A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors

by Michelle Willingham

  He resolved to keep as much distance as possible between Annabelle and him, until this cursed attraction cooled. Instead he would channel his energy into locating Sarah’s mother.

  There was only one likely candidate of his acquaintance remaining. She had recently returned to London after spending the winter in Ireland. Jack wondered whether her Irish sojourn had served to conceal a secret pregnancy, but his meeting with the lady proved otherwise. No less than a dozen fellow guests could swear that she had been eagerly involved in all their doings and never lost her slender figure.

  The news struck Jack with intensely mixed feelings. On one hand, it sank his hope that little Sarah might be his daughter. Yet that disappointment was tempered by a sense of relief that he would not be obliged to marry a woman in whom he’d had only fleeting interest.

  Not wanting to risk an encounter with Annabelle when his emotions were so agitated, Jack stopped at White’s for a drink to calm him. When he retired to his favorite chair with a glass of brandy, he found it occupied by a man who looked vaguely familiar. Jack knew he had no right to be annoyed. After all, he had spent little time at his club in recent months and the comfortable wing chair near the fire did not bear a sign saying it was reserved for him. He satisfied himself with a seat nearby.

  The other man lowered his glass and regarded Jack with a pensive frown. “Is that you, Warwick? I hardly recognized you with such a sober look.”

  Now it was Jack’s turn to question. “Hawthorne? Where have you been keeping yourself? I have not laid eyes on you in ages.”

  Not that he’d regretted Lord Hawthorne’s absence—quite the contrary. The fellow had been ahead of Jack and Frederick at school, where he’d been known for playing cruel pranks on the younger boys. Later he had traded on his looks and superficial charm to cut a wide swath through the ladies of the ton. When his philandering threatened to land him in a duel, Hawthorne had turned his attention to young women without family or resources to make trouble for him. Tempted as Jack was to despise the man, he knew he was in no position to condemn anyone else’s behavior.

  “Oh I’ve been here and there,” Lord Hawthorne waved a hand dismissively, “seeing a bit of the world.”

  On the run from his creditors, perhaps, or an aggrieved husband?

  “What brings you back to London?” Jack took a long sip of his brandy. He wanted to finish it and get away at the first opportunity. Hawthorne’s company held no appeal for him.

  “This Regency business of course,” Hawthorne drawled. “I knew it would generate some amusing entertainment. The Prince always was a cracking host.”

  Jack nodded and took another drink.

  “I don’t need to ask what you’ve been up to.” Hawthorne wagged a finger and gave a throaty, suggestive chuckle. “All of London is talking about the brat you had dropped on your doorstep.”

  Jack’s grip on his glass tightened. It was a wonder the thing did not shatter in his hand. “I will thank you not to refer to—“

  Hawthorne did not heed his protest but continued in a scathing tone, “The impudence of that little baggage, palming off her troubles upon you.”

  “My friends and I are quite prepared to accept responsibility for the child.” Jack willed himself to maintain a civil tone. He could not deny his initial reaction to little Sarah’s arrival had been much like Lord Hawthorne’s. “It takes two to breed a baby after all. Why must all the responsibility and censure fall upon the woman while the man gets away free?”

  His lordship gave a bark of harsh laughter and slapped the arm of his chair as if Jack had made a deliberate jest. “If she lifts her skirts out of wedlock, she deserves what she gets. Besides, how is a man to be certain if any child truly belongs to him? The mother could be trying to palm off someone else’s by-blow.”

  Could that be the case with Sarah’s mother? Jack took another drink. Was that why she’d been so mysterious? Considering the reputations of the Bruton Street bachelors, had she expected they would easily believe one of them had fathered the child? If it was true, he wanted to resent the ruse. Yet his heart softened with sympathy for the woman’s plight. He could not bear to think what might have become of that dear child if her mother had not left her on his doorstep. How much poorer and purposeless his life might be without her... and Annabelle.

  “Everyone is wagering which of you will turn out to be the father,” Lord Hawthorne continued with an infuriating leer. “But I am inclined to wager none of you are. What a windfall that will bring me, if it can be proved!”

  It galled Jack to think of a blackguard like Hawthorne enriching himself over the plight of an innocent child.

  “Whether the baby is mine or not, I mean to provide for her.” He slammed his empty glass down on the side table at his elbow. “Once I locate her mother, I intend to do the honorable thing and marry her.”

  Of course he had exhausted all the possibilities from among his past lovers, but he was not about to tell Hawthorne.

  “Honorable?” Hawthorne rolled his eyes. “I have always believed that is another word for stupid. I never thought you the type to be afflicted with such twaddle, Warwick.”

  “Nor I you.” Jack rose to take his leave. He could not abide Lord Hawthorne’s loathsome company for another minute. “At least one of us was right.”

  A puzzled frown creased the other man’s features as he tried to work out whether Jack had complimented or insulted him. Then he gave a derisive shrug as if it did not matter either way. “I hear you have installed Lady Southam as the child’s nursemaid. Quite fitting, I suppose, since that’s what she was before your cousin made an honest woman of her.”

  How did Hawthorne know so much about Annabelle? Jack wondered as his cravat tightened around his throat. Then he recalled that her miserable cousins had been part of Hawthorne’s circle at school. Had he ever visited Eastmuir and lusted after the beautiful girl whom the rest of the family treated like a servant?

  What right did he have to be so outraged, Jack’s conscience demanded, when he had not been able to look at Annabelle for days without picturing her naked and hungering for her? The difference was that he would never consider acting on those urges, no matter how much they tormented him.

  “Leave Lady Southam out of this!” His voice fell to a menacing growl. “As my nearest female relative, she has been helping with the baby out of kindness. She is under my protection and I will defend her honor against any foul slander!”

  Hawthorne’s lip curled into an obnoxious expression between a smirk and a sneer. Clearly, it amused him to provoke Jack. “Her protector, are you? How very convenient having a mistress who can tend your bastard during the day, then warm your bed at night.”

  Jack’s temper exploded like a barrel of gunpowder inside his head, blasting open the door that kept his rage locked up tight. Before Hawthorne could take any evasive action, Jack seized him by the cravat and hauled him to his feet.

  Clearly the blackguard had relied on Jack’s reluctance to make a scene in the sanctum of a gentleman’s club. His eyes widened with shock and he clawed as his cravat in a fruitless attempt to keep from being throttled.

  But that was not Jack’s intention. Instead he gripped the scoundrel’s neck linen only long enough to bring his head to the proper height and hold it still. Then his other fist flew, striking Hawthorne’s sneering nose. The fierce impact of his blow made warm blood gush onto his smarting knuckles.

  Then he flung Hawthorne back onto the chair the way he might have hurled away a piece of filth.

  “My nose!” Hawthorne held his hand to his injured face, blood seeping between his fingers. “You’ve broken it, damn you!”

  “If I have, you deserve it.” Jack did not feel the slightest twinge of remorse. “You can expect worse than that if I ever hear you have repeated any more such vile lies about Lady Southam!”

  “I’ll see you banned from the club for this, Warwick!” Lord Hawthorne blustered as he pulled out his handkerchief and several other members of
the club came running.

  They tried to restrain Jack, but he shook them off. “I will see myself out. As for being banned, that will not trouble me in the least. I have no interest in belonging to any club that would admit the likes of you as a member.”

  With that he stalked away.

  By the time he reached the street, his outrage had begun to cool a little. Whatever grim satisfaction it had brought him to spoil Lord Hawthorne’s looks, he now longed to inflict even greater punishment on himself. After all, the drawling dandy had only spoken aloud what many in Society must be thinking. By bringing Annabelle into his notorious bachelor establishment and keeping her there so long, Jack now realized he might have done her reputation irreparable harm. His attack on Lord Hawthorne might produce the opposite effect to the one he’d intended, sparking even more vicious tattle about her.

  Somehow, he must make it up to her.

  “Jack, what happened to your hand?” Annabelle cried when she spied his swollen, blood-spattered knuckles. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  Her gaze had fixed on his hands when he first appeared in the drawing room. Ever since the day they bathed Sarah, she had scarcely been able to look him in the face or speak more than a few stilted words to him. But fear that he might be injured overcame her lingering embarrassment.

  She flew to him and lifted his hand to examine it more closely.

  “Oh that.” Jack sounded scarcely aware of his injury. “Don’t fret. It isn’t my blood.”

  That information only comforted Annabelle a little. “Whose is it then and how did you get it on your hand? Are you certain you aren’t hurt?”

  Clearly he’d been in some sort of fight, but why? Even before his recent efforts to reform his behavior, Jack had only indulged in peaceful rakish pursuits—gambling, drinking and seducing women. Any serious disagreements might be settled on a field of honor—not with fisticuffs. What had provoked him to strike a blow hard enough to draw blood?

  “I am quite well.” He pulled his hand away abruptly. “The bounder didn’t even try to fight back.”

  He looked past Annabelle to the baby who was rolling about happily on the carpet, squealing and babbling to herself. “How has Sarah passed the day?”

  “Much as usual,” Annabelle replied. If Jack Warwick expected to distract her by discussing the child, he was very much mistaken. “Rory helped me feed her breakfast, though she spat up some of it after he made her laugh too much. I taught him a lesson by making him change her linen. Later Gabriel played with her, then she had a nap. I could go on, but it would only delay me in asking more questions about this fight of yours. Sooner or later, you will have to answer.”

  Sarah flipped onto her belly then quickly onto her back again, each time rolling closer to Jack. It was clear she wanted his attention.

  “Very well, I’ll tell you. But first, let me go wash up.” Jack stooped and tickled the baby’s plump belly with his uninjured hand. “You are going to make yourself dizzy, little one.”

  As he headed out of the drawing room, the baby began to fuss. Annabelle scooped up the child and bounced her in the way she usually found soothing. But Sarah looked toward Jack and held out her arms.

  “Can we come with you?” Annabelle called after him. “Otherwise I fear there will be tears.”

  Jack paused and turned back toward them. His expression softened. “We cannot have that, can we?”

  He beckoned them to follow, which Annabelle did. The baby quieted at once.

  “Who did you hit?” Annabelle asked as they climbed the stairs. “Was it anyone I know?”

  She hoped his answer might take her mind off the provocative glimpses of Jack’s buckskin-clad backside she caught as he mounted the stairs ahead of her. Not to mention the prospect of entering his bedchamber. What had possessed her to suggest such a thing?

  “You might know him.” Jack’s voice turned hard. “Did you ever meet Ralph and Reggie’s school friend, Lord Hawthorne?”

  Annabelle nodded then remembered Jack could not see her. “I believe he came to Eastmuir once during their school holidays. He was quite handsome and well aware of it. He was always pleasant enough to me but I did not trust him. Any friend of my cousins’ was no friend of mine.”

  By now, they had reached the top of the stairs, much to her relief. She hated feeling powerless to her foolish desires.

  “You were wise not to trust him.” Jack sounded relieved. “Hawthorne is a thorough scoundrel where women are concerned.”

  Annabelle could not suppress an unladylike snort of laughter. “While you are entirely virtuous? The number of women who might have borne your child suggests otherwise.”

  “That is altogether different!” Jack flung open his bedroom door and stalked in. “I will be the first to admit I have been a thoughtless cad, but I never bedded a woman who was not every bit as willing as I. And I never led any of them to believe our liaisons could be more than casual. I never ruined an innocent young lady or used my position to coerce a servant.”

  There was a great difference between Jack and his friends and the sort of odious lecher he described. Annabelle could not imagine any of them behaving that way.

  “Finally,” Jack concluded as he poured water into his wash basin, “I would never gossip about the women I’ve been involved with, nor the reputation of any lady.”

  “But Lord Hawthorne did?” Annabelle stepped just inside the room holding little Sarah so the child could see Jack.

  Had he ever brought any of his paramours here? Or did he prefer to seduce them in their chambers, from which he could make a swift escape if they sought more from him than a night of mutual pleasure?

  “Is that why you struck him?” She tried to blot out the wicked image of herself naked on that bed beneath Jack Warwick. “Because he maligned some poor lady’s reputation?”

  Jack kept his eyes averted from her as he dipped his hand into the water and washed Lord Hawthorne’s blood off his hand.

  A sickening realization struck Annabelle. “It was me, wasn’t it? You attacked that man because he was spreading vile gossip about me?”

  Jack gave a guilty nod as he dried his hands. “That wasn’t all. He called Sarah a bastard brat. I lost my temper and struck him in the face. I think I may have broken his nose but I don’t care! He deserved it—the wretch. If I hear he has spoken another word against either of you, I will make him regret it even more!”

  Annabelle could picture the confrontation. Though part of her admired Jack for defending her honor, she dreaded the consequences of his attack on Lord Hawthorne. “Why didn’t you just ignore him instead of heaping fuel on the fire? Everyone will assume you reacted so violently because he spoke the truth. Gossip will spread faster and farther than ever. I shall never be able to show my face in Society again!”

  That was not what troubled her the most. She had never aspired to a place in Society. She had not wed Frederick because he was heir to an earldom but in spite of it. What she feared was that no one would ever be willing to employ her to care for their children. What lady would allow such a person into her house where she might be a corrupting influence on the children or have designs on the master?

  The thought of such sordid assumptions being made about her struck Annabelle a dizzying blow. She slumped against the wall, struggling to keep her grip on the baby.

  Jack sensed her distress at once. He sprang toward her and took little Sarah, who squealed with delight.

  But it was not the child to whom Jack directed his attention just then. “Forgive me, Annabelle! I did not mean to make matters worse for you. If I had stopped to think, I might have acted differently. But it enraged me to hear Hawthorne talk about you and Sarah with such disrespect. I could not help myself.”

  “I know.” How could she blame Jack for losing control of his temper when she could not control her attraction to him? Whatever slurs Lord Hawthorne had cast upon her character, the truth was worse. The only reason she was not warming Jack’s bed was because h
e did not want her there. If he had ever made the slightest advance, Annabelle was not certain she could resist her desires.

  “People like that have an instinct for provoking the worst in their victims,” she continued. “It was the same with Ralph and Reggie. I knew I should ignore them. I knew it only made more trouble for me if I rose to their baiting. But sometimes I could not help myself.”

  Jack shook his head. “You were little more than a child in an intolerable situation. I should have known better. If Hawthorne had insulted me, I could have shrugged it off but...”

  Annabelle knew what he meant. Jack Warwick was accustomed to taking insults and criticism and pretending not to heed them. But when it came to others less able to defend themselves, his protective impulses took over.

  “Don’t fret, Jack.” She pulled herself erect, determined to prove she was no longer a persecuted child but a grown woman, capable of standing on her own, whatever life dealt her. “Sooner or later gossip will find a more tempting target. I never go out in Society anyway. As long as you, Rory, Gabriel and Sarah do not snub me, Lord Hawthorne and his ilk can say what they like.”

  Jack’s features settled into an earnest, determined expression quite unlike his usual carefree air, but no less attractive. “You need not pretend to make light of it to spare my feelings. You always were too quick to make excuses for me. But this time, you should not. I placed you in a difficult situation and everything I have done since has only made it worse. I must find some way to set it right!”

  What could he possibly do? Annabelle watched as Jack bounced the baby in his arms, lost in thought. Time was the only remedy that might mend the damage to her reputation.

  “I have it!” Jack looked her directly in the eye for the first time since they’d bathed the baby. “I know what I must do.”