by Anne Barton
“I’d love to visit Mama this afternoon,” she said timidly. “Just to see how she’s getting on without her medicine. But there’s no need to rearrange your schedule. I could ask Roger or another footm—”
“How is four o’clock?”
She blinked. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“I’ll see you then.” He gave a cursory bow and turned to leave. If he had to stay in that room alone with her for one more minute he might lock the door, strip off her nightgown, and show her there was much more between them than a simple business arrangement. She was more than his employee, and he was more than a deal to be fulfilled.
He just needed the chance to prove it to her.
Much later that evening, after most of the household had been in bed and dreaming for hours, Anabelle was back in the workroom. One of the sleeves on the dress she was making for Rose had turned out to be puffier than its partner, and she’d decided the only hope of correcting it was to remove the flawed sleeve entirely and start over. Normally, fixing her own mistakes put her in a surly mood.
But as she carefully snipped the threads along the shoulder seam she was unusually content.
She liked the coziness of the night—the inky sky hanging outside her window, the silence that had settled over the house like a warm blanket, and the solitude that gave her imagination free rein. Thoughts of Owen had occupied her all evening. She knew she was foolish to daydream about him, but she gave herself license. Dreaming was less dangerous than doing, and the day had been too magical to stick it in the back of a drawer like a pair of torn stockings and forget about it.
Owen had taken her home for a visit, as promised, and had been most gracious from start to finish. After they’d ridden across Town in his coach, he’d surprised her by escorting her upstairs. He sat patiently in the parlor while she chatted with Daphne in Mama’s room, waiting for her to wake. When she did, Anabelle brought Owen into the bedroom and introduced him. Mama kept saying that she must be having visions if there was an honest-to-goodness duke—and a handsome one at that—in her bedchamber. Owen laughed good-naturedly and presented Mama with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers. The smile on her face had melted Anabelle’s heart like a pat of butter on a hot plate.
There’d been no more kissing since that morning, but there had been moments of… giddiness. Mortifying as it was to admit—even to herself—Owen could make her belly turn a somersault without even saying a word. All it took was his heavy-lidded stare, his hand on the small of her back, or the ironic smile he shot at her when no one else was looking.
Despite her intent to keep their relationship on a purely business level, she couldn’t deny that it had evolved into something more complicated. She wouldn’t delude herself that he’d offer marriage—the very idea of a duke courting a seamstress was laughable. And yet, the unfairness of it all made her want to scream. Or hurl a porcelain vase at the wall. Why was she less worthy of Owen’s love than a gently bred lady? She might not be perfectly at ease in the company of titled lords and ladies, but she had good manners, which was more than she could say for Miss Starling.
Anabelle sniffled and swiped at her eyes. The anger and sadness gnawed at her insides like a rat chewing through a rope. She mustn’t let the hurt fester, turning her relationship with Owen into something rotten and putrid. She’d rather enjoy the tenuous truce they’d achieved—and the occasional kiss—for a bit longer.
She’d removed the offending sleeve and was preparing to reduce its puffiness when she heard something in the hallway outside the workroom. Footsteps.
Her breath hitched in her throat. Luckily, she was still dressed. After Owen’s unexpected visit this morning, she’d surmised that working in her nightgown was not prudent. Her plain, yellow gown was comfortable enough, and her usual cap kept wisps of hair from falling into her eyes as she worked. The only concession she’d made to the late, or actually, early hour was kicking off her slippers.
She put them on now. And pinched her cheeks for a little color.
She’d heard Owen was attending a ball tonight, but maybe he’d—
“Anabelle?” Olivia whispered through the crack of the slightly ajar nursery door. “Are you still working?”
She rushed to the door, tamping down her disappointment and eyeing the clock as she passed it. “I am,” she said, waving Olivia in. Rose tiptoed behind her; both girls were clad in their nightgowns. “What are you two doing up at this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Olivia said with an impish grin. “So I checked on Rose, and she was awake, too.” Rose rolled her eyes and Olivia quickly added, “Well, she was sleeping so lightly she may as well have been awake. We decided we’d sneak down to the kitchen and help ourselves to a snack. When we noticed your light, we made a detour. Let’s go, shall we?”
“What?” Anabelle glanced over her shoulder at the one-sleeved gown, a pitiful sight if ever she saw one. “Oh, no. I can’t. I’m in the middle of fixing a—”
Rose grasped Anabelle’s forearm and pulled her firmly behind as she began walking down the hall. For a quiet, subdued girl, Rose really was very strong. Anabelle stumbled a little as they rounded a dark corner, and Olivia giggled.
On the way down the stairs, Anabelle whispered, “Do you do this often?”
“More often than Owen knows.” Olivia led the way to the kitchen, and when they entered the dark room that still smelled of savory stewed vegetables Anabelle realized she was, indeed, hungry.
Rose lit a drip-covered candle in a rustic pewter holder and set in on the sturdy kitchen table. Copper pots gleamed above the range, a teapot dangled at a jaunty angle over the fireplace, and clean white aprons hung from nails beside the door. No grand paintings or silver-plated serving pieces in sight, thank goodness. Every item in the room was blessedly utilitarian. Anabelle approved.
She sat on a bench beside the table and watched as Olivia and Rose scoured the pantry and raided the shelves. They returned with appetizing bits of cheese, grapes and berries, and an assortment of dainty cakes left over from tea that afternoon, all arranged haphazardly on a large plate. Olivia set the food in the center of the table and poured generous amounts of wine into three glasses. “This should help us sleep,” she said, topping off the last glass.
The girls’ enthusiasm was infectious. The only thing that could have made the escapade more perfect was if Daphne had been there, too. She would love Olivia and Rose, and of course, the girls would love her—everyone did. Owen had found her delightful without falling the least bit under her spell. Anabelle sighed contentedly.
The sisters sat on the bench opposite her, but as she and Olivia reached for a morsel from the plate, Rose swatted their hands away and raised her wineglass.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Olivia said. “We need to make a toast. Anabelle, would you do the honors?”
She thought of the girls’ kind, sweet nature and all they’d had to endure. They’d been abandoned by their mother, left heartbroken by their father’s suicide, and unappreciated by the ton.
“Yes, I would.” Anabelle raised her glass. “To the ones who pulled our hair and braided it at night, the ones who borrowed our dresses and lent us theirs, the ones who read our diaries and kept our secrets. To sisters.”
“To sisters!” said Olivia, clinking her glass to Anabelle’s.
Rose tapped Olivia on the shoulder, pressed a hand to her chest, and pointed to Anabelle.
“Right,” said Olivia. “To sisters and sisters of the heart.”
Anabelle’s eyes stung, and, fearing she’d be reduced to a puddle of tears, she took a gulp of her wine and smiled brightly. “I’m famished. Shall we?”
“It’s every woman for herself,” announced Olivia. She popped an impressive wedge of cheese in her mouth.
Rose was slightly more timid but did not hesitate to go directly for the sweets. Anabelle followed suit, sampling tarts and little pies. Before long, they’d devoured everything on the platter. Only crumbs remained. Anabe
lle’s eyelids grew heavy, but she so enjoyed the girls’ company that she continued sipping her wine and chatting. When the conversation eventually turned to Owen, as she’d hoped it would, she endeavored not to appear overly interested.
But she hung on every word.
“He’s at the Milford ball this evening,” said Olivia. “Miss Starling mentioned it when I saw her at the musicale yesterday. She was kind enough to sit next to Rose and me. She must have had a dozen admirers trying to curry her favor. But she discouraged them all—politely of course. I wish I had a smidgen of her beauty and grace.”
Anabelle wanted to tell Olivia that Miss Starling was not really a friend and that she was using her and Rose to snare Owen, but she feared Olivia would be devastated to hear it. Instead, Anabelle latched on to Olivia’s other comment. “You are every bit as beautiful as Miss Starling. More so, if you ask me.”
Olivia erupted into peals of laughter, surely loud enough to awaken the servants. Rose put a finger to her lips to shush her sister.
Anabelle was insulted by Olivia’s skepticism. She’d always had an eye for beautiful things; it was part of what made her a talented designer of gowns. She could see the potential in fabrics, frippery, and people. “You don’t believe me?”
“Miss Starling is a diamond of the first water,” Olivia said. “I’m paste jewelry.”
Rose frowned and shook her head. At least she was on Anabelle’s side.
Her lips loosened by the wine, Anabelle said, “Miss Starling is the cumbersome train and feathers one must wear before the Queen at Court. You are the stunning silk gown made for whirling around the dance floor in a candlelit ballroom.”
Olivia actually blushed. “I liked the whirling part. I shall try to remember your kind description next time I’m tripping over my own feet. Now, what kind of dress is Rose?”
Anabelle thought for a moment. “Rose is a light, shimmery summer frock made for chasing butterflies in the meadow.”
Rose smiled and Olivia sighed happily. “Well, it seems Miss Starling is destined to become our sister-in-law,” Olivia said. “I, for one, couldn’t be more pleased.”
Anabelle’s heart thudded in her chest. “Why do you say that? I mean, the part about her being destined?”
Olivia leaned forward as though about to impart something salacious. “Just yesterday, Owen told me it was high time he did his duty and married. When I asked him if anyone had captured his fancy he gave me a dark, disgusted look and said he’d probably do as our father would have wanted and shackle himself to Miss Starling. Papa and Mr. Starling were quite chummy before… In any case, Owen said he supposed marrying Miss Starling would be the most expedient course.”
“How utterly romantic.” Anabelle tipped her wineglass back and swallowed the last drop.
Olivia giggled and then went silent. She and Rose were both focused on something behind Anabelle.
And then she knew.
“What’s romantic?” Owen’s deep, rich voice sent shivers down her spine.
She turned and saw him leaning casually against the doorjamb. His hair was mussed and his shirttail was showing on one side. Anabelle couldn’t recall him ever looking as handsome.
“Well?” he asked, scowling at her. Or perhaps he was scowling at her cap. Either way, Anabelle had no intention of answering his question.
Olivia, however, managed to find her tongue. “Ah, we were just having a girls’ chat. How was the ball?”
“Splendid.” He plopped himself down on the bench next to Anabelle and eyed her empty wineglass. “Why are you three sitting in the kitchen at this hour of the morning?” She detected the hint of a slur to his words.
“Probably the same thing you are,” Olivia said. “Shall I round you up a snack?”
He raised his brows and looked pointedly at the empty plate in the center of the table. “Is there anything left?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can find a stale crust of bread.” Olivia began to rise from the bench but Rose motioned for her to stay and headed to the pantry herself.
“So, tell me,” Olivia said gleefully, “which ladies did you dance with tonight?”
“If you’re so bloody curious, you should have come.”
“Owen!” Olivia shot a pointed look in Anabelle’s direction.
“Sorry,” he said. “If you’re so damned curious.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Forgive my brother,” she said to Anabelle, “I fear he’s foxed.”
He grunted but did not deny it. Perhaps that was why he seemed even more attractive than usual. Although he could not be called charming by any stretch, he was not as firmly in control as he normally was.
His sister prodded him some more. “If you tell me your dance partners I shall fetch you a glass of brandy.”
Anabelle did not think it wise to bribe him with more drink, but she had to admit she was oddly curious about his dance partners. She supposed it wasn’t unlike a starving person asking for a description of each course of a feast. It would be torture, but at least she’d know what she’d missed.
“Lady Portman, Miss Morley, and Miss Starling. There’s a decanter on the sideboard in my study.”
“How many times with each?” Olivia pressed.
“Once, once, and twice. Don’t be stingy with the stuff.”
Olivia flipped her thick brown braid over her shoulder and sighed as she rose from the table. “Behave yourself while I am gone.”
The moment she left, Owen reached under the table and squeezed Anabelle’s hand. In a gruff whisper he said, “I missed you.”
Her face grew hot. Although she longed to believe him, she sincerely doubted that he had spared her a thought while drinking champagne and spinning beautiful women around the ballroom dance floor. “You didn’t miss anything. It was not an especially exciting evening in the workroom.”
“No?” He leaned closer, warm breath tickling her ear. “It could have been exciting.”
She bit her bottom lip and tried to scoot farther away from him on the bench. His teasing was exquisite torture. “Not now.”
He would not let go of her hand. Instead, he traced little circles on her wrist. “When?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought about you all night. Give me a time.”
Anabelle craned her neck to see where Rose was. The pantry door was still ajar. “Later.”
“Fine. I’ll come to the workroom in an hour.”
She opened her mouth to tell him that under no circumstances should he venture anywhere near her end of the corridor, but at that very moment, Rose returned carrying Owen’s snack. Anabelle kicked Owen’s shin—hard—but not before Rose’s keen gaze flicked to their joined hands beneath the table. She gracefully set the plate on the table, sat, and smiled like a cat presented with a saucer of warm milk.
Anabelle sprang off of the bench. “This was delightful,” she said to Rose. “But I’m afraid I must turn in.” She swallowed and turned to Owen. How her fingers itched to slap the smirk off his face. “Good night…”—she couldn’t imagine how she’d choke out the words—“… Your Grace.”
Chapter Fourteen
Anabelle fled the kitchen, and in the hallway almost bumped into Olivia, returning with Owen’s brandy.
“Where are you going?” Olivia called.
“To bed. Thanks for a wonderful evening.” Anabelle was already halfway up the stairs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” When she reached her room, she locked her door, splashed her face with cool water, and took several deep breaths.
Owen wouldn’t risk coming to the workroom in the wee hours of the morning.
Would he?
Beyond tired, but doubtful she’d be able to sleep, she forced herself to change into her nightgown, brush out and braid her hair, and climb into bed. If he came to her door, she’d simply pretend to be asleep.
Half an hour later, she heard the girls shuffle upstairs and settle into their rooms. Another half hour passed. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all.
To make herself drowsy, she counted stitches in her head—the simple, boring kind that wound round and round. Her breathing slowed, the wine relaxed her muscles, and sleep beckoned.
The soft knock on her door nearly made her jump out of her skin.
“Belle.”
Foolishly, her heart leapt at the sound of his voice. He was in the workroom, thankfully, and not in the hallway where his sisters might hear him. Covering her head with a pillow, she reminded herself of the plan. Ignore the knocking. Feign sleep.
But the next sound was more of a thumping. “Anabelle, I know you’re not asleep.”
He could not possibly know that. She buried her head deeper and hummed softly to drown out his voice.
When the thumping turned to pounding, she bolted out of bed, dashed to the door, and hauled it open. “Are you trying to wake the entire household?”
“Just you.” His boyish grin melted the edges of her resolve. “It would take a thunderbolt from Zeus himself to wake my sisters, and the staff has retired for the night. I would never take foolish risks with your reputation.”
The soft sincerity of his tone warmed her.
“Now,” he said wickedly, “come out and play.”
She shook her head firmly. “I can’t.”
“Want me to come in?”
“No!” She closed the door all but a crack and spoke through it. “I have to work tomorrow, and seeing as how you’re a duke, you must have responsibilities as well. Go to bed.”