by Eloisa James
Fool! She was a fool! If she had enticed Draven into such liberties, perhaps he wouldn’t have left her and walked down to the track, and found out that his jockey didn’t want to ride that devil of a horse, and decided to ride him…he would have stayed at her side.
Safe.
Alive.
The ratafia was so sickly sweet that the danger of tears receded. She drained the glass. Why should she sit about mourning Draven when she could be—
The pain caught her heart and wrenched it so hard that she almost gasped aloud.
How could Draven be dead? Automatically she started to count to ten but it was too late. She could feel a sob tearing its way up her chest.
The only person who loved Draven besides herself was Draven’s mother. And when Lady Clarice had seen that Imogen was not carrying a child, she simply gave up. She stopped eating, caught a chill…leaving Imogen in a world of fools who didn’t know Draven, who didn’t remember how exquisitely funny he could be, how full of life, how…
Tears made the world blurry but one of Lady Mitford’s pavilions loomed before her, offering a bench and a canopy of fluttering white silk.
She sat down and launched into a familiar routine. First, she sat rigidly upright. She had discovered that one was less likely to dissolve into tears if one’s backbone was straight. Then she counted her breaths: one, two, three. Finally, she turned her thoughts to Rafe’s behavior the previous night. How dare he? How dare he presume to say anything to her about her behavior? He wasn’t her brother, nor an uncle, nor anything to her. He was simply the guardian she had before marrying. He was nothing to her now, and yet he presumed—he presumed!
Her eyes narrowed and the tears were gone.
Thank goodness. There was nothing she hated more in the world than letting people see she was crying. She had enough pity from her own sisters. Pity or patronization: it was all the same, and none of it helped this awful bitterness that she could taste in her mouth. Like metal. It wasn’t exactly grief; grief tasted more like tears.
Draven was gone. She pushed herself off of the bench.
Six
Annabel was just growing a trifle impatient when she saw Lord Rosseter strolling back toward her. There he was.
She had dressed carefully, given that Rosseter had made a formal offer that very morning. As per her instructions, Rafe had accepted, and all that remained was for Rosseter to personally request her hand.
She was wearing a dress of straw-colored muslin, trimmed in silk tassels. It was demure yet flattering. Rosseter was dressed in a morning coat of pale brown stripes lined with yellow. His cravat was not too elaborate: just precisely right for a garden party. The rightness of it all, even down to the polished tips of his extremely expensive boots, warmed her soul. This was a man who would understand her desire to wear silk next to her skin at all times: understand it, and never question her. She would never have to count pennies again.
She gave him a lavish smile on the strength of it. He smiled faintly in return and turned to meet her chaperone. But Lady Griselda sent him off to bring her a glass of lemonade.
“I wanted a moment,” Griselda said, giving her a smile bright with conspiratorial pleasure. “I think the pavilion to the far right corner of the garden is the proper place. I strolled by earlier and there’s no entertainment planned for that pavilion, so you won’t be interrupted by a caterwauling singer abusing a lute. It’s covered in rose silk, which has a most flattering effect on the complexion—not that you need it, my dear. And finally, if you wish to allow him a small expression of his devotion, you are unlikely to be seen by more than twenty or thirty, and that should ensure that the news travels far faster than an announcement in the Times would do.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Annabel murmured. Now that the moment was at hand, she just wanted to move on. To be safely married, and never have to even think of worrying about money again.
“Remember, your married life begins now,” Griselda said. “Be kind but firm. Your every expression will inform Lord Rosseter what liberties he may or may not take. You must train him to understand your every glance. Do you understand, Annabel?”
“I think so,” Annabel said.
Rosseter had begun walking back toward them, trailed by a page carrying a tray with a glass of lemonade for Griselda.
“Now, look at that,” Griselda said. “You’ve made a good choice, dear. He acts decisively.”
“I suppose so,” Annabel said.
“It’s not every man with the providence to think ahead and avoid the possibility of staining his clothing,” Griselda told her. “And I like the fact that he’s a bit older than you are. It gives him a sense of depth.”
“How old do you think he is?” Annabel said, watching him drift toward them, raising a white hand in response to a remark tossed to him by a friend.
“Oh, at least—well, let’s see. I was married to Willoughby when I first met him, but he was by no means a newcomer to the season…I would guess forty-three or forty-four. Seasoned but not antique. Perfect!” she said brightly.
Twenty years older than she was…it was a bit more of a gap than Annabel had thought. Rosseter’s face was ageless, though, so perhaps it didn’t matter. After all, men didn’t age the way women did.
“No one’s ever caught him,” Griselda said. Rosseter had stopped and was exchanging greetings with one of the royal dukes, Clarence. “But you seem to have taken him effortlessly, my dear. A true triumph.”
“Thank you,” Annabel murmured. Rosseter seemed to be truly engaged in talking to His Royal Highness. He wasn’t even glancing her way in apology. Annabel felt a prickle of annoyance. He knew perfectly well that she was awaiting his proposal. Was it too much to ask that he actually do that particular deed, rather than chatter nonsense with a fat overgrown lummox of an English prince?
As she watched, Rosseter turned to the boy following him and murmured something, and the boy started hurrying toward them with the lemonade.
Annabel turned to Griselda, but Griselda spoke before she even opened her mouth.
“I absolutely agree. Absolutely. Clarence is no reason to delay a proposal of marriage. Rosseter needs to be taught a lesson.”
Annabel knew precisely the man to do it. She had just happened to notice that the Scottish earl had shown up again and was standing off to her right, watching an exhibition of tumbling.
“Perhaps you should—” Lady Griselda began, but Annabel ignored her. She didn’t need to leave her chair. Instead she looked directly at Ardmore, allowing a little smile to play around her mouth.
His rumpled dark red hair and sculpted shoulders made him look like a medieval knight. In fact, she wouldn’t mind seeing him pull back an arrow at the archery…
Not for Ardmore, the drifting, sophisticated walk of Rosseter. Ardmore walked through the crowd directly toward her, not even taking his eyes from hers.
“Do you remember what I said about him?” Griselda squeaked next to her. “That is not a man to toy with!”
Annabel wrenched her eyes away and smiled at her chaperone. “I’m not going to toy with him, Griselda. He’s a countryman, and I think he can be a friend. I’m simply going to ask him to accompany me to the archery stand.”
“Ah, archery.” Griselda watched Ardmore walking toward them. “I do like a man with a broad set of shoulders.”
Annabel noticed from the corner of her eye that Rosseter had seen who was approaching. Undoubtedly, he would now conclude his conversation with the duke. Without thinking about it, she rose and walked toward Ardmore. He truly was a complete opposite of her chosen husband. Every inch of him was Scots, from those sturdy, muscled legs to his strong chin and angled cheekbones. She had no problem imagining him as an ancient Pict, painted blue and wearing just a—
No. She snapped her imagination back where it belonged. The man walking toward her was a Scottish earl in exactly the same cast as her father. In fact, if it turned out that he had a set of racehorses into which he poure
d every penny in the house, the similarity would be complete.
His smile was all in his eyes. “I have been watching a demonstration of jousting. I begin to imagine myself in a suit of armor,” he said, those eyes glinting with laughter.
“And here I was imagining you a Pict,” she said, putting her hand on his arm and walking away from Rosseter as if he didn’t exist.
One eyebrow shot up. “One of my naked and bloodthirsty ancestors?”
“And mine,” she said sedately.
“In that case, why don’t we try our skill at the bow and arrow?” he asked, playing directly into her hands.
She glanced back over her shoulder and found Rosseter bowing unhurriedly before Griselda, doubtless apologizing for sending the lemonade by servant rather than his own hand. She turned slightly so that Rosseter could see her face and smiled up at Ardmore.
His eyebrow went up again. It was a good thing that she would never even consider marrying him, because that eyebrow could be really annoying in the long run. There was nothing about Rosseter that was irritating, thank goodness.
If Ardmore had any brains at all, he’d know precisely what she was doing and as her countryman, he should be supportive. Helpful, even.
Sure enough: “Do you want me to walk more slowly so that he can catch up?” Ardmore asked. There was laughter glinting in his voice. Apparently he had decided to be helpful.
“No,” she said tranquilly. “I think an exhibition of archery should do it.”
“I see what you mean,” he said. “Englishmen are distressingly slight in their frames, aren’t they? Weedy, almost. But you needn’t worry about your children,” he added. “After all, you have a Pict or two in your background. Most likely the boys won’t get too weedy.”
“My children will not be weedy! At any rate, women dislike being towered over, you know.”
“I’ve never noticed that,” he said, and she thought with annoyance of all those Scottish women who had built up his confidence to these unprecedented heights.
They stopped at the archery tent. A breeze flapped the silk roof, carrying with it a smell of April flowers. There was a pile of bows in the corner. The attendant took one look at Ardmore and handed him one that appeared to have been made out of half a sapling.
Ardmore squinted at the targets, posts with circles painted on them. They were adorned with silk flags, the better to look antique, one had to suppose, and positioned at farther and farther distances.
Then he stripped off his jacket. He was wearing a shirt of thin linen. Annabel had to admit that it wasn’t threadworn and actually appeared to be quite lovely material; perhaps it was woven on his estate. He stretched the bow back experimentally. Great muscles rippled on his back, clearly visible through the clinging linen. He turned to the attendant, taking a handful of arrows. He handed all but one to her and gave her a lazy smile. “In case you haven’t noticed, your chosen one is approaching. He seems to have found himself an escort.”
Annabel looked about. “Oh, that’s my chaperone, Lady Griselda. You met her last night when we were first introduced.”
“I told you I can’t remember anyone’s name.” Then he blinked. “Did you say Lady Griselda?”
She nodded.
He turned. Griselda was chattering with Rosseter, and looking far too pretty and young to be a widow. In fact, if Annabel hadn’t loved her so much, she would have been jealous of her perfect ringlets and lush figure. She looked precisely like what she was: a merry, gossiploving, adorable lady. A perfect—
Annabel glanced up at the medieval knight next to her, who was all but standing with his mouth open.
“The Earl of Mayne’s sister?” he asked.
Griselda and Rosseter moved into a patch of sunlight. Her hair gleamed like the proverbial gold.
“Do you know Mayne?” she asked.
“I met him last night,” Ardmore muttered. He turned about and drew the bow back again, but without fitting an arrow.
At that moment, Griselda walked up to them with a twinkling smile. Rosseter bowed with all the tempered nonchalance of an irritated Englishman. Ardmore seemed to be in an excellent mood. He flexed the bow again; Annabel was quite certain now that he was only doing so to show off his muscles, and not for her benefit either.
If Griselda stretched her blue eyes any wider, they’d likely fall out of her head.
“Shall we have a friendly match?” Ardmore said to Rosseter.
“I have no interest in sports,” Rosseter said evenly. Characteristically, there was no disdain in his tone or anything that a man might take insult from.
“In that case, how about a match between countrymen?” Ardmore said to Annabel.
Griselda laughed. Rosseter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He said nothing, but she felt his disapproval.
“All right,” Annabel said. She turned to the attendant and gave him a melting smile. The boy scrabbled about and handed her a bow. It was ash, with a pretty curve, but good for nothing. Annabel took a closer look at the bows. “I’ll try that yew,” she said.
It had a sweet curve. She pulled back the string experimentally. Luckily, the small sleeves of her dress didn’t impede her arms in any way.
Ardmore was grinning now, obviously as aware of Rosseter’s disapproval as she was. And Griselda was laughing. Then Ardmore drew back his great bow again, muscles flexing through his shirt.
Annabel looked away and met Rosseter’s eyes. She read approval in his face: Rosseter thought she was avoiding a display of gross masculinity by looking to him rather than Ardmore.
She picked up her bow and Rosseter put a gloved hand on hers. “You needn’t do this,” he said.
“I enjoy archery,” she said noncommittally, turning so that his hand slid away. The boy handed her a clutch of arrows.
Rosseter lowered his voice. “There’s no need to put the Scot in his place. Leave him to his grotesque posturing; Lady Griselda seems to enjoy it.”
She glanced over and, sure enough, Griselda’s dimples were in full play. She was handing him arrows and Ardmore was plunking them into the target, one after another.
“Kind of her,” Rosseter remarked. “I’m sure they won’t even notice if we go for a stroll.” He put his hand on her bow this time.
“That would be impolite,” she said, matching his expressionless tone perfectly.
“Ah,” he said.
She took that as assent, not that she need it. Ardmore turned around and said, “Now, then, Miss Essex, what’s our challenge?”
She walked over to him, eying the targets. “Three arrows each. You’re for that far one, and I’ll take the one with the red flag, in the middle.”
“Go for the blue one; it’s closer,” he said generously.
Annabel glanced up and saw that he thought to win. A smile touched her lips. “The center of the target, of course, is that black dot,” she told him.
“I’m aware of that.”
“Good,” she said sweetly. “I just wanted to make sure, given that you seemed to have some trouble hitting it during your practice run.”
A slow grin spread over his face. “But there must be a forfeit if this is to be a proper competition, Miss Essex.”
Rosseter intervened. “Of course there will be no forfeit. That would give it the coarse air of a public exhibition.”
“But you see,” Ardmore said, “we Scots are quite coarse.”
Annabel frowned at him. Rosseter clearly wasn’t entranced with her nationality, and she didn’t wish to remind him of it.
“The forfeit is a request,” Ardmore said. “A favor that can be demanded at any time and must be paid without question.”
“Miss Annabel has no need whatsoever to ask you for a favor,” Rosseter said, and now she could hear a thin disdain behind his well-bred tones.
“One never knows,” Ardmore said, selecting an arrow. “She has already made several requests of me, and of course I am always glad to help a countrywoman.”
Ann
abel fitted her own bow. Griselda was giggling and helping Ardmore draw on the archer’s glove handed to him. Naturally Rosseter just stood to the side as she drew on her own glove.
Suddenly there was a spray of those high, arching trumpets that Lady Mitford liked so much. “A contest!” shouted the trumpeter. “An archery contest commences at once!”
Rosseter’s thin nostrils flared as he stepped back. Annabel realized that he was really angry now. In fact, if she didn’t back out of the contest, he might simply stroll away in his elegant striped morning coat and dismiss the idea of marrying her. That was likely how he had remained single all these years.
In a moment they had an audience, a circle of women in fluttering dresses of white and pink, a sprinkling of gentlemen with admiring eyes. Ardmore drew back his bow and let it fly. Annabel suddenly realized that drawing back her bow would make her breasts push forward in an unseemly manner. She glanced at Rosseter. He was still there, waiting for her to make a decision. Didn’t it bode well for their marriage that the two of them had no need to exchange a word to know precisely what the other was thinking?
She moved forward to take her shot.
“It appears you didn’t quite hit the target,” she said to the Scot, allowing just a trace of regret to deepen her voice.
He squinted at it. “It looks good to me.”
“Hmmm.” She drew back her bow and paused for a moment, looking for that black spot in the center of her target. Then she let fly and the arrow flew like a bird to its nest. She smiled and glanced up at her opponent. He wasn’t looking at her target, but at her, and he looked a bit distracted. She glanced down. She had felt her gown strain over her chest when she drew back; after all, such light muslin wasn’t designed for sport.
Rosseter was still there, his mouth thin with distaste. Apparently he had decided to give her a second chance.
The attendant hurried over to the targets, his yellow tights flashing in the sun. He stooped next to her target and then rose. “Miss Essex wins!” he cried.