by Lisa Kleypas
“Well, then, why are you here?” Lillian demanded accusingly, as if she, and not Westcliff, was the owner of the estate.
The question caused the earl’s head to whip around. He gave the American girl an incredulous glance before he dragged his gaze away once more. “Our presence here is purely coincidental,” he said coldly. “I wished to have a look at the northwest section of my estate today.” He gave the word my a subtle but distinct emphasis. “While Mr. Hunt and I were traveling along the lane, we heard your screaming. We thought it best to investigate, and came with the intention of rendering aid, if necessary. Little did I realize that you would be using this field for…for…”
“Rounders-in-knickers,” Lillian supplied helpfully, sliding her arms into her sleeves.
The earl seemed incapable of repeating the ridiculous phrase. He turned his horse away and spoke curtly over his shoulder. “I plan to develop a case of amnesia within the next five minutes. Before I do so, I would suggest that you refrain from any future activities involving nudity outdoors, as the next passersby who discover you may not prove to be as indifferent as Mr. Hunt and I.”
Despite Annabelle’s mortification, she had to repress a skeptical snort at the earl’s claim of indifference on Hunt’s behalf, not to mention his own. Hunt had certainly managed to get quite an eyeful of her. And though Westcliff’s scrutiny had been far more subtle, it had not escaped her that he had stolen a quick but thorough glance at Lillian before he had veered his horse away. However, in light of her current state of undress, it was hardly the time to deflate Westcliff’s holier-than-thou demeanor.
“Thank you, my lord,” Annabelle said with a calmness that pleased her immensely. “And now, having dispensed such excellent advice, I would ask that you allow us some privacy to restore ourselves.”
“With pleasure,” Westcliff growled.
Before Simon Hunt departed, he could not seem to keep from looking back at Annabelle as she stood clutching her gown across her chest. Despite his apparent composure, it seemed to her that his color had heightened…and there was no mistaking the smoldering of his jet-black eyes. Annabelle longed for the self-possession to stare at him with cool disregard, but instead she felt flushed and disheveled and thoroughly off-balance. He seemed on the verge of saying something to her, then checked himself and muttered beneath his breath with a self-derisive smile. His horse stomped and snorted impatiently, pivoting eagerly as Hunt guided him to gallop after Westcliff, who was already halfway across the field.
Mortified, Annabelle turned to Lillian, who was blushing but admirably self-possessed. “Of all men to discover us like this,” Annabelle said in disgust, “it would have to be those two.”
“You have to admire such arrogance,” Lillian commented dryly. “It must have taken years to cultivate.”
“Which man are you referring to? …Mr. Hunt or Lord Westcliff?”
“Both. Although the earl’s arrogance just may edge out Mr. Hunt’s—which I call a truly impressive feat.”
They stared at each other in shared disdain for their departed visitors, and suddenly Annabelle laughed irrepressibly. “They were surprised, weren’t they?”
“Not nearly as surprised as we were,” Lillian rejoined. “The question is, how are we to face them again?”
“How are they to face us?” Annabelle countered. “We were minding our own business—they were the intruders!”
“How right you…” Lillian began, and stopped as she became aware of a violent choking noise coming from their picnic spot. Evie was writhing on the blanket, while Daisy stood over her with arms akimbo.
Hurrying to the pair, Annabelle asked Daisy in consternation, “What is it?”
“The embarrassment was too much for her to endure,” Daisy said. “It sent her into fits.”
Evie rolled on the blanket, a napkin concealing her face, while one exposed ear had turned the color of pickled beets. The more she tried to control her giggles, the worse they became, until she gasped frantically for air in between yelps. Somehow she managed to squeak out a few words. “What a s-s-smashing introduction to lawn sports!” And then she was snorting with more spasms of helpless laughter, while the other three stood over her.
Daisy threw Annabelle a significant glance. “Those,” she informed her, “are conniptions.”
Simon and Westcliff rode away from the meadow at a fast gallop, slowing to a walk when they entered the forest and followed a trail that wound through the wooded terrain. It was a good two minutes before either of them was inclined, or indeed able, to speak. Simon’s head was whirling with images of Annabelle Peyton’s firm, flourishing curves clad in ancient under-garments that had shrunk from a thousand washings. It was a good thing that he and she had not found themselves alone in such a circumstance, for Simon was certain that he wouldn’t have been able to leave her without doing something completely barbaric.
In Simon’s entire life, he had never experienced such potent craving as he had the moment he had seen Annabelle half-undressed in the meadow. His entire body had been flooded with the urge to dismount his horse, seize Annabelle in his arms, and carry her to the nearest soft patch of grass he could find. He could not imagine a more unholy temptation than the sight of her voluptuous body, the expanse of silken skin tinted in shades of cream and pink, the sun-streaked golden brown hair. She had looked so enchantingly mortified, blushing everywhere. He wanted to remove her ragged undergarments with his teeth and fingers; and then he wanted to kiss her from head to toe, taste her in sweet, soft places that—
“No,” Simon muttered, feeling his blood heat until it scalded the inside of his veins. He could not allow himself to pursue that line of thought, or his hard-thrumming desire would make the rest of the ride damned uncomfortable. When he had gotten his lust under control, Simon glanced at Westcliff, who appeared to be brooding. That was unusual for Westcliff, who was not the brooding sort.
The two men had been friends for about five years, having met at a supper given by a progressive politician with whom they were both acquainted. Westcliff’s autocratic father had just died, and it had been left to Marcus, the new earl, to take charge of the family’s business affairs. He had found the family finances to be superficially sound but ailing underneath, much like a patient who had contracted a terminal disease but still appeared healthy. Alarmed by the steady losses revealed by the account books, the new earl of Westcliff had recognized that drastic changes had to be made. He had resolved to avoid the fate of other peers who spent their lives presiding over an ever-shrinking family fortune. Unlike the silver-fork novels that depicted countless peers losing their wealth at the gambling tables, the reality was that modern aristocrats were generally not so reckless as they were simply inept financial managers. Conservative investments, old-fashioned views and illfated fiscal arrangements were slowly eroding aristocratic wealth and allowing a newly prosperous class of professional men to encroach on the higher levels of society. Any man who chose to disregard the influences of science and industrial advances on the emerging economy was sure to be abandoned in its churning wake… and Westcliff had no desire to be included in that category.
When Simon and Westcliff had struck up a friendship, there had been no doubt that each man was using the other to get something he wanted. Westcliff had wanted the benefit of Simon’s financial instincts, and Simon had wanted an entree into the world of the privileged class. But as they had become acquainted with each other, it became apparent that they were alike in many ways. They were both aggressive riders and huntsmen, requiring frequent strenuous physical activity as an outlet for an excess of vigor. And they were both uncompromisingly honest, although Westcliff possessed sufficient grace of manner to make his candor far more palatable. Neither man was the kind to sit for hours at a time to chat about poetry and sentimental concepts. They preferred to deal with tangible facts and issues, and, of course, they discussed current and future business ventures with keen enjoyment.
As Simon had continued to
be a regular guest at Stony Cross, and a frequent visitor to Westcliff’s London house, Marsden Terrace, the earl’s friends had gradually come to accept him into their circle. It had been a welcome surprise for Simon to discover that he was not the only commoner whom Westcliff considered a close friend. The earl seemed to prefer the company of men whose perspectives of the world had been shaped outside the walls of noble estates. In fact, Westcliff occasionally claimed that he would like to disclaim his title, were such a thing possible, since he did not support the notion of hereditary aristocracy. Simon had no doubt that Westcliff’s statements were sincere—but it had never seemed to dawn on Westcliff that aristocratic privilege, with all its power and attendant responsibilities, was an innate part of him. As the holder of the oldest and most revered earldom in England, Marcus, Lord Westcliff, had been born to serve the demands of duty and tradition. He kept his life well organized and tightly scheduled, and he was the most self-controlled man that Simon had ever known.
At the moment, the usually coolheaded earl seemed rather more perturbed than the situation warranted.
“Damn,” Westcliff finally exclaimed. “I have occasional business dealings with their father. How am I supposed to face Thomas Bowman without remembering that I’ve seen his daughter in her underwear?”
“Daughters,” Simon corrected. “They were both there.”
“I only noticed the taller one.”
“Lillian?”
“Yes, that one.” A scowl crossed Westcliff’s face. “Good God, no wonder they’re all unmarried! They’re heathens even by American standards. And the way that woman spoke to me, as if I should have been embarrassed to interrupt their pagan revelry—”
“Westcliff, you sound like a prig,” Simon interrupted, amused by the earl’s vehemence. “A few innocent girls scampering about in the meadow is hardly the end of civilization as we know it. And if they had been village wenches, you’d have thought nothing of it. Hell, you probably would have joined them. I’ve seen you do things with your paramours at parties and balls that—”
“Well, they aren’t village wenches, are they? They’re young ladies—or at least they’re supposed to be. Why in God’s name are a bunch of wallflowers behaving in such a way?”
Simon grinned at his friend’s aggrieved tone. “My impression is that they have become allies in their un-wedded state. For most of the past season they sat without speaking to each other, but it seems they’ve recently struck up a friendship.”
“For what purpose?” the earl asked with deep suspicion.
“Perhaps they’re merely trying to enjoy themselves?” Simon suggested, interested by the degree to which Westcliff had taken exception to the girls’ behavior. Lillian Bowman, in particular, seemed to have bothered him profoundly. And that was unusual for the earl, who always treated women with casual ease. To Simon’s knowledge, despite the numbers of women who pursued him in and out of bed, Westcliff had never lost his detachment. Until then.
“Then they should take up needlework, or do whatever it is that proper women do to enjoy themselves,” the earl growled. “At least they should find a hobby that doesn’t involve running naked through the countryside.”
“They weren’t naked,” Simon pointed out. “Much to my regret.”
“That comment impels me to say something,” Westcliff said. “As you know, I’m not usually one to give advice when it isn’t asked for—”
Simon interrupted with a bark of laughter. “Westcliff, I doubt that a day in your life has passed without you giving advice to someone about something.”
“I offer advice only when it is obviously needed,” the earl said with a scowl.
Simon gave him a sardonic glance. “Dispense your words of wisdom, then, as it appears that I’m going to hear them whether I wish to or not.”
“It pertains to Miss Peyton. If you’re wise, you’ll divest yourself of all notions concerning her. She’s a shallow bit of goods, and as self-absorbed as any creature I’ve ever met. The facade is beautiful, I’ll grant you…but in my judgment there’s nothing beneath to recommend it. No doubt you’re thinking of taking her as your mistress if she fails in her bid to win Kendall. My advice is, don’t. There are women who have infinitely more to offer you.”
Simon didn’t reply for a moment. His sentiments regarding Annabelle Peyton were uncomfortably complex. He admired Annabelle, he liked her, and God knew he had no right to judge her harshly for becoming another man’s mistress. But all the same, the very real possibility that she had taken Hodgeham into her bed engendered a mixture of jealousy and anger that surprised him.
After hearing the rumor that Lord Burdick had been spreading, that Annabelle had become Lord Hodgeham’s secret mistress, Simon hadn’t been able to resist investigating the claim. He had asked his father, who kept meticulous account books, if anyone had ever given him money for the Peytons’ butcher bills. Sure enough, his father had confirmed that Lord Hodgeham had occasionally settled the Peytons’ account. Although that hardly was conclusive proof of anything, it provided yet more weight to the possibility that Annabelle had become Hodgeham’s mistress. And Annabelle’s evasiveness during their conversation the previous morning had certainly done little to contradict the rumor.
Clearly the Peyton family’s situation was desperate…but why Annabelle should have turned to a fat old windbag like Hodgeham for help was a mystery. On the other hand, so many of life’s decisions, good and bad, were made as a simple result of timing. Perhaps Hodgeham had managed to intervene at a moment when Annabelle’s defenses were at their weakest, and she had allowed herself to be persuaded to give the old bastard what he wanted in return for the money she needed so badly.
She had no walking boots. Christ. Hodgeham’s generosity must be paltry indeed, to allow for a few new gowns but no decent shoes, and undergarments that were nearly in rags. If Annabelle was to be some man’s mistress, she could damn well be Simon’s, and at least receive proper recompense for her favors. Obviously it was far too soon to broach the question to her. Simon would have to wait patiently while Annabelle tried to wrest a proposal from Lord Kendall. And he intended to do nothing to harm her chances. But if she failed with Kendall, Simon intended to approach her with a much better offer than her current hole-and-corner arrangement with Hodgeham.
Envisioning Annabelle stretched naked in his bed, Simon felt his lust rekindle, and he struggled to retrieve the thread of conversation. “What gave you the impression that I had any interest in Miss Peyton?” he asked in a noncommittal tone.
“The fact that you nearly fell off your horse when you saw her in her drawers.”
That elicited a reluctant smile from Simon. “With a facade like that, I may not give a damn about what’s beneath.”
“You should,” the earl said emphatically. “Miss Peyton is a selfish jade if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Westcliff,” Simon asked conversationally, “does it ever occur to you that you might occasionally be wrong? About anything?”
The earl looked perplexed by the question. “Actually, no.”
Shaking his head with a rueful grin, Simon spurred his horse to a faster gait.
Chapter 11
As the girls walked back to Stony Cross Manor, Annabelle became uncomfortably aware of a twinge in her ankle. She must have turned it during the Rounders game, though she could not recall the precise moment when it had happened. Sighing heavily, she hefted the basket in her hand and lengthened her stride to keep pace with Lillian, who looked pensive. Daisy and Evie walked a few yards behind them, both of them involved in an earnest conversation.
“What are you worrying about?” Annabelle asked Lillian in a low voice.
“The earl and Mr. Hunt…do you think they will tell anyone about having seen us this afternoon? It would put a nasty dent in our reputations.”
“I don’t think Westcliff would,” Annabelle said after a moment’s thought. “I was inclined to believe him when he made that remark about amnesia. And he doesn�
��t seem to be a man who is given to gossip.”
“What about Mr. Hunt?”
Annabelle frowned. “I don’t know. It didn’t escape me that he made no promise to remain silent. I suppose he’ll keep his mouth closed if he thinks he has something to gain from it.”
“You should be the one to ask him, then. As soon as you see Mr. Hunt at the ball tonight, you must go to him and make him promise not to tell anyone about our Rounders game.”
Recalling the dance that would take place at the manor that evening, Annabelle groaned. She was relatively—no, positively—certain that she could not bear to face Hunt after what had happened that afternoon. On the other hand, Lillian was right—one couldn’t assume that Hunt would be silent. Annabelle would have to deal with him, much as she dreaded the prospect. “Why me?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.
“Because Hunt likes you. Everyone knows that. He’ll be much more inclined to do something you ask.”
“He won’t give something for nothing,” Annabelle muttered, while the throbbing in her ankle worsened. “What if he makes some vulgar proposition to me?”
A long, apologetic pause ensued, until Lillian offered, “You may have to throw him a bone of some sort.”
“What kind of a bone?” Annabelle asked suspiciously.
“Oh, just let him kiss you, if that’s what it takes to keep him quiet.”
Astonished that Lillian could make such a statement in so nonchalant a manner, Annabelle inhaled sharply. “Good God, Lillian! I can’t do that!”
“Why not? You’ve kissed men before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“One pair of lips is like any other. Just make certain no one sees you and get it over with quickly. Then Mr. Hunt will be placated, and our secret will be safe.”
Annabelle shook her head with a strangled laugh, while her heart began to pound painfully hard at the idea. She couldn’t help but remember that long-ago secret kiss in the panorama theater, the seconds of devastating sensual upheaval that had left her shaken and speechless.
