Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

  No, no, no. Mustn’t picture him naked.

  Helplessly, her eyes traced his ridiculous shoulders and his strong jaw and his heavy brows. Another groan. How embarrassing. That must be why she felt so … hot.

  “I shall plague you,” he said, his warm breath falling upon her forehead and nose. “Ballrooms. Music rooms. Assembly rooms.”

  “Everywhere.” She swallowed away the sudden breathlessness. Cleared her throat of its sudden rasp. “Yes, I got that bit.”

  “I shall hunt you down as you once did me. Wherever you are—”

  “There you shall be. Your point has been made, Robert. And yet, I still refuse to play matchmaker for you and some”—she struggled for a term to convey the appropriate degree of loathing—“woman.” The term was lacking, but her tone was right.

  Heavy brows drew down. “I cannot dance.”

  Because of her. The implication stung, as truth often did.

  “I recall many occasions when you required help, and I was there to provide it. Surely aiding me in this endeavor is the least you can do.”

  Any other endeavor, perhaps. Finding a competent valet. Acquiring a new townhouse. Stealing one of Lady Wallingham’s turbans. She would have done anything else. But not this. Never this.

  “Technically,” she replied, “the least I can do is nothing. Which, coincidentally, is what I intend.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then, the chase is on, it seems.”

  “Indeed. Do your worst, Mr. Conrad.”

  Slowly, the quirk of his lips spread into something she hadn’t seen in seven years. The sight of it caused an implosion inside her chest, like sunlight and tumbling water and the rustle of heart-shaped leaves.

  “Have a care what you invite, Lady Annabelle.” His smile deepened as brooding blue dropped to her lips. “I am not the boy you remember.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “In the matrimonial hunt, some ladies are prizes whilst others are decoys. An able hunter knows better than to pursue empty plumage. But he should remain wary. Decoys can become hunters, too.”

  —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock regarding concerns about the proper focus of a gentleman seeking a wife.

  *~*~*

  Dearest Robert,

  The vicar’s wife, Mrs. L., reported a happy tidbit from her sister’s daughter’s husband at dinner last evening. Is it true you are now taking daily rides? This is happy news, indeed.

  Much happier than the other tidbit Mrs. L. shared about her sister’s daughter’s husband’s preference for wearing his wife’s petticoats. One shudders to imagine a portly solicitor harboring such predilections. Though to be fair, Mrs. L. was quite sotted at the time, so perhaps she was simply rambling nonsense.

  I hope not. You always did adore riding.

  Ever yours,

  Annabelle

  —Letter to Robert Conrad dated February 3, 1812

  *~*~*

  “Are you aware that a man with a cane is staring at you?”

  Annabelle gaped at her silly friend in a pretense of daftness. “Why, no, Matilda! Did I forget to mention I’d gone blind prior to this evening’s entertainments?”

  Matilda Bentley fluttered her faint golden lashes in Robert’s direction. “That is your Nottinghamshire neighbor, is it not? Mr. Conrad? My, he is rather brutish.” The girl shivered and worked her silk fan until the careful curls along her forehead floated upward. “Those shoulders.”

  Downing the last of Mrs. Bentley’s appalling orgeat punch in a single swallow, Annabelle slammed her cup down on a nearby tray and exhaled her annoyance. Matilda took little notice, too bloody fascinated by Robert’s ridiculous shoulders.

  It was infuriating.

  Annabelle searched the Bentleys’ pale-green music room for Jane. She found her bespectacled sister in a corner wearing a look of trapped misery. On one side sat the ancient and deaf Lady Leech. On the other sat Mama, who appeared to be chiding Jane. If Annabelle had to guess, she’d wager their mother’s disapproval stemmed from Jane’s habit of bringing a novel to a husband-hunting party.

  Annabelle had told her sister to be more discreet, but Jane was obsessed with books, assuming Mama would ignore her as most gentlemen did. But after Mama’s failure with Lady Victoria, she’d become more focused than ever upon helping her daughters find spectacular matches—whether they wanted to be matched or not.

  In short, the Bentleys’ soiree was a bad time to be caught reading.

  The Bentleys were, in fact, known for their small-but-fashionable gatherings designed as prime matrimonial hunting grounds. Wealthy and ambitious, Mr. Bentley sought to purchase a place within the ton through marriage—first his own and secondly his daughter’s. Mrs. Bentley possessed all the intellect of her orgeat punch, but she was a Northfield cousin, which gave the family valuable connections. Their daughter, Matilda, had inherited her mother’s mental prowess and her father’s ambition. She had a keen eye for eligible men and was a reliable gossip, which made her popular. Or, rather, Matilda was a reliable conduit for gossip. She was as feather-brained as Lady Wallingham had claimed, so Annabelle never expected insightful analysis. But, if a rumor needed passing along, Matilda could be an unquestioning tool. Like a pipe or a wheelbarrow.

  Annabelle narrowed her eyes upon the slim, willowy blonde currently examining Robert’s overlong hair with unseemly intrigue.

  “He cannot dance, you know.”

  Matilda breathed a daft, syrupy sigh. “Dancing is not so important.”

  “It is two-thirds of the season’s activities.”

  “That leaves at least … oh, a quarter or so that is not dancing.”

  “He is also a dreadful bore. Conversation?” She snorted. “Only if you enjoy debating the merits of oxen over plow horses. Or enduring treatises about stable cleanliness. Equine disease is not a subject for delicate ears, I assure you.”

  “His father and brother are more slight. Elegant men, both, but much smaller. Do you suppose he wears padding beneath his coat?”

  “He rarely smiles. Almost never. A more dour, sour, disagreeable gentleman I’ve yet to meet.”

  “It seems impossible to achieve such thickness in one’s arms. Yet, they appear genuine. Extraordinary.”

  “You are related. He is part Northfield.”

  “From a different branch. My mother would be his fourth cousin once removed.”

  “Practically siblings.”

  Matilda giggled as if Annabelle had made a jest. “Silly. If I avoided every gentleman related to Northfields, I should never find a husband. Besides, he is Earl Conrad’s son.”

  “Second son. You’d do just as well to marry a chimney sweep. Better, in fact. Have I mentioned how disagreeable he is?”

  She grasped Annabelle’s forearm. “Oh! He is coming this way.” Her fan worked harder, tossing her yellow curls about like froth upon a wave. Or spittle from Lady Leech’s ancient, pruned lips. “You must introduce us.”

  No. What she must do was find a way to avoid him. But, for a man with a cane, he moved fast. By the time she decided she’d rather wedge herself on the settee between Lady Leech and the malodorous Sir Barnabus Malby, Robert had already crossed the room.

  “Lady Annabelle,” he murmured, inclining his dark head. “I thought you hated orgeat.”

  She glared up at him. How could brooding be so attractive? His coat did not even fit properly. While it was made of fine, black wool, the seams strained across those wide, wide shoulders.

  Matilda’s elbow dug into her side.

  Furthermore, when a lock of that almost-black hair fell across a heavy brow, it nearly met his eyelashes. Of course, nothing veiled the crackling resentment in those blue eyes. For a man in search of a wife, he seemed rather displeased.

  All the better, in her estimation.

  Matilda cleared her throat.

  Annabelle ignored her. “Everyone hates o
rgeat.”

  “Yet, you’ve had three cups,” he observed softly.

  “Counting, are you?”

  “Three cups of something you hate.”

  “Partaking of refreshments is what one does at a soiree, Mr. Conrad. Refreshments are at least a quarter of every London season.”

  His head lowered. “Particularly when delivered by a suitor, hmm?”

  She blinked. Suitor? What suitor?

  Matilda chose that moment to stop being ignored. “It was most gallant of Captain Standish,” she simpered, strategically resting her closed fan atop her pleated bodice. “He fetched us each two cups. My head is positively spinning.”

  Annabelle rolled her eyes. “There is no liquor in the punch, Matilda.”

  “Perhaps a man of your … impressive proportions might offer a steadying arm?”

  “A man of his proportions who requires use of a cane would be a poor bet for steadying.”

  Matilda extended her long, slender hand toward Robert. “I am Matilda Bentley.” She fluttered both her fan and her near-invisible lashes. “And you are Robert Conrad.”

  Robert grasped Matilda’s lengthy fingers. They both wore gloves and the contact was light, so Annabelle’s reaction should have been milder.

  Instead, it burned like boiling stew.

  She wanted those brooding blue eyes upon her. She wanted that large, strong hand holding hers. She wanted the man who belonged to her to cease touching, approaching, or otherwise seeking to wed other women.

  But, as she’d learned long ago, wanting and having were worlds apart.

  True to his word, for the past ten days, he’d followed Annabelle to event after event in search of a wife. The Bentley soiree was only the latest in a string of similar encounters: She arrived; he arrived. She ignored him; he approached her. He inquired about this lady or that; she explained why said lady was best avoided—scandalous forms of pox, breath like a chamber pot, a lurid taste for stable boys, a history of drowning ducklings. Eventually, he’d ceased asking about other ladies, but he had not ceased speaking with them.

  Drat and blast, it was aggravating.

  “Miss Bentley,” he uttered before releasing Matilda’s fingers. “A pleasure.”

  “Your grandfather is Lord Mortlock, if I am not mistaken.”

  “Indeed.”

  Matilda tittered. “How generous of him to cede Mortlock Manor to your father.” Her dainty nose wrinkled. “Far lovelier than some crumbling abbey. Lord Conrad hosted my mother and father at Mortlock Manor for dinner recently. Our country house is likewise in Buckinghamshire, quite nearby. Such a gracious gentleman, your father. So elegant.”

  As Robert’s expression cooled, Annabelle’s fists began to unclench. If Matilda wished to impress him with her knowledge of his family tree, she was headed in precisely the wrong direction. Robert hadn’t spoken to his father in ages, apart from dutiful correspondence at yearly intervals. They did not hate each other, but neither were they close. His grandfather—and the “crumbling abbey,” for that matter—was another story entirely.

  Matilda would have done better to poke Robert’s eye with her grotesquely long, willowy fingers.

  “When I spoke with your brother, Lord Tatterton, at the theater last month, he indicated he and Lady Tatterton are spending the season in Bath. How unfortunate you and he will have missed the chance to enjoy London together.”

  Now, Robert appeared bored. “Unfortunate. Yes.”

  “But I suppose Lord Tatterton’s health must come first.”

  “I suppose it must.”

  “London is much improved by such an elegant presence as Lord Tatterton. And Lady Tatterton, of course.”

  “Elegant. Quite.”

  Annabelle’s hands relaxed fully as she watched Robert’s gaze flatten with a hint of annoyance. By heaven, she could not have asked for a more perfect performance if she’d been wielding Matilda like a puppet. Stifling a grin of satisfaction, she casually rearranged her bronze Kashmiri shawl over her arms and folded her hands at her waist.

  Ordinarily, this would be the moment when she stepped in to rescue Matilda from her own obtuse nature. And she would have, were the willowy fribble attempting to impress any other man. But this was Robert.

  Robert was hers.

  “Are you fond of dancing, Mr. Conrad?” Matilda cooed.

  Robert did not bother glancing down at his cane before replying, “I’m afraid not, Miss Bentley.”

  Missing his dry tone, Matilda once again tittered. “Of course, a man of your vigorous nature must certainly enjoy exercise in some variety. I know! Riding. Perhaps we shall see one another at the park—”

  This time, Annabelle intervened. “Matilda, your mother is summoning you.”

  Matilda blinked, turning this way and that. “She is?”

  Gently, Annabelle spun her in the direction of the punch bowl. “You should assist her. Immediately. I sense she requires your elegant touch with the cup arrangement.”

  “Oh! Yes, she does rely upon my elegance.” The willowy fribble cooed her pleasure at meeting Robert before drifting toward her mother.

  Robert was silent for several heartbeats before commenting, “Miss Bentley is well informed about my family.”

  Annabelle raised a brow and casually resettled her shawl. “Her mother is a Northfield.”

  His frown cleared. “Ah. Northfields do value their connections.”

  She hummed her agreement and smoothed the gold silk of her skirt.

  His frown returned, this time more vexed than perplexed. “He is not watching if that is what concerns you.”

  For a moment, she felt as Matilda must feel most of the time—utterly at sea. “He?” She shook her head. “He who?”

  “Standish.”

  “Captain Standish?”

  “Yes,” he gritted. “Bloody Captain Standish.”

  “What would he be watching?”

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  “Why would he bring you punch?”

  Now, she was frowning. Somehow, she’d lost her ability to translate English into English. “He brought punch to Miss Bentley.”

  “And you.”

  “Only because I was standing next to Miss Bentley.”

  “You expect me to believe that.”

  She glanced around, wondering if, in fact, there was liquor in the orgeat. Perhaps she was in her cups. Or perhaps he was.

  “No, Robert,” she snapped. “You’ve made it quite clear I should not expect anything from you. Anything at all.”

  “He watched while you played earlier. Never took his eyes from you.”

  “I was playing the pianoforte. Everyone watched. That is the point of a musical performance. To be observed.”

  “You should discourage his attentions.”

  She squinted up at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes flashing. He’d moved close enough that his breath washed across her forehead. She wanted to brush aside that overlong lock of hair. She wanted to stroke his lips with her thumbs, brush his mouth with her own.

  Wanting and having. Worlds apart.

  “If I wish to marry, then discouraging a gentleman’s attentions would be counterproductive, wouldn’t you say?”

  “He is a coward. He wears that coat as though he earned it. He did not.”

  “One might say the same of half the officers who survived Bonaparte’s armies. Shall I avoid them, too?”

  “You should marry a man worthy of you.”

  All air halted inside her chest. When she managed to breathe again, her words emerged softly, but they might as well have blasted from her like a cannon. “Worthy? According to you, my worth is rather dismal.”

  His jaw flexed while fury sparked. “I never said any such—”

  “Did I misremember? Silly me. Perhaps the laudanum caused you to demand never to see my face again.” She tilted her head to a mocking angle. “Strange. I would swear laudanum’s
effects could not last longer than five years. Six at most. But surely not seven.”

  “Annabelle.” Her name growled in that familiar, warning way gripped her insides and twisted. It choked and squeezed. It nearly undid her.

  But she was no longer thirteen. She’d paid her price. Whatever her sins, she would not continue to stand for his punishment.

  “Leave me alone,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  She had little choice. If she remained there, gazing up into those fierce, beautiful eyes, she was going to lose herself. Do something mortifying like weep or collapse or beg.

  So, instead, she pivoted on her heel and marched through the nearest door. As it happened, the door led into a narrow passage, poorly lit with a single sconce. A footman carrying a tray full of cups shot her a startled glance as she rushed past him down the long stretch of parquet wood and assorted doors.

  “Annabelle.” There it was again. That growl.

  She glanced behind her. Ten feet back, a furious man with shoulders nearly as wide as the corridor bore down upon her. In the darkness, he was but a shadow. A looming, angry shadow.

  Her heart thrashed and bucked. Panic made her skin prickle in warning. She did not think, merely seized upon the next door she came to. It opened into a black space, tight and close. A closet, she thought.

  She slipped inside, holding the knob tightly with both hands. Seconds later, it twisted and yanked from her grip.

  “Do not bloody well run from me.” He reached for her.

  She shoved his arm away.

  He grunted, but rather than retreat, he advanced. Moved inside the tiny space. Closed the door behind him, forcing her back against the closet’s wall and trapping them both inside utter blackness.

  “Is that very clear, Annabelle?” The growl was low and throaty, now. Near enough to tickle her skin.

  She could not see him, but she felt him. Felt his arm brace on the wall beside her ear. Felt his breath wash against her cheek. Felt his heat and size surrounding her like a furnace.

  “Never run from me,” he rasped. “I will always catch you.”