by Anne Barton
The countess fanned herself and her daughter turned four shades of red.
The earl coughed, rattling phlegm in his throat. “Margaret is seventeen—of an age with your sisters, I presume.”
Olivia bobbed her head. “I am nineteen, and Rose is seventeen.”
Winthrope brushed idly at the sparse strands covering his head. “Rose. A demure name for a demure young lady. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you have your mother’s eyes.”
Rose’s hand trembled on Owen’s arm. He leveled a glare at the earl that was half-question, half-warning. The gentleman should have known better than to mention their mother, even in the most innocuous manner, and yet, Owen couldn’t detect the slightest hint of malice. Mystifying, but he’d make sure she was never left alone with Winthrope—or anyone. Being so painfully shy put her at a distinct disadvantage, in even the most nonthreatening social situations.
When the butler finally entered, announcing that dinner was served, Owen was relieved to escort his sisters into the dining room. A minute later Averill entered, Belle on his arm. She listened intently as he waxed on about some bloody fossil; Owen endeavored not to snap the stem of his wineglass in his fist.
While Averill got to sit beside Anabelle, he was sandwiched between Lady Danshire and Lady Harsby. Although neither had daughters of a marriageable age, it seemed they had many friends and close relatives who did.
They prattled on, finding no shortage of topics, in spite of the five-course meal. All he could think about, though, was holding and kissing Anabelle last night. The hours in her cozy room at the inn were worth the conk on the head, the lack of sleep, and the miniature bed. He hadn’t felt that happy in a long, long time.
He needed to find a way to be alone with her again. Soon.
Anabelle had fretted over the seating arrangements at dinner. Rose would be most comfortable sitting between her and Olivia, but protocol had to be followed, and since Anabelle was at the bottom of the pecking order, she should have been seated farthest away from the head of the table.
Fortunately, Mr. Averill was near the bottom of the pecking order as well, and he did a little shuffling, which resulted in Miss Starling sitting closer to Owen and Anabelle remaining beside Rose.
Never had Anabelle experienced a dinner such as this. Eating was something she did out of necessity, to nourish her body. This meal, on the other hand, was an event in and of itself, involving a dizzying number of dishes and a parade of servants—three did nothing more than attend to half-empty wineglasses. Although Mama had taught her all the social norms and manners, they were dreadfully complicated, and Anabelle could barely recall which utensil was used for each course.
She received curious looks from several of the other guests. Mr. Averill asked probing questions which she deftly dodged; Miss Starling glared at her like she’d spilled soup on her bodice. Owen stared at her as though he wanted to kiss her.
She’d have to speak to him about that.
After being invisible for so long, the scrutiny of the strangers around the table made her want to hide under it. Although she managed to remain in her seat, she ate very little. And imbibed more wine than she ought to have.
By dessert, the dining room was thick with the smells of rich foods and overly warm from the multitude of candles and guests. Upon noticing her napkin had slipped off her lap, she leaned down to pick it up. When she righted herself, however, bright spots danced in the corners of her vision. The room tilted like a rowboat broadsided by a wave.
She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself and blinked, vaguely aware of Rose gesturing to Olivia. Her brows furrowed in concern. “Are you in need of fresh air, Anabelle? Rose and I could walk in the gardens with you.”
What kind of companion required assistance from her charges? She inhaled deeply. “I, ah…”
Mr. Averill stood and gently pulled on her elbow. “Lady Olivia and Lady Rose, please stay and finish your cakes. I’ll escort Miss Honeycote to the terrace.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself.” She reached for her water glass and almost knocked it over; Mr. Averill caught it before handing it to her as though she were a child. It seemed other conversations at the table ceased and everyone watched to see if she would fall face-first into the pears on her plate.
Owen stood and walked around the table to stand behind her. “Sit, Averill. I’ll take care of this.”
Anabelle bristled at being referred to as “this”—like she was a rather embarrassing mess to be swept under the rug and covered with a potted palm. However, she couldn’t afford to be thin-skinned—she needed to escape the dining room. Quickly.
With an amused smile, Averill sat.
Owen helped her up and guided her toward the drawing room. As he whisked her past the guests, he said, “Excuse us.” It was less entreaty than order. “Keep breathing,” he whispered to her, his palm firm and steadying on the small of her back. When at last they reached the terrace, cool air whirled around her face, neck, and chest. The peaceful, low humming of insects soothed her frayed nerves.
She braced her arms on the wrought-iron fence that bordered the flagstone terrace leading to the gardens. The ground beneath her feet seemed blessedly still. “That’s much better.”
“You should sit.” Owen pointed to a stone bench.
“Would you mind if we walked, instead? I feel as though I’ve been sitting all day. A stroll would help clear my head.”
“As you wish.” The cut of his jacket showed the breadth of his shoulders, and the stark black made his eyes look greener. Riding for the better part of two days had burnished his skin gold, and he could have passed for a dashing pirate—if his clothes hadn’t clearly been the handiwork of Weston.
She took the arm he offered, and they wandered down the pebbled path, the bushes flanking them so tall they resembled leafy walls. The canopy of stars and a half moon—so much brighter here than in Town—cast a benevolent glow over everything.
“Are you feeling better?” Concern etched his face.
“Just embarrassed. I’m sorry for causing a scene.”
He smiled and shrugged. “It added excitement to an otherwise boring affair.”
Her heart leapt at his admission. During dinner, Miss Starling appeared captivated by every word he uttered. If Owen hadn’t found the conversation nearly as titillating, Anabelle was secretly pleased.
“I don’t like leaving Rose to fend for herself,” she said.
“Olivia and Averill are with her. You are officially off-duty.” He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers, making her stomach flip. Before she lost her head completely, she needed to talk to him about Rose.
“Have you noticed Rose is very much at unease around Lord Winthrope?”
His dark brows drew together. “She became agitated when she found out he was here. Why would she be nervous around him? He’s no paragon of virtue, but Rose hardly knows him.”
Anabelle suppressed a shiver. The earl was probably responsible for the drastic change in Rose’s personality over two years ago. Being in such close proximity could only bring painful memories to the forefront of her mind. Whatever healing had begun might be undone. How she wished she could tell Owen what she knew. It would explain so much to him… the change in Rose’s nature, his mother’s desertion, his father’s suicide.
But she couldn’t.
The earl had paid her to keep his secret. Honor prevented her from revealing the truth.
Beneath a vine-covered trellis, Owen tugged her toward him. “Do you know how delectable you look tonight?”
Anabelle swallowed. Although she lacked Miss Starling’s stunning silk gown and precious jewels and perfect eyesight, she had Owen all to herself. For now. “Thank you.”
“I want to spend more time with you, Belle.”
She resisted the urge to fall into his arms. “What does that mean? Precisely?”
He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the back, his warm, moist breath melting away her reservations. “I c
are about you. I don’t want you flirting with Averill. Or anyone else.”
“I wasn’t flirting with Mr.—”
“I know.” He leaned in, kissed her neck. “I want more of this—of you.”
As he traced the shell of her ear with his tongue and squeezed the curve of her bottom, her eyes fluttered shut. He skimmed his hands over her dress and down her arms, as though desperate to claim every inch of her. Desire, hot and potent, swept through her body, leaving her pleasantly woozy.
“Come with me,” he said. A plea and promise.
“Where?”
“I’ll take you somewhere we can be alone—with no chance of being discovered.”
Although she’d been about to capitulate, his last words sobered her. She took a small step back. “What if we are discovered?”
“I won’t let that happen,” he said, reaching for a tendril that hung from her nape.
She placed a palm flat on his chest and straightened her arm, putting more distance between them. “But what if it did?” It was suddenly very important that she knew the answer. He wanted to be with her, he didn’t want her to be with another man—that much she understood. But he wasn’t openly courting her. If they were discovered in a compromising situation, her reputation would be forever ruined. Unless he was willing to…
Frowning, he grasped her hands and pressed them between his. “I know what’s at stake for you. We’ll be very careful. No one will suspect we are seeing each other. Trust me.”
As she gazed into his beautiful eyes, it was easy to ignore the alarms sounding in her head. His mouth curled in a wicked smile, and he pressed his hips to hers, letting her feel his own desire. Moisture gathered between her legs, and she knew Owen could ease the need spiraling there. He could touch her until she writhed with longing, sweetly torment her until she exploded in hot white light. Even better, he could make her believe she was the only woman he’d ever care about.
“I can’t be with you.” She knew it with the same certainty that her worn half boots didn’t suit a frothy ball gown. It was an utter and final truth.
“What? Why not?”
Because I love you too much to settle for less than all of you. She choked on a sob, wishing she weren’t such a coward. “It’s hard to explain.”
He cupped her cheek with tenderness that made her knees go weak. “Try, my love.”
The endearment, so casually spoken, squeezed her chest. She couldn’t tell him the truth—that she wanted more from him than a series of clandestine trysts. She had her pride. Once she returned to her real life, it would be all she had.
Expecting anything more than a secret affair with Owen was foolish, but her silly heart didn’t seem to realize the hopelessness of it all. So she grasped at the obvious reasons, the ones that would make sense to him. “I can’t take the chance that someone will see us. I’d lose my job at the dress shop. I’d bring shame upon my mother and sister.”
He exhaled loudly and ran his hands through his hair. “There are risks to anything worthwhile. What we have, Belle”—his voice cracked as he spoke her name—“is rare. Like an eclipse of the sun, everything in our respective worlds aligned, bringing us together under that godforsaken bridge in Hyde Park. And now that we’re together, I don’t want to let you go.”
“It’s difficult for me, too,” she admitted. Her throat convulsed as though a noose had been placed around her neck. “But I’ve made up my mind. There’s too much at stake. My virtue, my livelihood, my family’s good name…” My heart.
He stared at her for several excruciating seconds while he seemed to wrestle with her decision, and Anabelle knew the exact, awful moment that he accepted it. His shoulders slumped, and the air between them grew heavy and sad. “It was selfish of me to ask you to risk so much. I’m sorry.” He gazed at the ground and crossed his arms. “I still want you, Anabelle. I always will. But out of respect for your wishes, I won’t press you or make advances again. I promise.”
She wanted to scream that she hadn’t meant what she said, that she’d take any small part of him that he was willing to give and be happy. “I think that’s for the best.”
“Well then,” he said grimly. Anabelle hated the sudden awkwardness between them. “We’d better return to the house. If I stay out here with you for another minute, I might break my promise on the same night I made it.”
Side by side, they walked toward the terrace, without touching. This was the right course of action. But in case they never spoke in private again, she had to let him know what he’d meant to her; she had to say good-bye.
At the wrought-iron railing, she stopped and faced him. The darkness softened his features and masked his usual intensity, making it easier to say the words. “Thank you for giving me a chance and trusting me to work with your sisters. Their friendship is more than I deserve. And thank you for seeing me as more than a seamstress.”
He gripped the railing and looked down at her with a sad smile. “Thank for you helping me understand my sisters and for making them happy. If you’d told me a month ago that Rose would willingly attend a house party, I’d never have believed it. And thank you for seeing me as more than a duke.”
Her nose stung as though she might cry. “You’re welcome.”
They stood in silence while Anabelle tried valiantly to compose herself. “We should go in.”
Owen nodded and they slowly crossed the terrace and entered the brightly lit drawing room. Anabelle walked toward Owen’s sisters.
“Oh, thank Heaven!” cried Olivia. “How are you, Anabelle?”
“Fine, thank you. Sorry I worried you.”
“Don’t be silly, my dear,” Lady Harsby clucked. “Swooning is a fact of life. I myself have fainted twice in the last fortnight.”
Miss Starling, who sidled up to Owen the moment he walked in, muttered under her breath, “Perhaps she should try a larger-sized corset.”
“How gallant of the duke to rescue you,” Lady Harsby said to Anabelle, but her tone hinted that she considered the task quite beneath him.
“Indeed,” she replied. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I’m glad I could be of assistance, Miss Honeycote.” He spoke so coolly no one would suspect that mere minutes ago he’d been nibbling on her ear. “If you ladies will excuse me, I believe I’ll join the gentlemen.”
“They’re in the billiards room,” Lady Harsby said. “I hope my husband isn’t playing too deep. It’s not his game, you know—but then, I’m not sure what is.” She burst into peals of laughter as Owen thanked her and quit the room.
Olivia yawned loudly and addressed Lady Harsby. “Forgive me, but Rose and I are exhausted after our wonderful meal. Would it be terribly rude if we retired early?”
“Of course not, dears.” Lady Harsby gave a brittle smile. “We’ll have a grand time tomorrow, won’t we, ladies?” The women responded with a halfhearted chorus of affirmative replies.
Grateful for an excuse to leave before charades commenced, Anabelle followed Olivia and Rose to their lovely suite. As soon as Anabelle closed the door behind them, Olivia asked her, “What happened at dinner? Are you sure you’re improved?”
Anabelle sank into an armchair, feeling wretched. “I was just overheated. Once I escaped the dining room, I was immediately set to rights.” She smiled to reassure them. “I didn’t realize you were so tired, Olivia. Shall I turn down your bed?”
“Heavens, no. I pleaded exhaustion so I could finish my book. I’m almost to the end. And I could tell Rose was eager for a little peace and solitude.”
Rose nodded vigorously.
Anabelle arched a brow at Olivia. “The gentlemen would have returned for charades. You didn’t wish to stay and converse with Mr. Averill?”
Olivia folded her hands and pressed them to her chest as though in rapture. “Of course I did. But Miss Starling told me that I should be coy and refrain from bumping into him at every turn—which gentlemen find annoying in the extreme.”
Odd; Miss Starli
ng didn’t seem to follow her own advice when it came to her pursuit of Owen.
“I’m fortunate to have her advising me,” Olivia continued. “When we spoke after dinner, I admitted I was fond of James, and she seemed surprised. She was under the impression that my affections were otherwise engaged.”
The hairs on the back of Anabelle’s neck stood up. The conversation had veered perilously close to the extortion note. Owen wouldn’t mention her extortion attempt to anyone, least of all Miss Starling. Would he? If she knew, Miss Starling would no doubt leap at the chance to inform Olivia and Rose of her wickedness, and they would be devastated. They’d detest Anabelle. And she wouldn’t blame them.
Her throat tightened. If her scheme was exposed she’d lose two cherished friends in one fell swoop.
“Why don’t I help you out of your gowns so that you can be comfortable while you read?”
“Excellent idea,” Olivia said, lifting her arm so Anabelle could undo the laces. “Did you hear all the compliments we received? Everyone adored our dresses. I wanted to give you credit but wasn’t sure how you’d feel about everyone knowing you created them. You’ve been elevated to companion now, after all.”
“I don’t wish to hide what I do or what I am. I’m a seamstress and a dressmaker. I’m also your companion and friend. Proud on all counts.”
Rose rushed toward Anabelle and hugged her tightly.
“It’s been an emotional day for all of us, hasn’t it?” Anabelle said, sniffling. “Let me finish with Olivia, and then I’ll help you get settled.”
A half hour later, Olivia and Rose were ensconced in one of the bedchambers. From the settee in the adjoining sitting room, Anabelle could hear Olivia reading aloud with all her usual verve. The girls invited her to join them, but Anabelle had much to do before she could sleep.
She needed to select and modify another of the duchess’s old gowns to wear tomorrow. After donning the pretty yellow dress today, she hated the thought of reverting to her dark, rougher ones.
More importantly, however, she needed to make headway on the six gowns she had left to finish for Olivia and Rose. Only then could she leave Owen’s household, pick up the pieces of her life, and move onward.