by Cheryl Holt
But despite her stern decision, when she dozed off he was front and center in her mind, and she was smiling.
S BENJAMIN WAITED FOR Widow Boswell, he had several lengthy minutes to ponder whether or not he’d tipped off his rocker.
After a tortured night of tossing and turning in his lonely bed where he’d constantly fretted over his encounter with Annabel in the bathing room, he’d decided that he had to act on the attraction that was flaring between them. He had to act on it or go mad from unsated desire.
Yes, he was about to marry, and yes, it was the very worst time to engage in an amour, but how could he not?
Annabel Fenwick was the most beautiful, interesting, and mysterious woman he’d ever met. She kept secrets as if they were spun from gold, and she never answered a direct question. She didn’t want anything from him and wouldn’t accept anything. She was smart and funny and clever, and if he didn’t make her his own very soon he wasn’t certain what would become of him.
When she’d left Grey Manor earlier that morning, he’d had a footman follow her. She’d ridden one of his horses which he didn’t mind, but she’d taken a second horse with her, as if she intended to let someone use it so his curiosity was soaring.
With whom was she riding? He was so smitten by her, and if he discovered she had a swain and they were together on his horses, he’d be incredibly irked.
Now he was sitting in Widow Boswell’s parlor, eager for her to arrive and tell him where he’d find Annabel.
He was mildly disturbed to learn that her sister’s surname was Boswell, and it just happened to be the surname of Wesley’s chum, Michael, who was supposed to be Annabel’s paramour. It was all a tad too coincidental, and he was determined to get to the bottom of what was occurring.
He didn’t like new friends glomming onto his family, not when they were about to be showered with such an increase in wealth and status. He particularly didn’t like them sidling up to Wesley who was very naïve and had no ability to judge another man’s character.
Benjamin didn’t yet have a bad opinion about Michael Boswell—or whoever he was—because he hadn’t witnessed any dodgy conduct. But why was he suddenly sure Michael was a Fenwick?
Widow Boswell was too rude for words, and he was about to leave when she slipped into the room. A second woman walked in behind her. The pair hovered nervously but didn’t speak.
“Widow Boswell?” he said, and he stood to greet her.
“Yes, I’m Widow Boswell.”
“I’m Captain Benjamin Grey.”
On announcing himself, the duo exchanged the strangest look, almost blanching with dismay.
“Hello, Captain.” Widow Boswell gestured to the other woman. “This is my companion, Miss Jones.”
“Hello, Miss Jones.”
“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” Widow Boswell asked, as Miss Jones meticulously studied him.
“I’m a friend of your sister’s.”
“Yes, Annabel told me she’d met you.”
“She’s been my guest for a few days.”
“Yes.” Widow Boswell might have been chomping on broken glass.
“And your brother, Michael”—Benjamin was gambling that he’d correctly guessed Michael’s identity—“is staying with me too.”
“Yes, they talked about it when they stopped by.”
He was trying to deduce what was transpiring, trying to devise questions he couldn’t figure out how to ask.
First and foremost, he was gaping at Mrs. Boswell, desperate to ascertain how she could be related to Annabel Fenwick. The widow was timid, mousey, and unpleasant, her disagreeable temperament practically wafting around the room.
Annabel and Michael—her brother and not her special friend—were both glamorously winsome and vibrant. They dressed like aristocrats and carried themselves like a prince and princess. Mrs. Boswell wasn’t like them in even the slightest manner.
It was as if Annabel and Michael had received all the stellar traits and there had been none remaining for her. He remembered Annabel saying her sister was an unhappy person, and it was definitely true. She appeared utterly wretched.
The next problem—and he was convinced it would wind up vexing him enormously—concerned Annabel’s brother. Why would she lie about Michael being her brother? What would be the reason?
They had to be up to no good, with Michael Boswell/Fenwick scheming on Wesley, probably over money so Benjamin would have to sever their acquaintance. At Benjamin’s intervention, Wesley would be thrown into high dudgeon.
But even realizing Michael was a shady character who would likely cause big trouble for Wesley, Benjamin didn’t feel one iota of his fascination for Annabel waning. If anything, he was even more intrigued than he’d been.
“Is your sister here?” he inquired. “I was passing by on my way to Grey Manor, and I thought I’d have her ride home with me.”
“Ride...with you,” her sister stammered.
“Yes, she’s accustomed to traveling alone, but it’s not safe for her to be out on the road. If it’s all right with you, I’ll tarry then escort her when she’s ready to depart.”
Widow Boswell and Miss Jones exchanged another peculiar glare, and he sensed Miss Jones was about to offer a relevant comment, but Mrs. Boswell scowled her to silence.
“My sister left,” Widow Boswell said. “You’ve missed her.”
He was positive Mrs. Boswell was lying, although whether it was about Annabel or some other topic he had no idea, and he couldn’t very well accuse her of deceit.
“How long ago was it?” he asked. “Perhaps I can catch up with her.”
“It’s been over an hour so I don’t know if it would be possible. She’s quite resourceful though so I wouldn’t worry about her being off on her own. She never has any difficulty maneuvering through the world.”
Did he detect a note of bitterness in the remark?
“She is like a force of nature, isn’t she?” His tone was light and teasing as he hoped to drag a smile from the very dour Mrs. Boswell, but he didn’t.
“Sorry to have bothered you.” He bowed to them and started out. At the last second, he glanced back. “Annabel mentioned you had different mothers but the same father.”
“Yes, we have a bit of an odd family.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” He was struggling to look amiable and unthreatening, but she was a trembling ninny, and he didn’t like her. “Is your maiden name Fenwick?”
“Yes.”
“Just like Annabel and Michael.”
“Yes, Annabel and Michael Fenwick. I was Lydia Fenwick until I married Mr. Boswell.”
“I’ll give your regards to your brother.”
For a moment, she didn’t reply, but Miss Jones nudged her, and she hurriedly said, “Yes, yes, that would be lovely.”
He walked out, wondering what sort of asylum he’d entered, and he was relieved she hadn’t asked him to stay for tea. It would have been torture. His horse was tethered out front, with no servant available to tend it. He untied the reins, mounted, and rode away.
It was another sunny afternoon, the autumn days never ending, and he trotted along, not in any rush to return to Grey Manor. Plus, he was certain Annabel was nearby. He could feel her presence as if she’d energized the atmosphere. He was that attuned to her.
He hadn’t gone far when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves, shouting, and merry laughter. He peered across a meadow to see Annabel racing in the grass. She was on his horse, her skirt cut down the middle so she could sit astride. She was leaned over the animal’s neck and urging it on.
He halted and hid in the trees so he could surreptitiously watch her.
She’d once boasted that she could ride better than he could, and he hadn’t believed her, but he suspected it might be true. Her hair was down and tied with a ribbon, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She was whooping with glee, galloping with a wild abandon he’d never witnessed in a female, and the strangest surge of affection
swept over him.
He’d never observed a more glorious sight than Annabel Fenwick on that horse, and it occurred to him that—should she vanish from his life—he would be missing out on something magnificent and irreplaceable.
A young boy was with her on Benjamin’s other horse. He was probably ten or so, slender and dark-haired. He was bent forward too, coaxing his mount to catch up to her, to beat her. They were both skilled equestrians, their love of the animals and each other blatantly evident.
He was transfixed, thinking the boy reminded him very much of his cousin, Soloman, at that same age. They’d spent the summers together at Lord Lyndon’s estate. They’d race each other in just the same fashion, and the child sat in the saddle exactly as Soloman had.
Benjamin could have been staring at a vision of Soloman when he was ten, and he was a tad rattled by the realization. Might Soloman have a bastard son tucked away that he’d never mentioned? Or perhaps he didn’t know he had a son.
A more disturbing notion dawned on him. Was Annabel the boy’s mother? Was Soloman his father? If she’d had an affair with Soloman, Benjamin would feel almost incestuous in pursuing her. He was dying to have some answers, but how would he pose any of the questions that were rocking him? How would he explain that he’d been spying on her?
The race ended, and the pair jumped down—both of them agile as circus performers. The boy was facing her, his feet braced, his arms locked behind his back, and Benjamin grew even more disturbed. Soloman used to stand precisely that way, with that same sort of imperious expression.
Benjamin was too far away to eavesdrop, but the boy appeared to accuse her of cheating to win. She seemed to reply with, Of course I cheated. I’m a Fenwick!
Her response had the boy scowling with disgust. Then, to Benjamin’s astonishment, Annabel held out her hand and the boy took it. They engaged in a secret handshake that actually sent a shiver down his spine.
It was an exact replica of a handshake he’d shared with Soloman as a boy—to seal a pact, to reach a decision, to celebrate their avoiding a punishment. They’d deemed themselves clever and furtive in devising it, and they’d never demonstrated it in front of others.
Benjamin hadn’t thought about it in two decades, and he didn’t want to think about it now. But the worst feeling of disquiet washed over him.
He’d intended to bluster into the meadow, to surprise her and demand she accompany him to Grey Manor, but he was suddenly too distressed to talk to her. Nor could he bear to interrupt the intimate scene. She and the boy were so clearly fond, and if he was her son, she obviously hadn’t been eager to apprise Benjamin.
When they were looking the other way, he guided his horse out to the road and headed for home as fast as he could get there.
ANNABEL ARRIVED IN HER bedroom suite, and she was exhausted and happy. She’d spent the whole day with Harry and very little of it with Lydia. They’d ridden horses and shot her pistol and basically played at the types of things boys liked to do.
It was her great regret that she had to leave him under the Boswell’s custody and control. Yet in a few years, he’d be old enough to make his own choices. He could come to live with her and Michael, and the Boswells wouldn’t be able to prevent him. They’d discussed it all afternoon.
The only odd incident occurred when she’d delivered Harry to his mother. Lydia claimed Captain Grey had stopped by to escort Annabel to Grey Manor. Lydia had informed him she was out so he’d left without her.
Annabel was perplexed by the news. It had to mean he’d followed her which was incredibly brazen, but then he was a brazen man.
A maid was in the sitting room, waiting for her.
“Captain Grey sends his regards,” she said as Annabel tossed her hat on the sofa.
“Does he? How delightful.”
“I’m to tell you that you’re to bathe as quickly as you can then put on your prettiest gown and join him for supper in his bedchamber.”
If the woman was shocked by the shameless summons, she gave no sign, and Annabel grinned. She hadn’t thought the day could get any better, but perhaps it could.
“That’s sounds like a request I don’t dare refuse.”
“He also told me to say that, last time he invited you, you called him a rude boor because he didn’t let you wash or change. He asked me to point out that he’s mending his uncivil ways.”
She laughed. “Well, he’s a rude lout, isn’t he? He needed to mend his ways.”
She hurried into the bedchamber, the maid hot on her heels. The competent woman had laid several of Annabel’s gowns on the bed so she could select one of them.
The maid indicated a red one with a very low neckline. “Red is the Captain’s favorite color.”
“Is it? Then I should definitely wear that.”
“It will be stunning on you.”
Annabel was swiftly stripped and cleaned and dressed. In a fleet half hour, she was ready to go.
“You look fabulous, Miss,” the maid said as Annabel preened in front of the mirror.
Her hair was down, her corset laced so tight she could barely breathe, and the effect was dramatic. Her waist was tiny, and her breasts were practically falling out of the bodice. She wouldn’t be able to lean over the supper table or her private parts might pop out.
“Am I showing too much cleavage?” she asked.
“In my opinion, a woman can never show too much of anything around a man like the Captain.”
Annabel chuckled then she suffered an uncharacteristic moment of nerves. “Will he be pleased?”
“There’s no doubt he will be,” the maid kindly said. “Shall I have a footman escort you?”
“No, I know the way.” She felt as if she was floating on air, and she couldn’t resist hugging the woman. “Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Fenwick. Call for me whenever I can be of service. I rarely have the chance to assist such a fetching girl.”
The compliment bolstered Annabel’s mood. Not that it needed bolstering. She hastened to the Captain’s bedchamber. A footman was watching for her, and as she approached he turned and said, “Miss Fenwick is here, Captain.”
“Marvelous,” he replied, and there was a distinct hint of anticipation in his tone.
Apparently, he was as excited as she was.
She stepped over the threshold, pausing to let him assess her gown. He raised a brow and made a circling motion with his finger, indicating she should spin so he could see the whole outfit.
She laughed and twirled for him then she sauntered over, the footman quietly closing the door behind her.
There was the most incredible sense of destiny hovering over them. It seemed as if she were walking into her future, as if Fate had suddenly conspired to give her everything she’d ever wanted.
He looked magnificent, tall, dark, and handsome. He was attired in casual clothes again, his shirt open at the front so she had a spectacular view of his broad chest.
“Who picks your wardrobe for you?” he asked.
“I pick it myself. Why?”
“There ought to be a law against displays of such flagrant beauty. How are mortal men supposed to carry on when you strut about like this?”
“Why, Captain, that sounded like very sweet flattery.”
“It was, Miss Fenwick, but don’t get used to it. Your self-worth is already much too inflated. I wouldn’t dare make it any worse.”
Then he pulled her into his arms and delivered a stunning kiss that went on and on until she was breathless as a debutante. Instantly, she was in over her head. Each time they were together, passion sizzled a bit hotter, and she engaged in more conduct she hadn’t intended.
He was a wily, persuasive character who was gradually manipulating her into supplying what he desired. The fact that she never meant to succumb to his crafty seduction was irrelevant. Her mind might be loudly scolding her to slow down, but her body was sending a different message entirely.
They were next
to a sofa, and he plopped down and brought her down with him so she was on her knees and straddling his lap. He still hadn’t stopped kissing her, and she hadn’t tried to end it either. There was nothing quite so grand as being kissed by Benjamin Grey. Or if there was, she hadn’t yet experienced it.
But when he abandoned her mouth to nibble a trail to her bosom, when he began to squeeze her breasts through the fabric of her dress, she grabbed his wrists and eased him away.
Was she the biggest tease in the kingdom? Why was he putting up with her antics? Perhaps he simply relished the chase. If he ever caught her, he likely wouldn’t want her.
“Behave yourself, Captain.”
“I don’t wish to behave,” he said. “Not when it’s been an eternity since I was with you. What did you do today?”
“You know what I did, you bounder. You followed me.”
“I’ve been found out so I probably shouldn’t deny it.”
“Don’t you have better things to do than tag after me to determine my whereabouts?”
“No, actually I don’t,” he said. “I met your sister.”
“You poor man.”
“She’s unpleasant, isn’t she?”
“I warned you about her.”
“I can’t believe you’d rather spend time with her than me.”
“I like to torture myself.”
He snorted at that and snuggled her to his chest. She sighed with delight, savoring the quiet interval and pretending he belonged to her.
“I take it she tattled on me,” he said. “She informed you of my visit? Or did you notice me lurking?”
“She tattled. She’s awful that way.”
“How is it that you are so extraordinary while she is so absolutely ordinary?”
“Stellar bloodlines, I guess.”
“You have stellar bloodlines? Who is your family? You never told me.”
She froze then relaxed against him. The aristocratic world was a small one, and she was certain he’d know her grandfather, Lord Roxbury, the despicable ogre who’d disavowed her mother and who’d disavowed Annabel because of it.
