Secrets of a Summer Night

by Lisa Kleypas

  “Mrs. Hunt,” Wells-Troughton said jovially, handing her a glass of champagne, which she accepted with a cool smile of thanks. “You are as fair as a summer rose this evening.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Annabelle said demurely.

  “To what shall we attribute your obvious glow of contentment, my dear?”

  “To my recent marriage, sir.”

  Wells-Troughton chuckled. “Ah, I remember well those early days of marriage. Enjoy the pleasure while it lasts, for it is all too fleeting.”

  “Perhaps for some. For others it may last a lifetime.”

  “My dear, how delightfully naive.” He gave her a knowing smirk, his gaze falling to her breasts again. “But I will not disabuse you of such romantic notions, as they will fade in due time.”

  “I doubt that,” Annabelle said, causing him to chortle.

  “Is Hunt proving a satisfactory husband, then?”

  “In every regard,” she assured him.

  “Come, I shall be your confidant, and we’ll find some favorable corner to talk in. I know of several.”

  “No doubt you do,” Annabelle replied lightly, “but I have no need of a confidant, my lord.”

  “I insist on stealing you away for just a moment.” Wells-Troughton settled a meaty hand at the small of her back. “You won’t be so silly as to make a fuss, will you?”

  Knowing that her only defense was to make light of his persistence, Annabelle smiled and turned away from him, sipping her champagne with studied insouciance. “I don’t dare go anywhere with you, my lord. I’m afraid my husband possesses a rather jealous temperament.”

  She jumped a little as she heard Simon’s voice from behind her. “With good reason, it seems.” Although he spoke quietly, there was a biting note in his tone that alarmed Annabelle. She stared at him in silent entreaty, begging him not to make a scene. Lord Wells-Troughton was irritating but harmless, and Simon would make them all into objects of ridicule if he overreacted to the situation.

  “Hunt,” the heavyset peer murmured, grinning with an utter lack of shame. “You are a fortunate man to be in possession of such a delectable prize.”

  “Yes, I am.” Simon’s gaze was openly murderous. “And if you ever approach her again—”

  “Darling,” Annabelle interrupted with a whimsical smile, “I adore your primitive moods. But let’s save this one for after the ball.”

  Simon didn’t reply, glaring at Wells-Troughton until his simmering menace attracted the attention of people standing nearby. “Stay the hell away from my wife,” he said softly, causing the other man to blanch.

  “Good evening, my lord,” Annabelle said, draining the rest of her glass and giving him a bright, artificial smile. “Thank you for the champagne.”

  “A pleasure, Mrs. Hunt,” came Wells-Troughton’s disgruntled reply, and he hastily took his leave.

  Pink with embarrassment, Annabelle avoided the curious stares of the other guests as she left the ballroom with Simon at her heels. Finding her way to an outside balcony, she set her glass down, and let a gentle breeze cool her burning cheeks.

  “What did he say to you?” Simon demanded roughly, looming over her.

  “Nothing of importance.”

  “He made an advance to you—anyone could see that.”

  “It meant nothing to him, or to anyone else here. That’s how they all are—you know quite well these matters are never taken seriously. To them fidelity is just a…a middle-class prejudice. And if a man approaches another’s wife as Lord Wells-Troughton did, no one attaches any importance to it—”

  “I attach importance to it when my wife is the one being approached.”

  “For you to react so belligerently will make us both objects of mockery—and besides, it hardly demonstrates any faith in my fidelity.”

  “You just said that your kind doesn’t believe in fidelity.”

  “They’re not my kind,” Annabelle snapped, losing her temper. “Not since I married you, at any rate! I don’t know where I belong now—not with those people, and not with yours, either.”

  His expression did not change, but she sensed that she had hurt him. Instantly contrite, she sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Simon, I did not mean to imply—”

  “It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Let’s go back inside.”

  “But I want to explain—”

  “You don’t need to explain.”

  “Simon…” She winced and closed her mouth as he took her back to the ballroom, wishing with all her heart that she could take back her impulsive words.

  Chapter 24

  As Annabelle had feared, the impetuous accusation she had made at the Hardcastle ball had created a small but undeniable distance between her and her husband. She longed to apologize and explain that she did not blame him for anything. However, her efforts to tell him that she had no regrets about having married him were quietly but firmly rebuffed. Simon, who was always willing to discuss any subject, had drawn the line at this matter. Unwittingly, she had struck at him with the delicate accuracy of a stiletto, and his reaction betrayed a certain guilt at having removed her from the upper-class world that she had once dreamed of occupying.

  To Annabelle’s relief, their relationship quickly returned to the way it had been before, their interactions playful, challenging, and even affectionate. Still, she was troubled by the awareness that things were not completely the same. There were moments when Simon was slightly guarded with her, for now they both knew that she had the power to hurt him. It seemed that he would allow her to come only so close, protecting himself by preserving a last crucial distance between them. He would, however, give her unqualified help and support when she needed him …and he proved that on the night that trouble came from an unexpected quarter.

  Simon had come home at an unusually late hour, having spent all day at the Consolidated Locomotive works. Strongly scented of coal smoke, oil, and metal after spending a day at the site, he returned to the Rutledge with his clothes decidedly the worse for wear.

  “What have you been doing?” Annabelle exclaimed, both amused and alarmed by his appearance.

  “Walking through the foundry,” Simon replied, stripping off his waistcoat and shirt as soon as he crossed the threshold of their bedroom.

  Annabelle threw him a skeptical glance. “You did more than merely ‘walk.’ What are those stains on your clothes? You look as if you were trying to build the locomotive by yourself.”

  “There was a moment when some extra help was required.” An expanse of well-honed muscle was revealed as Simon dropped his shirt to the floor. He seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood. Being a supremely physical man, Simon enjoyed exerting himself, especially when there was some risk involved.

  Frowning, Annabelle went to draw a bath for him in the nearby bathing room, and returned to find her husband clad in his linens. There was a fist-sized bruise on his leg, and a red scorch mark on his wrist, causing her to exclaim anxiously, “You’ve been hurt! What happened?”

  Simon looked momentarily puzzled by her concern, and by the way she flew to him. “It’s nothing,” he said, reaching out to catch her waist.

  Pushing his hands away, Annabelle sank to her knees to inspect the bruise on his leg. “What caused this?” she demanded, skimming the edge of it with her fingertip. “It happened in the foundry, didn’t it? Simon Hunt, I want you to stay away from that place! All those boilers and cranes and vats …the next time you’ll probably be crushed or boiled or punched full of holes—”

  “Annabelle…” Simon’s voice was edged with amusement. Bending to grasp her elbows, he pulled her to her feet. “I can’t talk to you when you’re kneeling in front of me like that. Not coherently, at any rate. I can explain exactly what—” He broke off, his dark eyes flickering strangely as he saw her expression. “You’re upset, aren’t you?”

  “Any wife would be, if her husband came home in this condition!”

  Simon slid his hand behind her neck and squ
eezed lightly. “You’re reacting a bit strongly to a bruise and a slight burn, aren’t you?”

  Annabelle scowled. “First tell me what happened, then I’ll decide how to react.”

  “Four men were trying to pull a metal plate out of a furnace with long-handled pincers. They had to carry it to a frame where it could be rolled and pressed. The metal plate turned out to be a bit heavier than they expected, and when it became clear that they were about to drop the damned thing, I picked up another pair of pincers and went to help.”

  “Why couldn’t one of the other foundrymen do it?”

  “I happened to be standing closest to the furnace.” Simon shrugged in an effort to make light of the episode. “I got the bruise when I knocked my knee against the frame before we managed to lower the plate—and the burn happened when someone else’s pincers brushed against my arm. But no harm done. I heal quickly.”

  “Oh, that was all?” she asked. “You were only lifting hundreds of pounds of red-hot iron in your shirt-sleeves?—how silly of me to be concerned.”

  Simon lowered his head until his lips brushed her cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Someone needs to.” Annabelle was keenly aware of the strength and solidity of his body, standing so close to hers. His big-boned frame was formed with power and masculine grace. But Simon wasn’t invulnerable, or indestructible. He was only human, and the dawning realization of how important his safety had become to her was nothing short of alarming. Twisting away from him, Annabelle went to check the accumulating bath-water, saying over her shoulder, “You smell like a train.”

  “With an extended smokestack,” he rejoined, following at her heels.

  Annabelle snorted derisively. “If you’re trying to be amusing, don’t bother. I’m furious with you.”

  “Why?” Simon murmured, catching her from behind. “Because I got hurt? Trust me, all your favorite parts are still working.” He kissed the side of her neck.

  Annabelle stiffened her spine, resisting the embrace. “I couldn’t care less if you jumped headfirst into a vat of melted iron, if you’re so silly as to go into the foundry with no protective clothing and—”

  “Hell-broth.” Simon nuzzled into the delicate wisps of her hairline, while one hand coasted upward to find her breast.

  “What?” Annabelle asked, wondering if he had just spouted some new profanity.

  “Hell-broth …that’s what they call the melted iron.” His fingers circled the reinforced shape of her breast, molded artificially high and stiff within the frame of her corset. “Good God, what do you have on under this dress?”

  “My new steam-molded corset.” The fashionable garment, imported from New York, had been heavily starched and pressed onto a metal form, giving it more stiffness and structure than the conventionally designed corset.

  “I don’t like it. I can’t feel your breasts.”

  “You’re not supposed to,” Annabelle said with exaggerated patience, rolling her eyes as he brought his hands up to her chest and squeezed experimentally. “Simon …your bath…”

  “What idiot invented corsets in the first place?” he asked grumpily, letting go of her.

  “An Englishman, of course.”

  “It would be.” He followed her as she went to shut the valves in the bathing room.

  “My dressmaker told me that corsets used to be kirtles, which were worn as a mark of servitude.”

  “Why are you so willing to wear a mark of servitude?”

  “Because everyone else does, and if I didn’t, my waist would look as big as a cow’s by comparison.”

  “Vanity, thy name is woman,” he quoted, dropping his linens to pad across the tiled floor.

  “And I suppose men wear neckties because they are so excessively comfortable?” Annabelle asked sweetly, watching her husband step into the tub.

  “I wear neckties because if I didn’t, people would think I was even more uncivilized than they already do.” Lowering himself with care, for the tub had not been designed for a man of his proportions, Simon let out a hiss of comfort as the hot water lapped around his middle.

  Coming to stand beside him, Annabelle ran her fingers over his thick hair, and murmured, “They don’t know the half of it. Here—don’t lower your arm into the water. I’ll help you to wash.”

  As she lathered him, Annabelle took a pleasurable inventory of her husband’s long, well-exercised body. Slowly her hands coasted over hard planes of muscle, some places ropy and delineated, others smooth and solid. Sensual creature that he was, Simon made no effort to conceal his pleasure, watching her lazily through half-closed eyes. His breath quickened, though it was still measured, and his muscles turned iron-hard at the stroke of her fingertips.

  The silence in the tiled room was broken only by the sluice of water and the sounds of their breathing. Dreamily, Annabelle tunneled her fingers through the soapy mat of hair on his chest, recalling the feel of it on her breasts as his body moved over hers. “Simon,” she whispered.

  His lashes lifted, and his dark eyes stared into hers. One large hand slid over hers, pressing it to the taut contours of his chest. “Yes?”

  “If anything ever happened to you, I…” She paused as she heard the sound of vigorous knocking at the door of the suite. Her reverie was broken by the intrusive sound. “Hmm …who could that be?”

  The interruption caused annoyance to cross Simon’s features. “Did you send for something?”

  Shaking her head, Annabelle rose to her feet and reached for a length of toweling to dry her hands.

  “Ignore it.”

  Annabelle smiled wryly as the rapping became more insistent. “I don’t think our visitor will give up that easily. I suppose I’ll have to go see who it is.” She left the bathing room and closed the door gently, allowing Simon to finish his bath in privacy.

  Striding to the entrance of the suite, Annabelle opened the door. “Jeremy!” Her pleasure at her brother’s unexpected visit vanished quickly as she saw his expression. His young face was pale and set, and his mouth was clamped in a grim line. He was hatless and coatless, and his hair was in wild disarray. “Jeremy, is something wrong?” she asked, welcoming him into the suite.

  “You could say that.”

  Reading the barely suppressed panic in his gaze, she stared at him with increasing concern. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  Jeremy raked a hand through his hair, causing the thick golden brown strands to stand on end. “The fact is—” He paused with a dumbfounded expression, as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.

  “The fact is what?” Annabelle demanded.

  “The fact is…our mother just stabbed someone.”

  Annabelle regarded her brother with blank-faced confusion. Gradually a scowl spread across her features. “Jeremy,” she said sternly, “this is the most distasteful prank you’ve ever—”

  “It’s not a prank! I wish to hell it was.”

  Annabelle made no effort to hide her skepticism. “Whom is she supposed to have stabbed?”

  “Lord Hodgeham. One of Papa’s old friends—do you remember him?”

  Suddenly, the color drained from Annabelle’s face, and a shock of horror went through her. “Yes,” she heard herself whisper. “I remember him.”

  “Apparently he came to the house this evening while I was out with friends—I returned home early— and when I crossed the threshold, I saw blood on the entrance floor.”

  Annabelle shook her head slightly, trying to take in the words.

  “I followed the trail into the parlor,” Jeremy continued, “where the cook-maid was in hysterics, and the footman was trying to clean a puddle of blood from the carpet, while Mama stood there like a statue, not saying a word. There was a pair of bloody scissors on the table—the ones she uses for needlework. From what I could get out of the servants, Hodgeham went into the parlor with Mama, there were sounds of an argument, then Hodgeham came staggering out with his hands clasping his chest.”


  Annabelle’s mind began to work at twice its usual speed, her thoughts racing madly. She and Philippa had always hidden the truth from Jeremy, who had been away at school whenever Hodgeham had called. As far as Annabelle knew, Jeremy had never been aware that Hodgeham had visited the house. He would be devastated if he realized that some of the money that had paid his school bills had been given in exchange for… no, he must not find out. She would have to make up some explanation. Later. The most important thing for now was to protect Philippa.

  “Where is Hodgeham now?” Annabelle asked. “How severely was he injured?”

  “I have no idea. It seems that he went to the back entrance where his carriage was waiting, and his own footman and driver carried him away.” Jeremy shook his head wildly. “I don’t know where Mama stabbed him, or how many times, or even why. She won’t say— just looks at me as if she can’t remember her own name.”

  “Where is she now? Don’t say you just left her at home by herself?”

  “I told the footman to watch her every minute, and not to let her—” Jeremy broke off and directed a wary glance to a point beyond Annabelle’s shoulder. “Hello, Mr. Hunt. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I’ve come because—”

  “Yes, I heard. Your voice carried to the next room.” Simon stood there calmly tucking the tail of a fresh shirt into his trousers, his gaze alert as he stared at Jeremy.

  Turning, Annabelle went cold at the sight of her husband. There were times when she forgot how intimidating Simon could be, but at the moment, with his pitiless eyes and complete lack of expression, he looked as ruthless as a killer-for-hire.

  “Why did Hodgeham come to the house at such an hour?” Jeremy wondered aloud, his young face fraught with worry. “And why the hell did Mama receive him? And what would have provoked her like that? He must have tricked her somehow. He must have said something about Papa …or maybe even made an advance to her, the filthy bastard.”