss and clear up between them.
Finally, he shook his head and picked up the letter. Opening the bag was as easy as stretching the drawstring. But when he started to slip the letter into the long neck, it caught on whatever was inside. Papers of some kind, from the feel. He stretched the opening wider and shook his head. The way they were all jammed in there left little room for anything else. It would be easier to dump the lot out and straighten everything then put it all back.
He tipped the bag. A folded piece of paper fluttered down to the desk. Ah! The marriage lines. He plucked it from the desk and dropped it onto the stack of papers from Webber. Then he shook the rest of the contents over his desk and jerked to a halt, staring.
Banknotes. What must be hundreds of pounds. He selected one from the top of the pile. Graeme Markwythe, Duke of Wyndham had been carefully scribed onto the payment line. The next was marked in a similar fashion. Another was made out simply to Bearer.
Frowning in confusion, Jon raked a hand through his hair. If Grey possessed such funds, why was Wyndham Green in its horrible state? And how the devil had Annabella ended up with the lot?
Unless Grey didn’t know he had the funds. And Annabella or her mother had—
Ludicrous thoughts! All of them. The explanation would be perfectly simple — an allowance of some sort, perhaps.
He gaze fell on the letter. If the explanation was contained in that, mayhap he could put the matter to rest without troubling her. Before he could talk himself out of it, he unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the desk. It wasn’t a long missive, and it bore no date.
My dearest Juliet,
Please forgive me for not sending for you as we’d planned, and for the delay in getting you this message. Things went horribly wrong after you left, and I find myself in a bit of a predicament involving the Earl of Seabrook. I do not know if you will recall, but apparently you met the man at a dinner held in my honor. He arrived at Wyndham Green shortly after that night, sent, according to him, at the behest of Markwythe to inquire as to my welfare. We have been found out, I’m afraid. Markwythe knows you are not I.
Lord Seabrook assures me that my stepbrother wishes you no harm, and that he does not know your true identity. Lord Seabrook has brought me to his home in Coventry, and I do not know when I shall be able to get away. I am sending you funds so that you may leave London and return to Wyndham Green, and if all goes well, I hope to meet you there soon. Take care, my darling, and please leave London posthaste for your own good. I shall see you shortly, as soon as I can slip away from Lord Seabrook’s care.
With my Love,
Your humble friend A.
Bile rose, but the burn in his throat was a minor irritation compared to the hot knife that had just sliced open his heart. He couldn’t have read it right. Jon rubbed his eyes and started over. The words hadn’t changed.
Aft
er their night together, he’d been so certain… But the banknotes, so obviously not belonging to Annabella, yet in her possession. A message to her accomplice warning her to leave London. He didn’t know when she’d written it, but her words seemed fairly incriminating. Could the plot she’d hatched with the maid have been deeper than she’d alluded to?
No! Jon gathered the banknotes, unconsciously arranging them into piles by denomination. I trust her. She has an explanation and I’ll wait for it. Once the banknotes were neatly stacked, they slid easily into the velvet bag. He slipped the letter to Juliet in on top and drew the string closed.
Frantic pounding on the door startled him.
“Yes? Come,” he called out as he placed the velvet bag in the bottom desk drawer for safekeeping. A little extra security seemed in order, so he locked the drawer and pocketed the key. Then he looked up.
“Beg pardon, m’lord…” Red-faced and panting, Ernest stood braced against the doorframe.
“Ernest?” Jon’s heart lurched into his throat and he jumped to his feet. “Is something amiss? An— Lady Seabrook?” An ugly picture of Annabella lying injured — or worse — on the archery range rose, but he squashed it and waited.
“No, m’lord. ‘Tis Mr. Houghton.” Ernest panted and swallowed hard. “He’s got an ewe in lamb what’s having trouble. I tried to find Mr. Mosely in the stables but this is his half-day.”
Relief weakened Jon’s knees. He drew a steadying breath. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Mr. Houghton says the lamb’s likely stuck. The ewe’s been down going on two days.”
A frown pinched Jon’s forehead. Two days was a bit long. There might be no hope for the lamb but mayhap the ewe could be saved. One life saved was better than none. Jon buttoned his coat as he walked to the door, considering his options. He’d been a boy no more than Ernest’s age when his grandfather had insisted he work with the sheepherders. Cyril Houghton was far more experienced. He’d have tried everything before asking for help.
Kay Springsteen Page 30
