Earl Lessons: The Footmen’s Club Series

by Bowman, Valerie

  “I’m not certain Mama’s words are true any longer,” David added with a sigh.

  “Whyever not?” Marianne asked, scrunching her brow.

  David couldn’t bring himself to tell his sister that he’d ruined Annabelle’s life. That she’d never intended to marry anyone. That wasn’t his secret to tell.

  After Marianne left, David leaned back in his chair and expelled a deep breath. He’d really gone and done it this time, hadn’t he? He was entirely to blame for last night. He’d arrived at Annabelle’s doorstep foxed and demanding answers from her again, like the arse he was. He never should have gone to her bedchamber last night and now he was about to ruin her life with his ill-mannered, cloddish behavior. The truth was, he didn’t deserve a woman as fine as Annabelle and he wouldn’t blame her if she hated him forever.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Apparently, one of the advantages of being a nobleman was the ability to procure a special marriage license from the archbishop of Canterbury. In fact, Worthington sent for it immediately and it arrived not a day later by special messenger. An excruciating day in which David remained in his bedchamber while the rest of the wedding guests (save for Lady Angelina and Annabelle) packed up and left, all with the story of how Lady Annabelle Bellham was finally brought to the altar by gossip, of all sordid things.

  According to Marianne, Lord Murdock had left in a raging fit, Lady Angelina was beside herself with glee, and Annabelle was holed up in her own bedchamber not speaking to anyone.

  David couldn’t stand it any longer. He refused to marry Annabelle without at least speaking to her first. The many notes he’d sent to her room via footmen went unanswered until he finally marched over and knocked on her door. The damage was already done. It wasn’t as if he could ruin her reputation again.

  Lady Angelina answered the door on the first knock. When she saw the look on David’s face, she turned to Annabelle and said, “I think I’ll just go for a walk around Lord Worthington’s gardens.”

  “No, Mama. Wait!” Annabelle called.

  But it was too late. The older lady took off down the corridor before Annabelle had a chance to say another word.

  David watched her go, surprised by her speed. He shook his head and stepped into Annabelle’s room. He was thankful for the privacy, but careful to leave the door open for propriety’s sake…not that it mattered any longer.

  Annabelle was standing near the fireplace, wearing a pink gown. Her clothing and her hair looked simple and sweet, but her face wore a thunderous expression.

  “You didn’t answer any of my notes,” he said, immediately wanting to kick himself for saying something so obvious. Why did he always say obvious things in front of her?

  “I didn’t want to speak with you,” she clipped.

  He had to smile. That was obvious too. “I’m certain your mother has told you, but Lord Worthington has procured a special license for us to marry. The vicar is coming in the morning.”

  “Yes, Mama told me.” Her voice was devoid of emotion.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “And what?” She flashed him an inscrutable look.

  “Do you intend to go through with it? Do you intend to marry me?” Anxiety tinged his voice.

  Annabelle laughed a humorless laugh. “You ask as if I have a choice in the matter.”

  “You do, Annabelle. Of course you do. I would never force you into a marriage you don’t want, no matter the circumstances.”

  Another humorless laugh. She stepped toward him, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. “Spoken just like a man. You have a choice. You could leave me and my reputation in tatters. I’ve seen what scandals like this do to women. I’d be an outcast. Mama and Beau would be treated like vermin. I have no choice.”

  David hung his head. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

  Annabelle’s voice was filled with anger. “I suppose next you’ll tell me if this had happened in Brighton, it would be different. Brighton doesn’t have the strict rules of the ton. Go on. Tell me.”

  David shook his head. “I’ve nothing to say. The truth is, if I’d been discovered in your bedchamber in Brighton, we’d be planning a wedding right now also. Only the archbishop wouldn’t be involved and there’d be longer to wait.”

  Annabelle turned away from him and moved toward the window. Her voice was low and came through clenched teeth. “I want to make something quite clear. We shall be married in name only. You will not own my body and you will not own me!”

  * * *

  The door shut behind David, and Annabelle turned to the empty room with tears welling in her eyes. Her entire body was shaking. She wrapped her arms around her middle. He hadn’t said a word. She had just told him they’d be married in name only, and he hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t argued with her, hadn’t asked her why. Was that because he had no intention of living that way, or was he so filled with guilt he didn’t want to argue with her at the moment? She had no way of knowing, but she did know one thing…he would not harm her. She would not allow it. And if he didn’t touch her, if they weren’t intimate, she would not give him children whom he could ever hurt, either.

  Annabelle walked to her bed on legs that felt like water and nearly collapsed atop it. The situation they were in was not entirely David’s fault. She knew that. She shouldn’t have played such a dangerous game with her body and her emotions, let alone his. But ever since she’d heard Lady Elspeth’s shriek in the corridor, Annabelle had been racked with soul-numbing fear. It had invaded her entire body, leaving her numb and shaky. First, she’d been fearful that a scandal would ensue. Then, when everyone had come running, that fear had been replaced by the prospect of being an outcast from the only Society she’d known. Later, when she’d been huddled in bed with Mama stroking her head and telling her everything would be all right, Annabelle had been afraid there was no way out of getting married. And late this morning, after she’d nearly turned into a puddle going through almost every possible emotion, she’d been afraid that she might actually want to marry David. And that was the most frightening thought of them all.

  But when David had come to the door this afternoon and demanded to see her, the overwhelming fear that had been coursing through her for hours and hours had turned immediately into white-hot anger. He didn’t even necessarily deserve her anger, but she hadn’t been able to control it. All the fears she’d pushed aside since childhood had turned to rage and come roiling through her body and out her mouth, demanding that David agree to a marriage in name only so she wouldn’t have to be petrified of the future.

  Sobs racked her body, and she buried her face in the mattress. She was weak. As all cowards were. Instead of telling him she felt something for him—instead of telling him she just might love him, even—she’d lashed out at him and blamed him for their predicament. Oh, she was the worst sort of coward. She wasn’t even brave enough to tell the truth.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you call me out, Bell,” David said later that afternoon as he sat in a large leather chair in the study. David was nursing a brandy and spinning the glass around on the desktop in front of him. He’d asked the other men to give them their privacy. This conversation between himself and Bell was overdue. “Though I must say in Brighton, a solid beating is much more expedient,” David continued. “We don’t do this ‘calling out’ nonsense. Far too formal. If you want to meet me out on the lawn for fisticuffs, however, I’ll gladly—”

  “Call you out? For what?” Bell was drinking a cup of tea as if they were at afternoon garden party, for Christ’s sake, instead of in the middle of a bloody catastrophe.

  David widened his eyes and stared at the marquess as if he’d lost his mind. “Ruining your sister? Remember?”

  Bell threw back his head and laughed. “You didn’t ruin her. You’re marrying her. Mother is thrilled, by the by.”

  David tossed back the remainder of the contents in his glass and stood to walk over to the
sideboard and pour himself another. “Well, that makes one person in your family who’s thrilled. Annabelle certainly isn’t.”

  Bell frowned. “What gives you that idea? I assumed she was partial to you, or she wouldn’t have been, ahem, doing whatever you two were doing that necessitates the wedding.”

  David shook his head. “Partial, perhaps. But wanting to marry, never.”

  Bell shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Frankly, neither do I. Have you ever wondered why your sister has refused all offers of marriage?” David replied.

  “I’ve wondered, but according to Annabelle, she simply hadn’t met the chap she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.”

  “I’m not certain that chap exists,” David replied.

  Bell frowned again. “What do you mean?”

  “Your sister has told me time and again that she’s singularly uninterested in marriage. She wasn’t planning to marry Murdock, and she isn’t at all happy about having to marry me. She’s opposed to the institution itself.”

  Bell plucked at his lower lip. “Did she tell you that?”

  “In nearly as many words.” David left his glass on the desktop and turned to face his friend. It hadn’t occurred to him until this moment, but Bell might be able to answer the question Annabelle wouldn’t. “The other night, when I was alone with Annabelle, I raised my hand sharply while standing next to her. I meant her no harm, of course, but she fell to the floor and curled into a ball.” David took a deep breath and met his friend’s eyes. “Why would she do that, Bell? Has a man ever struck her?”

  David had never seen the Marquess of Bellingham at a loss for words. Nor had he ever seen the confident spy turn pale, and he’d certainly never heard all the breath rush from his lungs. But when all three things happened simultaneously, it caused the hair on the back of David’s neck to prickle.

  Panic clutched at David’s middle. “Please tell me ‘no,’” he breathed, still carefully watching Bell’s face.

  “No,” Bell finally uttered, but his face remained colorless, and he turned his head to stare straight ahead at the wall, shaken, as if he’d seen a ghost. “At least, not that I ever witnessed, but…”

  David sat up straighter in his chair. He leaned toward Bell. “But what? What is it? Why is she so afraid of men?”

  Bell braced an elbow atop the desk and let his head drop into his palm. He took a long, deep breath. “God, Elmwood. How could I have been so bloody stupid all these years?”

  “What? Tell me.” David’s voice was rough, demanding.

  “Our father,” Bell continued. He lifted his head to stare at the wall again. His jaw was tight. “The blackguard drank to excess and became abusive when he did so. He beat Mother, and…at times…he beat me.”

  David swallowed the lump in his throat that had been forming ever since he’d seen the look of pure anguish on Bell’s face. “And Annabelle witnessed it?”

  Bell nodded slowly. A pulse ticked in his jaw. “I’m ashamed to say she did. The bastard never struck her that I’m aware of. But she saw things. On more occasions than I care to recall.”

  David pressed his lips together and briefly closed his eyes. What did he say to his strong, proud friend, who was admitting something that had to be beyond difficult? David didn’t trust himself not to speak in anger.

  The pulse continued to throb in Bell’s jaw and a look of pure hatred shone in his ice-blue eyes. “Of course, that was when I was a child. When it wasn’t a fair fight. The moment I became old enough, big enough to hit back and do damage, the bastard stopped. Annabelle was still quite young then. I…I mistakenly believed she hadn’t been affected, perhaps didn’t even remember it.” Bell shook his head. “I’ve been a fool.”

  Another lump formed in David’s throat. He could only imagine what it had cost his friend to stand up to his own father that way. No wonder Bell was so strong.

  “Annabelle thinks a man striking his wife is normal behavior,” David finally breathed, his mind racing. “Which would explain her fear. She also told me she didn’t want any children.” David’s chest was tight. It all made sense now. So much sense. Awful sense, but it explained all of Annabelle’s reticence.

  Bell nodded gravely. “It makes me ill to think that, but it stands to reason. I’ve heard her mention things through the years about not wanting to ‘belong’ to a man.”

  So many things made sense now. David nodded toward Bell’s teacup. “It’s why you don’t drink, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Bell said, lifting his cup in the semblance of a salute. “Though for years, I’ve lived with the regret of not coming to my father’s bedside when he was dying. The man was a bastard most of his life, and I never could forgive him. But apparently he was regretful in the end.”

  David reached out and clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t blame you. And if you ask me, you should have no regrets. Any man who beats a woman or child isn’t worthy of any title, especially that of ‘father’.”

  Bell nodded, once.

  “As for drinking, you must know you’re nothing like him,” David continued.

  The marquess stared unseeing at the wall again. “Perhaps, but I never trusted that I wouldn’t turn into him if I drank. That is a fear I’ve never been able to conquer.”

  “That sort of violence isn’t in you, Bell,” David assured him, pulling his hand away.

  “I hope not, Elmwood. But I don’t intend to ever find out.” Bell stood and walked toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” David asked, turning in his seat to face him.

  “To have a long overdue talk with my sister.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Annabelle was in Lord Worthington’s splendid conservatory as dusk approached. The magnificent space was filled with all sorts of flowers, including orchids, of all lovely things. Annabelle had always adored orchids. So unique and beautiful. None of her silly suitors in London had ever thought to send her any. None of them had ever asked what she preferred. She was sitting on a stone bench near the delicate flowers when her brother came hiking through the mulch toward her.

  Without saying a word, Beau sat beside her and expelled his breath. He stared straight ahead, not looking at her, his forearms resting on his knees.

  Annabelle waited for him to say something. Beau was never at a loss for words, but when several interminable minutes passed without so much as a greeting, she decided to be the one to speak.

  “Yes?” she prodded. She knew her brother well enough to know he hadn’t just happened by. When Beau came looking for you, it was because he had something to say, usually something one would do well to listen to. “Why have you come?”

  “To speak with you,” he replied simply, as he stared directly ahead at the orchids.

  “And yet you do not speak.” She tried to smile at the jest, but Beau turned to look at her just then and their gazes met. Were those tears in her brother’s eyes? Oh, no. She couldn’t stand it if Beau cried. Beau was the strongest, bravest person she knew. What was wrong? Why did he have tears in his eyes? Tears filled her eyes too.

  “The problem is,” Beau finally said softly, “for once in my life, I’m not entirely certain what to say.”

  Annabelle swallowed a lump in her throat. “Do you want to say something about my impending marriage, perhaps?” she offered. That had to be why he was here. She’d embarrassed her brother by being caught in a scandal at his wedding, of all events. Was Beau ashamed of her? She couldn’t bear it if he was ashamed of her.

  “It has to do with your impending marriage, in a way,” Beau replied.

  Annabelle’s hands were beginning to perspire. Worry was quickly spreading through her veins. “You’re frightening me, Beau. Please say it. It cannot be worse than what I’m imagining.”

  Beau took another deep breath. He hung his head and stared at the mulch beneath his boots. “Annabelle,” he began. Her chest ached to hear her brother’s voice so vulnerable and raw. “
Do you think I would ever strike Marianne?”

  Annabelle gasped. What did he say? Unthinkable. “No, of course not.” She shook her head vigorously.

  Beau nodded slowly before asking, “Do you think I would ever strike you? Or Mother?”

  “Never,” she breathed, but the lump she’d swallowed was back and so large she could barely breathe. And the tears in her eyes had welled to a point where she couldn’t even see. The conservatory was a mostly green blur.

  Beau nodded again, his head still bowed. “In the same way that I would never strike you, or Mother, or Marianne, there are other men who would never do such things either. Our father just wasn’t one of them.”

  The tears slipped down Annabelle’s cheeks. They hadn’t spoken about these things in years. Never spoken about them as adults, certainly. The scars of their childhood had healed over without any discussion. That was the way of their set, wasn’t it? Stiff upper lip and all that. Now her brother was ripping open those long-forgotten wounds with a few simple words. “What are you saying, Beau?” she managed to ask, though her throat ached terribly.

  Beau pushed himself back on the bench and met her gaze again. Ever the gentleman, he pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his inside coat pocket and handed it to her. “I’m saying I believe Elmwood is a good man. The type of man who would never raise a hand to you. I’ve seen him in his cups. He’s more of a jester than a fighter when he’s foxed.”

  Annabelle wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief. “I suppose I’m a fool, but I’ve lived all these years never even considering the fact that you would never strike anyone. Of course that means there must be other men who were honorable as well.”

  “You’re not a fool, Annabelle. You’re a young woman who was exposed to things at a very young age you never should have had to see. I’m the fool who should have realized why you never wished to marry.”