by Lisa Kleypas
“That may be true,” Lillian commented, her mouth firming with determination. “But he’s not going to get you—I can promise you that.”
Supper was a magnificent presentation, with gigantic silver tureens and platters carried in a ceaseless procession around the three long tables in the dining room. Annabelle could scarcely credit that the guests would dine like this every night, but the gentleman on her left—the parish vicar—assured her that this was commonplace for Westcliff’s table. “The earl and his family are renowned for their balls and supper parties,” he said. “Lord Westcliff is the most accomplished host of the peerage.”
Annabelle was not inclined to argue. It had been a long time since she had been served such exquisite food. The lukewarm offerings at the London soirees and parties couldn’t begin to compare to this feast. In the past few months the Peyton household had not been able to afford much more than bread, bacon, and soup, with the occasional helping of fried sole or stewed mutton. For once she was glad not to have been seated next to a sparkling conversationalist, as it allowed her long periods of silence during which she could eat as much as she liked. And with the servants constantly offering new and dazzling dishes for the guests to sample, no one seemed to notice the unlady-like gusto of her appetite.
Hungrily she consumed a bowl of soup made with champagne and Camembert, followed by delicate veal strips coated in herb-dressed sauce, and tender vegetable marrow in cream …fish baked in clever little paper cases, which let out a burst of fragrant steam when opened… tiny buttered potatoes served on beds of watercress …and, most delightful of all, fruit relish served in hollowed-out orange rinds.
Annabelle was so engrossed in the meal that several minutes passed before she noticed that Simon Hunt had been seated near the head of Lord Westcliff’s table. Lifting a glass of diluted wine to her lips, she glanced discreetly at him. Hunt was exquisitely dressed as usual, in a formal black coat and a rich pewter-shaded waistcoat, its silk weave gleaming with a quiet luster. His sundarkened skin contrasted sharply with the starched white linen at his throat, the knot of his cravat as precise as a knife blade. The heavy sable locks of his hair needed an application of pomade… already a thick forelock had fallen over his forehead. It bothered Annabelle for some reason, that unruly lock. She wanted to push it back from his face.
It was not lost on her that the women seated on either side of Simon Hunt were competing for his attention. Annabelle had noticed on other occasions that women seemed to find Hunt quite appealing. She knew exactly why—it was his combination of sinful charm, cool intelligence, and arrant worldliness. Hunt looked like a man who had visited many women’s beds and knew exactly what to do in them. Such a quality should make him less attractive, not more so. But Annabelle was discovering that there was sometimes a vast difference between what you knew was good for you, and what you actually wanted. And though she would have liked to deny it, Simon Hunt was the only man who had ever attracted her physically to this degree.
Although Annabelle had always been somewhat sheltered, she was acquainted with the basic facts of life. Her scant knowledge had been accumulated through hearing mention of things and putting two and two together. Annabelle had been kissed by a few different men who had shown fleeting interest in her during the past four years. But none of those kisses, no matter how romantic the setting, or how handsome the young man, had ever elicited the kind of response from her that Simon Hunt had.
Try as she might, Annabelle had never forgotten that long-ago moment in the panorama theater …the gentle, erotic pressure of his mouth on hers, the compelling pleasure of his kiss. She wished she knew why it had been so different with Hunt, but there was no one to ask. Talking to Philippa about it had been out of the question, as Annabelle had not wanted to confess that she had once accepted ticket money from a stranger. And she was hardly going to mention the incident to the other wallflowers, who clearly didn’t know anything more about kissing and men than she herself did.
As Hunt’s gaze suddenly locked with hers, Annabelle was perturbed by the realization that she had been staring at him. Staring, and fantasizing. Although they were sitting far apart from each other, she was aware of an immediate, electric connection between them…there was an arrested expression on his face, and she wondered what he saw that fascinated him so. Coloring violently, she tore her gaze away and dug her fork into a casserole of leeks and mushrooms blanketed with shavings of white truffle.
After supper, the ladies retired to the parlor for coffee and tea while the gentlemen remained at the tables for port. In the traditional style, the group would eventually reunite in the drawing room. As clusters of women laughed and chatted easily in the parlor, Annabelle sat with Evie, Lillian, and Daisy. “Have you found out anything about Lord Kendall?” she asked, hoping that one of them might have gleaned some gossip from the dinner conversation. “Is there anyone in particular whom he might have taken an interest in?”
“The field seems to be open so far,” Lillian replied.
“I asked Mother what she knew about Kendall,” Daisy supplied, “and she said that he has a sizable fortune and is unencumbered by debt.”
“How would she know?” Annabelle asked.
“At Mother’s request,” Daisy explained, “our father commissioned a written report on every eligible peer in England. And she’s memorized it. She says that the ideal suitor for either one of us would be a poverty-stricken duke whose title would guarantee the Bowmans’ social success, while our money would ensure his cooperation in the marriage.” Daisy’s smile turned sardonic, and she reached over to pat her older sister’s hand as she added. “They made up a rhyme about Lillian, back in New York…‘Marry Lillian, you’ll get a million.’ The saying became so popular that it was one of the reasons we had to leave for London. Our family looked like a bunch of gauche, overly ambitious idiots.”
“And we’re not?” Lillian asked wryly.
Daisy crossed her eyes. “I’m only fortunate that we left before they could make up a rhyme about me.”
“I have,” Lillian said. “Marry Daisy, and you can be lazy.”
Daisy gave her a speaking glance, and her sister grinned. “Never fear,” Lillian continued, “eventually we will succeed in infiltrating London society, and then we’ll marry Lord Heavydebts and Lord Shallowpockets, and finally assume our places as ladies of the manor.”
Annabelle shook her head with a sympathetic smile, while Evie left with a murmur, presumably to attend to her private needs. Annabelle almost felt sorry for the Bowmans, for it was becoming apparent that their chances of marrying for love were no greater than hers.
“Is it both your parents’ ambition for you to marry a title?” Annabelle asked. “What is your father’s opinion on the matter?”
Lillian shrugged nonchalantly. “For as long as I can remember, Father has never had an opinion about anything regarding his children. All he wants is to be left alone so he can make more money. Whenever we write him, he disregards the contents of the letter, unless we happen to be asking to draw more funds from the bank. And then he’ll respond with a single line— ‘Permission to draw.’ ”
Daisy seemed to share her sister’s cynical amusement. “I think Father is pleased by Mother’s match-making, as it keeps her too busy to bother him.”
“Dear me,” Annabelle murmured. “And he never complains about your requests for more money?”
“Oh, never,” Lillian said, and laughed at Annabelle’s patent envy. “We’re hideously rich, Annabelle—and I’ve got three older brothers, all unmarried. Would you possibly consider one of them? If you like, I’ll have one shipped across the Atlantic for your inspection.”
“Tempting, but no,” Annabelle replied. “I don’t want to live in New York. I would rather be a peer’s wife.”
“Is it really so wonderful, being a peer’s wife?” Daisy asked plaintively. “Living in one of these drafty old houses with bad plumbing, and having to learn all the endless rules about the proper way
to do everything …”
“You’re no one if you’re not married to a peer,” Annabelle assured her. “In England, nobility is everything. It determines how others treat you, the schools your children attend, the places you’re invited… every facet of your life.”
“I don’t know…” Daisy began, and was interrupted by Evie’s precipitate return.
Although Evie displayed no obvious signs of being in a hurry, her blue eyes were lit with urgency, and excited color had gathered at the crests of her cheeks. Taking the chair she had previously occupied, she perched on the edge of the seat and leaned toward Annabelle, stammering and whispering. “I h-had to turn ’round and hurry back to tell you… he’s alone!”
“Who?” Annabelle whispered back. “Who is alone?”
“Lord Kendall! I saw him at the b-b-back terrace. Just sitting there at one of the tables by himself.”
Lillian frowned. “Perhaps he’s waiting to meet someone. If so, it would hardly do Annabelle any good to go charging forth like a rhino in season.”
“Might you be able to come up with a more flattering metaphor, dear?” Annabelle asked mildly, and Lillian flashed her a grin.
“Sorry. Just proceed with care, Annabelle.”
“Point taken,” Annabelle said with an answering smile, standing and straightening her skirts deftly. “I’m going to investigate the situation. Good work, Evie.”
“Good luck,” Evie replied, and they all crossed their fingers as they watched her leave the room.
Annabelle’s heartbeat escalated as she walked through the house. She knew full well that she was treading through an intricate maze of social rules. A lady should never deliberately seek out a gentleman’s company; but if they crossed paths accidentally, or happened to find themselves on the same settee or conversation chair, they could exchange a few pleasantries. They should never spend time alone unless they were riding horses or being conveyed in an open carriage. And if a girl chanced to meet a gentleman while heading out to view the gardens, she must take pains to ensure that the situation did not appear compromising in any way.
Unless, of course, she wanted to be compromised.
Drawing close to the long row of French doors that opened onto the wide flagstone terrace, Annabelle saw her quarry. As Evie had described, Lord Kendall was sitting alone at a round table, leaning back in his chair with one leg stretched carelessly before him. He seemed to be enjoying a momentary respite from the overheated atmosphere of the house.
Quietly Annabelle strode to the nearest door and slipped through it. The air was lightly scented with heather and bog myrtle, while the sounds of the river beyond the gardens provided a soothing undercurrent. Keeping her head down, Annabelle rubbed her temples with her fingers as if she were afflicted with a nagging headache. When she was ten feet away from Kendall’s table, she looked up and made herself jump a little, as if she was startled to see him there.
“Oh,” she said. It was not at all difficult to sound breathless. She was nervous, knowing how important it was to make the right impression on him. “I didn’t realize that someone was out here…”
Kendall stood, his spectacles twinkling in the light of the terrace torch. His form was slim to the point of being insubstantial, his coat hanging from his padded shoulders. Despite the fact that he was approximately three inches taller than Annabelle, she would not have been surprised to learn that they were the same weight. His posture was at once diffident and oddly tense, like that of a deer poised for a sudden, bounding retreat. As she stared at him, Annabelle had to admit silently that Kendall was not the kind of man whom she would have had any natural attraction to. On the other hand, she didn’t like pickled herring, either. But if she was starving and someone handed her a jar of pickled herring, she was hardly going to turn her nose up at it.
“Hullo,” Kendall said, his voice cultured and soft, though a bit high-pitched. “There’s no need to be alarmed. Really, I’m harmless.”
“I shall reserve judgment on that,” Annabelle said, smiling, then wincing as if the effort had pained her. “Forgive me for disturbing your privacy, sir. I wanted a breath of fresh air.” She inhaled until her breasts pressed becomingly at the seams of her bodice. “The atmosphere inside the house was rather oppressive, wasn’t it?”
Kendall approached with his hands half-raised, as if he feared she might collapse to the terrace. “May I fetch you something? A glass of water?”
“No, thank you. A few moments outside will restore me to rights.” Annabelle sank gracefully into the nearest chair. “Although…” She paused and tried to look self-conscious. “It wouldn’t do for us to be seen out here unchaperoned. Especially as we haven’t even been introduced.”
He made a slight bow. “Lord Kendall, at your service.”
“Miss Annabelle Peyton.” She glanced at the empty chair nearby. “Do have a seat, please. I promise, I shall hurry away as soon as my head clears.”
Kendall obeyed cautiously. “No need for that,” he said. “Stay as long as you wish.”
That was encouraging. Mindful of Lillian’s advice, Annabelle pondered her next remark with great care. Since Kendall was being exhaustively pursued by a score of women, she would have to distinguish herself by pretending that she was the only one who was not interested in him. “I can guess why you came out here alone,” she said with a smile. “You must be desperate to avoid being mobbed by eager women.”
Kendall threw her a glance of surprise. “As a matter of fact, yes. I must say, I have never attended a party with such excessively friendly guests.”
“Wait until the end of the month,” she advised. “They’ll be so friendly by then that you’ll need a whip and a chair to hold them off.”
“You seem to be suggesting that I’m some sort of matrimonial target,” he commented dryly, giving voice to the obvious.
“The only way you could be more of a target is if you drew white circles on the back of your coat,” Annabelle said, making him chuckle. “May I ask what your other reasons for escaping to the terrace are, my lord?”
Kendall continued to smile, looking far more comfortable than he had at first. “I’m afraid I can’t hold my liquor. There is only so much port that I am willing to drink for the sake of being social.”
Annabelle had never met a man who was willing to admit such a thing. Most gentlemen equated manliness with the ability to drink a sufficient quantity of liquor to inebriate an elephant. “Does it make you ill, then?” she asked sympathetically.
“Sick as a dog. I’ve been told that tolerance improves with practice—but it seems a rather pointless objective. I can think of better ways to pass the time.”
“Such as…”
Kendall contemplated the question with great care. “A walk through the countryside. A book that improves the mind.” His eyes contained a sudden friendly twinkle. “A conversation with a new friend.”
“I like those things, too.”
“Do you?” Kendall hesitated, while the sounds of the river and the sway of the trees seemed to whisper through the air. “Perhaps you might join me on a walk tomorrow morning. I know of several excellent ones around Stony Cross.”
Annabelle’s sudden eagerness was difficult to contain. “I would enjoy that,” she replied. “But dare I ask—what about your entourage?”
Kendall smiled, revealing a row of small, neat teeth. “I don’t expect that anyone will bother us if we depart early enough.”
“I happen to be an early riser,” she lied. “And I love to walk.”
“Six o’clock, then?”
“Six o’clock,” she repeated, standing from her chair. “I must go back inside—my absence will soon be remarked on. I am feeling much better, however. Thank you for your invitation, my lord.” She allowed herself to send him a little flirting grin. “And for sharing the terrace.”
As she went back inside, she closed her eyes briefly and let out a sigh of relief. It had been a good introduction—and far easier than she had antici
pated to attract Kendall’s interest. With a bit of luck—and some help from her friends—she might be able to catch a peer; and then everything would be all right.
Chapter 7
When the after-supper visiting was concluded, most of the guests began to retire for the evening. As Annabelle walked through one of the arched entrances of the drawing room, she saw that the other wallflowers were waiting for her. Smiling at their expectant faces, she went with them to a niche where they could exchange a few private words.
“Well?” Lillian demanded.
“Mama and I are going on a walk with Lord Kendall tomorrow morning,” Annabelle said.
“Alone?”
“Alone,” Annabelle confirmed. “In fact, we’re meeting at daybreak, to avoid being accompanied by a herd of husband hunters.”
Were they in a more private setting, they might have all squealed with glee. Instead, they settled for exchanging triumphant grins, while Daisy stamped her feet in an exuberant little victory dance.
“Wh-what is he like?” Evie asked.
“Shy, but pleasant,” Annabelle replied. “And he seems to have a sense of humor, which I hadn’t dared to hope for.”
“All that, and teeth, too,” Lillian exclaimed.
“You were right about him being spooked easily,” Annabelle said. “I am certain that Kendall would not be attracted to a strong-willed woman. He’s cautious and soft-spoken. I’m trying to be demure—although I should probably feel guilty for the deception.”
“All women do that during courtship—and men, too, for that matter,” Lillian said prosaically. “We try to conceal our defects and say the things we think the other one wants to hear. We pretend that we’re always lovely and sweet-tempered and that we don’t mind the other’s nasty little habits. And then after the wedding, we lower the boom.”
“I don’t think that men have to pretend quite as much as women do, however,” Annabelle replied. “If a man is portly, or has brown teeth, or is somewhat dull-witted, he’s still a catch as long as he is a gentleman and has some money. But women are held to far more exacting standards.”
