by Anne Barton
“Have you forgotten the circumstances under which we met? And the rather scandalous things we did afterward?”
His blood heated at the mention of their passionate encounters. He looked directly into her eyes. “I haven’t forgotten.”
She blushed. “And you’re not worried I’ll corrupt your sisters?”
“Maybe I should be,” he teased, “but no.”
“How would it look if I accompanied you to the house party?”
“It would look like my sisters had a companion who was far younger and prettier than most.”
Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. Clearly exasperated, she stood and paced in front of the bench. “People are bound to ask questions about who I am. What would you have me say?”
“The truth.”
She threw up her hands, agitated and yet utterly beautiful. “That I’m a servant with whom you’ve taken many liberties and have recently promoted to companion?”
“You forgot to mention that you were also an extortionist.”
“This will never work, Owen.”
Encouraged by her use of his name, he stood and took her hands in his. His body instantly responded to the feel of her skin, and he had to think hard about what he wanted to say. “Your mother is recovering nicely. She and your sister will be fine for a few weeks. Getting away from Town would be good for you.”
“I need to finish making the dresses.”
Of course she wanted to be done with them. With him. “How many do you have left?”
“Six.”
It wasn’t much time, but maybe the house party would delay her departure. With a casualness he didn’t feel, he shrugged. “Make them when we return.”
“I can’t. The last two are the gowns for Rose’s debut ball. It’s less than a month away.”
She was slipping away from him, and it was his fault. Avoiding her had been infinitely easier than admitting the depth of his feelings. He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed her hands. As though holding onto her were just that easy. “Is there anything I could say that would convince you to come?”
“Yes.” Her gray eyes searched his, and he knew what he had to do.
“Belle,” he said softly, “I want you to go with us. Not just because I’m trying to avoid Lady Harsby and her mother, or because you make my sisters happy, or because the country air would be good for you. I want you to go because if you didn’t… I’d miss you.”
He’d spoken the truth, but it didn’t make him feel any less foolish. He’d sounded like a lovesick boy.
Anabelle smiled, transforming her face. “I’ll go with you.” She was more beautiful than a dozen Miss Starlings, more captivating than a choir of sea sirens. Best of all, she challenged him to be a better man. Maybe he could find a way to fulfill the duties of his title and ensure the acceptance of his sisters without forfeiting a future with Belle. The odds weren’t in his favor, but he clung to hope like a cardplayer who’s wagered everything on a poorly dealt hand.
She pulled free and began walking to the house; he released the breath he’d been holding.
“But”—she whirled around to face him—“I’ll need to bring the material and supplies for the dresses. I’ll work on them there.”
“Fine,” he said. He could live with that.
He might be a fool, but he was a happier fool than he’d been in weeks.
Chapter Seventeen
Facing: (1) Fabric sewn on the raw edge of a garment piece. (2) The act of addressing a situation head-on, especially after one has been deftly avoiding it for far too long.
In the days leading up to Lord Harsby’s house party, Anabelle might as well have had a needle attached to her hand. She worked from dawn till after midnight; even as she slept, dresses swirled in her head like bodiless ghosts dancing the quadrille on an otherworldly dance floor. As a result, she was able to piece together all six of the remaining dresses. By no means were they done—they were little more than shells at this point, all in need of trimming, hemming, and adorning. But accomplishing those things at the house party would be fairly easy, especially during the hours everyone was resting or dressing for dinner.
The ball gowns, in particular, delighted her; the silk she’d chosen was exquisite. Rose’s gown was white, of course, but would be trimmed in a light green satin perfect for her fair complexion. Olivia’s gown was pale pink silk embellished in white satin. Individually, they would look lovely; together, they would be striking.
Before dawn on the day they were to leave, Anabelle carefully packed each of the gowns, along with all the lace, ribbon, swansdown, feathers, and crepe she could possibly need. The gowns and her sewing supplies occupied a large trunk, which Olivia had provided.
Her own things fit into the small shabby portmanteau that Daphne had sent from home, filled with almost all of the drab, serviceable clothing Anabelle owned. The contrast between the contents of the trunk and her bag was stark. And rather depressing.
Her dismal dresses would reflect not only on her, but on Rose and Olivia as well. Of course, companions were supposed to fade into the wallpaper, but it would never do for Anabelle to arrive at a fashionable house party wearing dresses that bordered on ragged.
Since she lacked the time and fabric to make herself new gowns, she resolved to spruce up the old ones. Rummaging through a pile of scraps from the girls’ wardrobes, she plucked out several items, which she shoved into her portmanteau. Her first order of business ought to have been replacing her old cap, but for reasons she couldn’t explain, she was reluctant to let it go. Just in case she changed her mind, however, she stuffed an old bonnet into her bag as well.
The packing complete, Anabelle sat on the edge of her bed. She hadn’t slept all night, and the sun was already beginning to rise. Lying down now was pointless; their party was leaving for Lord Harsby’s country estate in Norfolk directly after breakfast.
Owen had informed them that the journey would take two days. At the end of the first day they’d stop at an inn, spend the night, and arrive at Lord Harsby’s estate on the afternoon of the second day.
Anabelle had never been on such a long coach ride and had imagined it would be a grand adventure. After two hours of being jostled over pitted country roads and sweltering in a cramped coach, however, she couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to think such a thing.
She, Olivia, and Rose sat in the coach, alternately chatting, reading, and napping. Owen rode his horse alongside them. Anabelle had never learned to ride, and she envied him. Every now and then, she caught a glimpse of him astride his fierce-looking black gelding. Already his face had turned a deeper shade of tan, and the breeze ruffled his hair, lending an unexpected charm to his normally austere appearance. With his broad shoulders and commanding air, he looked impossibly handsome.
If she could have watched him to her heart’s content, time would have passed much more quickly.
However, she took care not to stare overmuch. Rose was ever watchful and astute, and must have had an inkling that Owen and Anabelle were romantically involved. Or had been.
Anabelle pulled down the window shade, cutting off her view of Owen. At Olivia’s quirked brow, Anabelle said, “I am just trying to keep the sun from roasting us.”
“Good thinking. Rose and I are so glad you agreed to come.”
Rose nodded vigorously.
“So am I,” Anabelle said, meaning it. However, the farther they got from London, the more nervous she grew. She hoped she’d comport herself properly in front of Lord and Lady Harsby and their guests. Although Mama and Papa had taught her the manners of a lady, she’d never been called upon to practice them among earls and countessess. “Do you know who else will be attending?”
“Mr. Averill, our brother’s solicitor and friend, will be there,” Olivia said with a shy smile. “I’m sure that’s the reason Owen accepted Lord Harsby’s invitation.”
“What’s Mr. Averill like?” Anabelle asked.
Olivia’s cheeks turned
pink. “He collects exotic things from foreign lands. He’s very worldly.”
Goodness, it seemed Olivia was rather smitten with him. “ ‘Worldly’ is often a euphemism for ‘aged,’ ” Anabelle teased. “Am I correct in assuming Mr. Averill is an elderly gentleman in possession of a dusty collection of ancient artifacts?”
“No,” Olivia countered, her feathers ruffled. “He’s younger than Owen and very fit. I heard my brother say that when it came to boxing he was no match for Mr. Averill.”
Slyly, Anabelle winked at Rose. “He’s a pugilist, then. Scores of boxing matches must have left him with a patchwork of scars and a misshapen nose.”
“Not at all!” Olivia cried. “His features are perfectly classic—like a statue of Adonis. He’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met.”
“Interesting,” said Anabelle, smiling.
Olivia covered her face with her hands. “How mortifying! Rose already knows I have a tendre for him. But you needn’t worry about my virtue. James thinks of me only as Owen’s little sister. The last time I saw him—September the twenty-fifth, a Friday—he actually told me to eat my vegetables.”
Anabelle raised her brows. “James, is it? And did he really?”
“Yes—I had rhubarb on my plate, and he told me that some ladies of his acquaintance swear it keeps their waists trim.” Olivia sighed wistfully. “I’ve known him since I was wearing pigtails. Which is probably why he thinks I’m still in the schoolroom.”
“Mr. Averill will not be able to ignore you any longer. And he most certainly will not think to lecture you on the merits of rhubarb. You are far too pretty, and in your new gowns you are undeniably a woman.”
Olivia’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade. “I hope he’ll see me that way.”
Anabelle exchanged a glance with Rose and made a note to determine Mr. Averill’s character for herself. Olivia could be so headstrong, and though Anabelle wanted her to be happy, she also needed to act the part of chaperone. “Who else is attending the house party?”
“I confess I wasn’t much interested in the guest list beyond James. But let me see… Lady Danshire, a marchioness who was widowed two years ago, shall be there along with her two sons. She’s eager for the eldest to marry, but the brothers, Lord Danshire and Sir Sandleigh, are more interested in pulling pranks. Rather juvenile stunts like stealing horses from each other and placing ants in one another’s boots. I find the gentlemen quite entertaining; Owen says they need to stop acting like they’re still at Eton.” Olivia’s face lit up. “Oh, I’d forgotten that you know Miss Starling and her mother. They shall be there also. Mrs. Starling is a very close acquaintance of Lord Harsby’s mother.”
Anabelle stretched her lips into a smile. “I wasn’t aware of the connection.”
“Fortuitous, is it not?” Olivia said. “Miss Starling says Owen could very well ask for her hand over the course of the party. Apparently, for the past several weeks, he’s been hinting that he intends to propose.”
The coach suddenly seemed much too small and dreadfully hot. Why would Owen ask Anabelle to go to the party if he intended to propose to Miss Starling? She tried to cling to her composure, but the news that Miss Starling would be among the guests, combined with the swaying of the coach, made her stomach roil. If she’d known that the debutante would be there, she never would have agreed to come. Of course, Owen’s future duchess would be someone like Miss Starling, but Anabelle didn’t want to be forced to observe their courtship.
Fortunately, Olivia seemed oblivious to Anabelle’s discomfort. She didn’t dare look at Rose, who was too perceptive by half.
It was too late to turn the coach around. Anabelle would have to endure a fortnight of torture. Perhaps it would be good for her; if she witnessed the entire spectacle of Owen and Miss Starling flirting and eventually falling into each other’s arms, she’d be cured of her affection for him once and for all.
Either that, or she’d be left utterly and irrevocably heartbroken.
“Anabelle?” Olivia looked at her, clearly puzzled.
She searched her brain for the thread of the conversation but couldn’t find it. “Forgive me. What were you saying?”
“I asked if you knew how to play the pianoforte. What were you thinking about?”
“That I really should attempt to look slightly more fashionable. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to you and Rose.” Her pride may have had something to do with it as well. She didn’t want Miss Starling to think she was some kind of charity project—even if she was.
Rose opened her mouth, aghast, and Olivia quickly said, “You would never be an embarrassment to us. You possess a timeless sort of beauty that needn’t bow to convention. More importantly, your kind nature will be evident to everyone.”
Anabelle swallowed the wave of guilt that rose up in her chest. She’d threatened to destroy Olivia’s reputation in exchange for a few gold coins and was hardly deserving of her high opinion. “You are very kind,” she said to Olivia. “However, most people cannot see past my drab appearance. I have no wish to look like a debutante or even a stylish lady, but I’d like to smarten myself up. Will you help me?”
Rose rubbed her palms together and Olivia grinned. “Oh yes. We’ll help. In fact, when we stop at the inn this evening, we have a little surprise for you.”
As the coach slowed and halted, Anabelle raised the shade and got her first glimpse of The Elephant and Castle. The inn was nestled in a bed of ivy that crawled up its stone walls, almost to the thatched roof where a trio of chimneys poked through. The surrounding gardens burst with colorful blooms, and the setting sun glinted off a lake in the distance with a charming effect. Eager as Anabelle was to escape the confines of the coach, however, even a shack would have looked inviting.
She watched as, outside, Owen deftly dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy. He tossed the lad a coin and strode through the inn’s front door.
“It will feel wonderful to stretch our legs,” Olivia said. She nudged her sister. “Wake up, Rose. We’re here.”
The three women gingerly unfolded their limbs, stepped out of the coach, and breathed in the crisp air, ripe with the smell of horses, grass, and a cooking fire. Olivia whispered to the footman, who looked at the luggage strapped to the back of the coach and nodded.
“Owen must be ordering dinner and securing rooms,” Olivia said. “Let’s wander around the garden for a bit.”
They strolled, watching as the inn bustled with servants, guests, and farmers who’d come to the taproom for an ale after a long day in the fields. After a few minutes, Owen joined them near a bed of sprawling rosebushes, his blatant masculinity a sharp contrast to the pink petals and lush greenery. His gaze lingered on each of his sisters and then Anabelle, in turn. Apparently satisfied they were none the worse for wear, he said, “We’ll have dinner in a private room at eight o’clock. That gives you almost an hour to get settled in your rooms.”
“Rooms?” said Olivia. “I assumed the three of us would be sharing.”
Owen shook his head. “There were no large rooms left. I purchased one room for you and Rose and another for Miss Honeycote.”
Anabelle slid her spectacles up her nose. “That’s not necessary. I can sleep on the floor in their room.”
A sour, yet incredulous, expression crossed Owen’s face. “You would rather sleep on the floor than in a bed?”
“I’m no princess. I can survive a night on the floor.” Although, after spending all day in the coach, a bed sounded heavenly.
He grunted. “I’ve paid for two rooms in addition to mine. If you choose to use only one, it makes no difference to me.”
Olivia linked her arm through Anabelle’s and said, “We will sort it all out once we inspect the rooms. Shall we, ladies? I’d like to freshen up before dinner.”
Owen escorted them through the tiny front room of the inn and up the narrow stairway. The first room had a large bed and a window overlooking a small courtyard. It smelled a bit mus
ty, but the linens were clean and the small bedside table was free of dust. Rose and Olivia’s bags had been placed against the wall; Anabelle carried her own portmanteau.
Olivia walked to the window and lifted the sash. “This will do nicely.”
Owen shrugged. “The room next door is yours as well.” He took Anabelle’s hand and dropped a key in her open palm. “I am at the end of the hall on the left if you need me. Otherwise, I shall return at eight to escort you all to dinner.”
Rose smiled sweetly at him as he walked out and shut the door behind him.
“I thought he’d never leave,” Olivia said, reaching for one of her bags. She and Rose perched on the edge of the bed, the large bag between them.
“What’s going on?” Anabelle asked with some alarm. “Please tell me you don’t have an animal in there.”
Rose shook her head and turned to Olivia, who spoke. “Rose and I think you’re lovely just as you are. But we’ve noticed you do more for others than you do for yourself.”
Anabelle opened her mouth to protest—Heaven knew she was no saint—but Olivia held up a hand.
“You work very hard, and that leaves precious little time to sew for yourself. That’s why we thought you might take these gowns. They’re not nearly as wonderful as your creations, but they’re made of fine material, and you could modify them to suit you.”
Olivia lifted a pale sea-green gown out of the bag and held it up by the petite puffed sleeves. The waist was lower than was currently fashionable, but the workmanship was exquisite and the fabric shimmered in the waning light. The shade of blue-green made Anabelle’s heart beat faster.
“I couldn’t,” Anabelle said. Even if she could bring herself to accept such an extravagant gift, when would she wear it? As she traipsed down the dirty London sidewalks to work at the dress shop?
“Why not? Of course, they may not be to your taste. Rose and I picked out several we thought would suit you. They’re not the current fashion, but you could work wonders with them. We’ve wanted to offer them to you for some time but feared you’d be insulted. When you told us in the coach this morning that you wished to dress more fashionably, we were ecstatic.” She pulled another gown—this one in a deep rose silk—from the bag and held it beneath Anabelle’s chin. “I was right, Rose. This color is perfect with her complexion.”