by Eloisa James
“Mmmm…tonight,” he said, and she shivered against him with the promise of it. “What does one fear if you don’t believe in the hereafter?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“It’s not that I don’t believe in heaven,” she told him (although she didn’t, not very much). “But I don’t worry about it.”
“What do you worry about?”
“Being poor again,” she admitted. “I would hate that.”
His arms tightened. “Hunger is a terrible thing.”
“We weren’t ever really hungry,” Annabel said. “There was always enough to eat; it was just the same food day after day. No, I’m afraid of the exhaustion of it. The strain of not being able to pay a bill when it comes due. The humiliation of trying to convince someone to wait for his justly earned payment. Of not having a single chemise without a hole in it.”
He said nothing.
“You’re rich, aren’t you?” she demanded fiercely.
He kissed her. “I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted you to like me for myself first. And you do, don’t you? At least, you like some of the things I do to you.”
He laughed at her blush, but she felt ashamed, to the very tips of her toes. She felt shabby and small.
“I estimate that we owe each other at least five extra kisses,” he said, smiling down at her. There wasn’t an ounce of condemnation in his eyes.
“Don’t you mind?” she asked him.
“Mind what?”
“Mind that I—I wanted to marry a rich man, and now I’m marrying you—”
“ ’Tis an example of God’s gifts, isn’t it? Money has never meant much to me; I grew up with lots of it, and without family, and I hadn’t the heart to attach myself to the coins. But for you this money was important, and perhaps that’s the reason I have it.”
She buried her head against his middle and thought about how simple his view of life was, and then, with a kindled fire, how easy it would be to love a person like him. Like Ewan. “But if you’re only afraid for your soul,” she asked suddenly, “does that mean you’re not afraid for your person?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when the robbers were in the hotel room, you looked furious, but you undressed without putting up a fight.”
“I was furious. And I was worried about you and your sister. But there wasn’t any real reason to start a fight. If I did so, they might shoot off one of those guns, and then someone would be hurt. Whereas if I just gave them what they wanted, they would leave without violence.”
“Even though they tried to humiliate you by making you take off your clothing?”
He grinned. “I got to see your eyes widen when you realized what you were looking at. That moment paid back any humiliation. Besides, Annabel, what if I had fought?”
“You were much bigger than either of them.”
“I could have taken one of their guns away,” he said. “And then what would I have done with it?”
“Threatened them?”
“Do I look like someone who would hold a gun to your head and threaten to kill you?”
“Why not?” she asked uncertainly. “Anyone can do that.”
“You have to mean it. I would never point a gun at a person because I would never mean to kill him.” He paused. “And there’s an answer to what would kill my immortal soul: killing a man, and all because I wouldn’t share my money with him. How many kisses is that?”
She had to laugh. Until he took her breath away with a kiss.
Eighteen
The Earl of Mayne put down a detailed account of a promising yearling being offered by the Grafton stud and sighed. His butler stood at the door of his study, his body stiff with annoyance. Rimple was a highly principled individual who had made it clear that he would countenance his employer’s debauchery only as long as proprieties were observed.
“Is she here?” Mayne asked, knowing the answer.
“A carriage with the Maitland coat of arms is drawn up at the front door,” Rimple said, his lips barely moving. “If you wish, I will ascertain whether Lady Maitland is within. Since she has not emerged herself, I would conjecture that her ladyship wishes you to join her in the vehicle.”
To Rimple’s mind, gentlemen paid visits to unmarried ladies, and not the other way around. The London ton agreed with him. Yet somehow Mayne couldn’t manage to convince Imogen of that fact: she had already visited him twice this week in the broad daylight, which gave the servants up and down St. James’s Street ample opportunity to gossip as well as delighting scandal rags in need of material to print.
Mayne rose. Life had been easier when he was bedding a number of ladies, rather than not sleeping with only one lady, Imogen. His previous consorts had precisely understood the power of reputation, the need for a guarded show of chaste behavior and the delicious piquancy of secrecy. Imogen was like some sort of puppy, rushing in wherever she wanted, and the hell with the consequences.
Rimple offered Mayne his greatcoat. “Perhaps her ladyship wishes you to join her for a brief drive in the park,” he said.
Mayne understood. If he himself entered the carriage, rather than allowing Imogen to enter his house, little scandal would result. He shrugged on his greatcoat, selected a hat from the three offered by a footman and walked into the morning sunshine. It was still rather startling to find himself up so early in the morning.
Until the previous year, he had rarely gone to sleep before five in the morning, spending his evenings dancing and his nights snug against the curves of a beautiful woman. Consequently he had dodged morning sunshine for years. Now he looked around and shrugged. He wasn’t going to fool himself that the sight of dew shining on the spiky leaves of daffodils at his front step was compensation for the pleasure of watching a woman’s eyes close in ecstasy.
The footman waiting at the door of Imogen’s carriage opened the door as he approached. Had he promised to go for a drive this morning? Surely not. It was only nine o’clock, and he generally maintained the delusion that he was still leading a fashionable life, even though these evenings he found himself sitting at home with a book more often than not.
He took off his hat and entered the carriage. But instead of a minx hell-bent on impropriety, an oddly respectable party met his gaze.
“Why, Grissie,” he said, bending to kiss his sister’s cheek. “And Miss Josephine.” He nodded to Imogen’s little sister, and finally to Imogen herself. “I regret to say that my engagement to drive with you this morning somehow slipped my mind.”
“We had no appointment,” Imogen said blithely.
“Then to what do I owe this pleasure?” Mayne asked. “I thought you were laid up with a cold, Grissie.” He sat down opposite his sister.
“I’m over the worst of it,” she said. To a brother’s eyes, Griselda still looked rather hagged. Of course, this was likely the first time she’d been awake at this hour since the season began.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence, given your malaise?” Mayne asked. The carriage jolted and started down the street without further ado. “May I ask where we are going?”
There was an odd moment of silence in the carriage.
Mayne raised an eyebrow and looked at his companions’ faces. Griselda had closed her eyes and was obviously pretending she didn’t hear the question. Therefore, despite her denial of responsibility, he inferred that she approved of the expedition.
Imogen favored him with a wicked grin. He was starting to see that mischievous look more and more as her grief for her husband receded. One had to assume that her true nature was emerging, a thought that would fill any sane man with trepidation.
“I’m not going to like your answer,” he stated.
“Myself,” Imogen said, “I like surprises. Why, when Annabel and Tess surprised me on my eighth birthday—”
“Imogen.”
She pouted at him, luscious, dark red lips as plump as raspberries. Moments like th
ese made him wonder whether something was physically the matter with him. He didn’t seem to feel a flicker of desire, and Imogen was eminently desirable.
The thought made him scowl. “Cut rope, if you please. Where are we bound?”
“Scotland,” she said brightly. “Isn’t that an adventure?”
“If you meant that by way of an invitation, I’m not accompanying you. The Ascot is nearly upon us. I’m far too busy, and far too uninterested. When are you planning to travel? And why?”
“Please accompany us?” Imogen begged, making her fine dark eyes tragic. Faced with that appeal, another man, Mayne thought dispassionately, would grovel at her feet. One moment Imogen looked like a naughty imp, and the next she was all woman, looking at him as if he were the only man in the world capable of saving her from the guillotine. Her eyes shone with tears, her mouth pouted and her breast heaved—
“Absolutely not,” he said. And then, out of pure curiosity, “Were you planning to take that little performance on the stage?”
“What performance?” she asked, looking like a cat who had never smelled cream.
“That one you gave me just now.”
Her grin was (if she but knew it) fifty times more entrancing than her practiced repertoire of seductive glances. “I hadn’t thought of the stage, but perhaps you’re right. I could become an actress!”
Mayne almost groaned. Wonderful. He’d given a woman bent on ruining herself yet another avenue to disgrace herself.
“But not yet,” Imogen said. “First we have to save Annabel.”
“Annabel? Is that why you’re talking of Scotland?”
“We are going to Scotland!” Griselda snapped, opening her eyes and giving him a pained look. “Do you think anything other than utter necessity would get me into a carriage on its way to Scotland? Anything?” Griselda suffered from a weak stomach and loathed lengthy carriage rides.
“If you’re asking whether I have forgotten how frequently you vomited on my feet when we were children, the answer is no,” Mayne said testily. He was starting to get a very nasty feeling. Why was Griselda wearing a traveling dress? Why was she up so early? And—most importantly—why had the carriage stopped for him?
“Imogen,” he said. “Where is this carriage headed? At this very moment?”
She met his eyes without a drop of shame. “Scotland,” she said. “Aberdeenshire, Scotland. To the holdings of the Earl of Ardmore.”
Mayne’s eyes narrowed. “You can let me out here,” he said, his voice as cold as polished steel.
“I shall not,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.
Mayne leaned forward so he could rap on the box, summoning the coachman.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Griselda moaned, her face already looking a bit green. “Just give him Rafe’s note, would you, Imogen?”
Without trusting himself to speak, Mayne took the note that Imogen extracted from her reticule and ripped it open.
Mayne,
Something extraordinary has happened; it appears I have a family member of whom I knew nothing. I can’t explain at the moment, but I must beg you to help me with a problem that has arisen with my guardianship of the Essexes. Felton has managed to solve the fiasco of Annabel’s scandal in a way that does not necessitate her marriage, but you must be in Scotland before she and Ardmore arrive, so as to head off that wedding. Unfortunately, Felton can’t make the trip, and I am tied up with legal affairs at the moment. If you could see your way clear to accompanying Griselda, Imogen, and Josie, I would be most grateful.
Rafe
“Who the hell has showed up in Rafe’s family?” Mayne asked, looking at his sister.
She moaned.
“We’re still in the center of London,” he pointed out. “You have no reason to pretend to a stomach malaise already.”
“I’m not pretending!” she said indignantly, her eyes flying open. “Merely the thought of two weeks in this carriage makes me feel ill.”
“Rafe’s family?” he asked, with all the impatience of any younger brother. Still, he didn’t neglect the prudent removal of his booted feet from his sister’s proximity.
“An unsavory fellow has claimed kinship,” she said, closing her eyes again. “Wrong side of the blanket, of course. I only caught a glimpse of the man, but he had a marked resemblance to Rafe.”
“I didn’t get to see him at all,” Imogen complained.
“This is a most improper subject, especially in Josie’s presence,” Griselda observed. “We should all forget his existence.”
“I’m enjoying it,” young Josephine observed. “Unfortunately, I didn’t see the man either.” Her eyes had a naughty sparkle; clearly she and Imogen were apples from the same family tree.
Imogen paid no heed to Griselda whatsoever. “The improper bit of it is that according to Rafe, he and his half-brother were born within a week of each other.”
“Be that as it may,” Mayne said, biting off his words, “why on earth did you abscond with me in such a fashion?” From the sound of the wheels he could tell that they had, indeed, left the cobbled streets of London and were heading toward the Great North Road.
“We need you,” Imogen said. “We must save Annabel from this marriage; we must.” There was no sign of humor in her eyes now: she was fierce with sisterly devotion.
“It’s too late to save her from anything,” Mayne said flatly. “I don’t care what solution Felton has come up with. Annabel has been traveling with the Scotsman for days. If that situation doesn’t warrant the loss of her reputation, I don’t know what would.”
Griselda opened her eyes. “Ah, but I’ve had a chill. I did send you a note telling you so, but I received no expression of sympathy, no flowers, no—”
“For God’s sake, Griselda,” Mayne said, exasperated, “you take a chill at the—” Suddenly he saw her point. “You’re going to say that you traveled with them.”
“Of course.”
“The truth will leak.”
“I doubt it. I have kept to the house for days. My nose was red.” She seemed to consider that adequate explanation. “And since we have Josie with us, the whole expedition takes on the flavor of a family trip to the country.”
“Well, of all the harebrained schemes—”
“We have Rafe’s fastest horses,” Imogen said, leaning forward and putting a hand on his knee. “What’s more, Rafe has horses housed all along the North Road, whereas Ardmore will presumably be employing job horses. This carriage is beautifully sprung. We can easily beat them, if we put up with a little discomfort and travel a longer day than might be expected.”
“Discomfort!” Mayne’s mind was reeling. His servants thought he’d gone for a ride in the park. He had no—
“I have no clothes!” he almost shouted.
Imogen patted his knee, precisely as if he were a small child who’d lost his favorite bobble. “Don’t worry. I told Rafe’s manservant to pack a valise for you.”
Rafe’s clothing? Was she mad? “Where is your maid?” he snapped at his sister.
“She follows us,” Griselda said. “Believe me, Garret, if I could think of another way to save Annabel from this marriage, I would have.”
“There’s nothing so terrible about the match,” Mayne objected.
“The poor girl cried before she left for Scotland. She cried,” Griselda said.
“Women always weep at weddings.”
“Annabel never cries,” Josie put in.
“I wept when Father told me I was to marry Willoughby,” Griselda said reflectively, not meeting her brother’s eyes.
“Willoughby was a fine fellow,” Mayne said. Then, when Griselda said nothing, “Wasn’t he?”
“Of course he was,” she said. “I can’t think why I brought up such a dismal subject as my short-lived marriage. Poor Willoughby.”
Mayne could hardly remember his brother-in-law’s face; after all, the fellow had fallen dead at the supper table only a year or so after marrying.
Overeating, or so his parents had said at the time. He’d always thought Willoughby was a jolly fellow. But perhaps Griselda would have preferred to marry someone else.
“You could have remarried anytime these ten years,” he said, staring at his sister.
“True enough.” She closed her eyes again. “I can’t think why I haven’t bothered to do so.”
“Sarcasm has never been your forte, Griselda,” Mayne observed.
“Annabel cried on hearing that she had to marry Ardmore,” Imogen said pointedly. “And she only stopped once we came up with a scheme for her to return to us in six months. That marriage is doomed before it has even begun. Saving her from such a fate is worth some small disruption in our schedules and a little discomfort!”
“Why would you talk of a little discomfort, when apparently you think I am comfortable wearing Rafe’s clothing? You could have sent me a message last night. My manservant might then be in the carriage with your maid.”
“You wouldn’t have come with us,” Imogen said.
“Yes, I would have!” he retorted.
“No. You would never bestir yourself for something that concerns you so little,” Imogen flatly contradicted him.
Mayne ground his teeth.
“Unfortunately, I agree with Imogen on that point,” Griselda said. “We’re a selfish pair, the two of us. I myself would manifestly prefer not to be traveling into the wilds of Scotland.”
“But here you are,” Mayne pointed out. “With your maid. Whereas apparently I am expected to make the trip without my servant or even a change of clothing.”
“It will do you good, Garret,” she said, staring at him with all the arrogance of an elder sister. “You’ve grown too attached to your attire. You don’t want to turn into a man milliner, and all out of boredom.”
He felt such a surge of rage that there was no speaking about it. So he lapsed into his corner and closed his eyes. Maybe he’d just sleep all the way to Scotland.
Nineteen
For the next few days, Annabel and Ewan kept resolutely to ten kisses per day and no questions. Every once in a while one of them would start to ask a question and stop. And sometimes the other would answer, just for the pleasure of it and although it was not a kissing question.