by Elisa Braden
It did not care to be removed. It yowled and writhed. He tore it free, trying not to crush the thing, and brought it around where he could see it.
The kitten was gray. Its long fur stood on end. Its blue eyes were panicked and outraged. Its claws gouged spasmodically at his glove.
He held the terrified creature out toward Annabelle, who had leapt to her feet the moment it pounced and now stood wringing her hands a few feet away.
“The answer to my question, I presume,” he said.
“Katie discovered them inside a broken old cart left abandoned in the mews.”
“Them?”
“She knows Mama is fond of cats, so she gathered them up and brought them all inside. Her intentions were good.”
“All?”
“We’ve managed to find three so far. This one”—she leaned forward to examine the hissing, clawing, belly-side-up thing in his hand—“is number four.”
“Cats make your father sneeze.”
She sighed and nodded. “Uncontrollably, yes. It’s been ten years since Mama’s last attempt to bring a cat into the house. Katie is too young to remember the disaster that was Mr. Moonshine.”
Robert had been at Eton with John at the time, but he recalled Annabelle’s letters and sketches illustrating Mr. Moonshine’s savage path of destruction. He’d never laughed so hard in his life.
Annabelle had always made him laugh. Always.
Now, she waved Ned forward and asked him to take the kitten. The footman winced as Robert transferred the angry feline into his hands.
“How many more are there?” Robert asked.
“One. Goodness knows how we shall find him before Papa arrives home.”
Jane stood and offered a suggestion. “We must search each room and close the doors as soon as we finish.” She peered about the drawing room. “I think it’s safe to close this one. I shall rally the maids to search the remainder of the house.”
“Use a grid pattern,” he advised.
Jane did not meet his eyes, but she nodded as she passed him. Still a shy one, he noted.
“Estelle,” Annabelle said to the maid near the window. “Would you be so kind as to lend your assistance to Lady Jane?”
The maid appeared alarmed by the request. She glanced first at Robert then toward the closed door then back to Annabelle. “Are you certain you do not wish me to stay, my lady?”
“I am certain.”
With visible reluctance, the maid tucked her sewing into the basket at her feet and did as she was told.
As soon as they were alone, Annabelle sighed, her shoulders sagging. She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “If you are here to speak to Papa about our marriage, you may wish to wait until tomorrow. We will ensure the kittens are gone before he arrives, but the presence of their fur will cause him some misery. He is fond of you, but he will not be in the best of spirits until the draperies and furniture are properly cleaned.”
For long seconds, he allowed himself to look at her. She wore a simple blue gown with a darker blue sash. The neckline was rounded, giving him a glimpse of the pearlescent skin of her throat. Wisps of brown hair fell along her jaw and ears and nape.
God, he’d forgotten how delicate she was. His teacup. Small and fine.
And she was tired. He could see the tension in the lines of her neck, in the curve of her shoulders. Bloody hell, he wanted to take her in his arms again. He wanted her to tell him everything so he could tell her all would be well.
“We should have the wedding at Rivermore,” she said, crossing toward the chair where she’d left her sketchbook. She picked it up and began making notes. “This is for your grandfather’s benefit, after all. He will wish to attend.”
Grandfather. Right. She believed his demand had been about pleasing Grandfather. Because that was the lie he’d told her.
He started to answer. Intended to confess everything—how he’d lied seven years ago, wounding her in order to prevent her from following him down a hellish path. How he’d stayed in London to ensure she did not fall prey to that worthless, craven peacock Martin Standish. How he’d followed her from place to place because he needed to protect her. To be near her. To hear her laugh. To feel that strange, resonant connection again after seven years of deprivation.
And how he’d let lust and greed and hunger wear away his control. How he’d seen her pain, her defiance, her fury, and let everything ruthless inside him have its head. He’d seized what he should not have, using weapons he should never have used.
Because he was ravenous. Even now, standing in her family’s house, he was bloody ravenous.
But, before he could utter a word, she continued, “The chapel is lovely.” A smile curved her soft lips. “I always pictured …” A sigh. She fluttered her fingers and made another note. “In any event, I am unable to leave London for at least another month. So, we have time to plan. You may wish to write Mortlock and inform him—”
“Why a month?”
“Hmm?”
“What is keeping you here?”
“Oh, this and that.” Another flutter. More notes. She evaded his gaze. “A lady has obligations, you know.”
He closed half the distance between them. “What obligations?” he asked, keeping his voice soft. Was it Standish? Someone else? Or her dangerous hobby?
“My family, for one. We cannot simply cut short Jane’s season and return to the country.”
Gut churning, he moved closer. “You agreed to the marriage. I see little need for delays. We will leave next week.”
Finally, her eyes came up to flash over him. A single brow arched. “Write to Mortlock. Inform him we are to be wed in two months’ time.”
“Two? What happened to one?”
“You have vexed me.”
He fisted his cane and inched closer.
Her chin tilted. Her brow arched higher. Her eyes snapped.
He halted. “Annabelle.”
“Yes?”
“My grandfather’s time runs short.”
“Not that short.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“I am exceedingly well informed.”
He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. She was punishing him. If he vexed her any further, she’d break the engagement. Revealing his past mistakes would have to wait.
“Besides,” she continued with a blithe air, “we shall require sufficient time to hire you a new valet. Or at least visit a barber.”
Frowning, he dropped his hand, feeling a prickle of heat touch his face. “What the devil does that mean?”
Her fingers fluttered in his direction. “Your hair needs trimming, Robert.”
Bloody hell. Why was everyone so preoccupied with the length of his hair?
Thick-lashed brown eyes scanned his shoulders. “Out of charity, I shan’t elaborate upon the state of your tailcoats.” She wrinkled her nose and clicked her tongue. “Hair first. Garments later.”
“If my hair so offends you,” he growled, “trim it yourself.”
“Very well.” She marched to the maid’s sewing basket and withdrew a pair of shears. Then, she pointed the sharp end toward a cane-backed chair at a desk near the third window. “Sit,” she commanded pertly.
He scarcely knew what to make of her. This was no bone-china teacup. No funny, worshipful girl willing to follow his lead. She accepted his challenges and issued her own. She grew “vexed” with him. She demanded two months instead of one.
This Annabelle fired his lust to an alarming degree, just as she’d done in the Bentleys’ closet.
“Glare all you like,” she said. “But you do need this.”
Grudgingly, he moved to the chair and sat, resting his cane against the leg of the desk. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked the vexed woman standing behind him with a pair of shears.
“Hmm. Let’s see. There was the time I thought Kate would look better with short
hair than long.” She patted his shoulder with a delicate hand. “Not to worry,” she purred near his ear. Her proximity—the warm wash of her words, the scent of a summer night filled with honeysuckle—made his vision blur. “It only took two months for the right half of her head to match the left. Fortunately for you, hair grows back. Eventually.”
If he’d been capable of standing right then, he might have leapt to his feet. She was taunting him, of course. He had no fear she would mangle the job. Annabelle was impulsive, not incompetent. Rather, he feared his control would break when she touched him. Already his thighs tensed against the surge of arousal.
Behind him, he heard a delicate sigh. He waited.
And waited.
“Annabelle?”
“Hmm?” Lazily, her fingers sifted through his hair, causing ripples of sensation to zing from his scalp to his groin.
He swallowed but could not speak.
“So thick,” she murmured. “I’ve long admired it, you know.”
Sift and stroke. Trace and tickle. By God, she was driving him mad. His eyes drifted closed. “My hair?”
“The brown is so dark, it is nearly black.” The snick of the shears was quiet and rhythmic. Cool metal slid along his nape. Snick, snick, snick. “Mine is lighter. Not as light as Maureen’s, of course. Plain, middling brown.” She chuckled, the sound a sensuous temptation. “What could be duller?”
“Nothing about you is dull.”
Another chuckle. Another snick. Her finger traced the top of his ear. “Clearly, you haven’t seen my embroidery. Eugenia said it would benefit from incompetence, for then at least there might be something to remark upon.”
He almost smiled. “She does not mince words.”
“No, indeed.” Her breasts brushed his shoulder as she leaned forward. A dainty fist deposited a handful of his hair upon the desk. “I suspect her honesty may lead her into trouble one day.”
Annabelle continued speaking, but he could not hear. His blood pounded hard enough to concuss the walls. He went rigid as stone while she fluttered about like the Bumblebee she was, lightly touching, never landing, buzzing and playful.
“… genuinely dismayed that John sent a bonnet to Katie instead of her.” Annabelle laughed with affection then sighed. “Genie forgets how he likes to tease. I do hope he returns soon. We all miss him so.”
Her chatter should have been a distraction. But desire had exploded into every fiber of his body the moment she touched him. Before then, actually. Every minute in her presence stoked the flames higher until fantasies played out behind his eyes.
Annabelle Huxley’s lush breasts and pearlescent skin bared to him.
Her naked arms extended above her head.
Her naked wrists in his hands.
Her hips writhing for him.
Her thighs silken and wet for him.
Her lips chanting his name. Begging for his invasion. His dominion.
The vision was obscene, but he could not stop. He opened his eyes, stared blindly out the third window at the newly dampened street. It didn’t help.
She kept touching him, her fingers dancing over his forehead and along his jaw. Her voice, with its womanly rasp, had gone lower, breathier.
By God, he wanted to take her mouth again. He wanted those dainty hands threading his hair with passion, not routine grooming.
“… much better. It grows long so rapidly, and with such thickness, we will have to tend it with great frequency, I suspect.”
He suspected the same. In fact, he suspected the first month or two of their marriage would be spent in his bed. Perhaps he would let her leave for meals. Perhaps he would bring her trays and feed her himself.
The snick of the shears ceased. She stilled for a long while before laying them on the desk. Then, soft hands brushed at his shoulders. Long, lingering brushes. Caresses, really, as though she wished to take his measure. Or push him past his bloody limits.
He reached up and snatched her wrist. Ignored her gasp. Drew her palm to his lips. Breathed her in. Summer nights and honeysuckle.
God, he hurt. Wanted her so badly, he felt like he was dying.
Nothing had ever been this ferocious. Of course, nothing had ever been Annabelle.
She leaned against him, her soft cheek coming down to nuzzle his. Her breasts flattened against his back. “P-perhaps we shouldn’t hire a valet just yet,” she whispered.
He felt her panting breaths along his jaw, rhythmic pressure against his back.
“If you like the way I trim, I could—”
“Yes,” he growled, scraping his teeth gently against her inner wrist. Licking the abrasion. “You.”
He made no sense, grunting and growling and hungering like a savage beast. His head clouded with primal urges. Take her. Make her mine.
“Robert,” she whispered, rubbing her cheek against his, clawing her hand into his shoulder.
Yes. Want my name on her lips. Want inside her.
“Another punishment?” She murmured the question as though she hadn’t meant to ask it.
Distantly, he heard the door open. She startled upright and jerked her hand away before he could tighten his grip.
“The last rascal has been found,” announced Jane. “He was in the larder frightening Mrs. Dunn witless. She thought he was a … oh!” Annabelle’s sister cleared her throat. “Oh, my. Yes, well. I … thought you would like to know about the … I shall leave now, shall I? Yes, I think I shall. Books to read. Draperies to clean. Carry on.”
The door closed.
In the silence, he breathed. Annabelle had moved away. He hadn’t bothered looking anywhere except the window, but he felt cold settle where her honeysuckle sweetness had been.
He could still taste her skin.
“You should …” Her voice was hoarse. Breathless. “Wait a day or two before approaching Papa.”
He did not want to wait. Not a day or two, and certainly not a month or two. But enough blood had returned to his brain to restore some measure of caution. So, he did not say what he wished to say, which was that she belonged to him, and he would claim her now, here, in this drawing room on this very desk, if he thought she would allow it.
“Once my family knows of our engagement, you should write your grandfather with the news. It will bring him comfort.” Slowly, as she spoke, she seemed to gather more authority. “I daresay you might even carry the news to him yourself. No reason for you to remain in London. Surely you’ll wish to resume your work at Rivermore Abbey. We can be married when I return to Clumberwood with my family after the season is—”
“I am not leaving London without you.” He sounded like a beast.
So be it. She had little notion of his true nature, but she must learn swiftly. For, as he’d discovered over the past hour, nothing provoked it more powerfully than she did.
The knowledge left him reeling. It would shock her senseless.
“Don’t be silly. You hate London.”
He used his good leg and a tight grip on the desk to rise from the chair. Grabbing his cane, he spun to face her.
Her cheeks were crimson. Her eyes glinted with a complex mix of emotions—wariness and desire and provocation among them.
He crossed the room as quickly as his leg and the lingering hardness in his groin would allow. When he stood before her, he lowered his head. Held her eyes. Let her have a tiny glimpse of what drove him.
She blinked rapidly, fingers fluttering to her throat in a protective gesture.
“I am not leaving without you.”
“S-so you …” She swallowed. “You intend to simply ramble around inside some rented townhouse whilst I attend the obligatory functions of the season?”
“I intend to be wherever you are.”
Her mouth worked in disbelief. “But … you will be miserable. I will be miserable. No. You cannot mean it.”
His head tilted nearer. He inhaled honeysuckle. “Every word.”
“You need watching.”
A spark of outrage flashed. “I am a grown woman from a respectable family, not a wayward kitten intent upon shredding the draperies.”
He nearly told her what he knew—that she’d risked her reputation and perhaps her safety by posing as a male caricaturist for a rubbish scandalmonger. But he wanted her to tell him the truth on her own. He wanted her to trust him, to let him protect her. Annabelle could be infernally willful. The best way to keep her safe was to have her cooperation.
So, instead of explaining that the longer she stayed in London, the greater the danger grew, he gave an answer she might accept. “We are betrothed. My presence ensures you keep your promises.”
Her eyes narrowed and fired hot with temper. “Every promise I ever made to you has been kept, Robert Conrad.” Her voice trembled with rage. “Every. Bloody. One.”
“Then, you won’t mind having me close.”
Brown eyes flashed ominously bright. “Three months,” she bit out, her chin rising to an infernally willful angle. “Care to try for four? September weddings are so very lovely.”
Helplessly aroused, he looked to her lips, the rise and fall of her bosom, the flush of her cheeks. “Punishing me now, are you?”
“Preserving my sanity.”
He smiled. It seemed to further incite her temper, but he couldn’t help himself. She’d always made him smile. And laugh. She hadn’t always made him lust like a primitive beast. No, that was new. But he thought he might grow accustomed to it.
She must marry him soon, though. Desire this potent could not be denied for long.
Leaning forward until their faces were level, his lips brushed hers softly. Lightly. Once. Twice. “Sanity has never been a part of what’s between us, Annabelle.” He straightened before she tempted him into further intimacies. “So long as you are in London, I shall be in London. So long as you partake in the season’s offerings, so shall I. You may end the misery at any time. Just say the word.”
Her gaze went mutinous. And moments before he left the Berne drawing room laughing, she smiled with sinister intent and said the word. It was precisely the wrong word, of course.