by Elisa Braden
“If you’re lookin’ for your man, he ain’t here.”
The voice came from a man behind the bar. He was small—no taller than she. And he wore spectacles. She didn’t know what she’d expected from the proprietor of a tavern, but he wasn’t it. He looked like one of Jane’s booksellers.
She cleared her throat and skirted past a smaller table near the window. “Have you any tea?”
The little man stared at her and wiped the rim of a wooden cup.
“Or coffee. Coffee would suffice.”
A mild brow puckered. “There’s a coffee house across the street, miss.”
“I should like to stay here for a short while.”
He glanced over her shoulder. A mild brow cleared. He adjusted his spectacles and raised his chin with a little smile. “If he allows it, I shall be surprised. But if he does, we’ve decent ale you might fancy.”
She blinked. “He?”
The little tavern keeper moved away to clean more cups.
Behind her, she felt a damp breeze. Then, she heard the door close and a cane thudding on the plank floor.
Briefly, she closed her eyes.
“How many times have I told you not to run from me, Bumblebee?”
He was so close the words shivered from her ear down her neck and into her breasts. Good heavens, she really must stop letting him affect her this way.
“If you would cease following, my errands might seem less like running.” She spun to face him. His skin was damp. His shoulders, too. She wanted to kiss him. What a mad, desperate idiot she was. “Why are you following me, Mr. Conrad?”
“You need watching.” He muttered it in that deep voice that made unmentionable parts of her body tingle.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Long before you arrived in London, I was taking hacks—to the market, the theatre, the shops—without mishap. Well, mostly. Drivers are dreadfully rude, aren’t they? Yet they demand higher fees than ever for more arduous rides.”
“Trouble follows you like a shadow, Annabelle. You’ll soon be my wife. If trouble dogs your heels, so shall I.”
“For the last time, our engagement is canceled. Finished. At an end.”
“Why are you here?” He tapped his cane on the floor.
She looked around at the dingy interior, the smoke-stained hearth, the low, beamed ceiling discolored somewhere between gray and brown, the three sotted brothers singing a pleasant tune about a lady with unusually large bosoms. “I’ve heard they have fine ale. I wanted to try it.”
A glint of humor entered brooding blue eyes. “Is that so?”
Her chin went up. “Indeed.”
“At six in the morning.”
“I am an early riser.”
This time, he outright chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, Bumblebee. If there’s one thing you’re not, it’s an early riser. Have you forgotten the swans?”
Bloody hell. She rolled her eyes and sighed. “That was a long time ago.”
“You begged me to meet you in Mr. Eggleston’s northeast pasture, where the swans gathered of a morning.”
“I remember.”
“You intended to sketch them, as nothing else would properly represent the long-necked Mrs. Hopkins. How long did I wait in a muddy pasture with only the rising sun to keep me company?”
“I was there by nine,” she grumbled.
“That’s right. Three hours. I sat and waited, long after the swans were gone.” He moved closer and lowered his head. “Do you know why?”
She shrugged, though his nearness was making her breathless and tingly. “A fascination with long necks and surly dispositions?”
“I couldn’t leave you.”
All air fled her body. The last bit of it carried his name. “Robert.”
“I wanted to be where we’d promised to meet in the unlikely event you awakened before six. And I wanted to be there when I knew you would arrive—too late for the swans, but not for one last ramble before I returned to Eton.” His grin was wide and real. It made his eyes crinkle and brought out the faintest dimples in his cheeks.
It lit her heart on fire. “Robert,” she repeated, incapable of more.
“That’s how I know you would not rise earlier than the sun for anything but a dire cause.” He crowded closer. “So, what is it, Annabelle? The truth, now.”
Behind him, a chair clattered to the floor. One of the large, sotted brothers reeled back while another shoved to his feet. The third remained slumped in his chair, eyeing both siblings with confusion.
There appeared to be some disagreement about which of the two had a larger cock. She wondered why the argument produced such offense. Surely, the matter could be put to rest with a simple comparison.
“Bloody hell,” Robert muttered, positioning himself between the belligerent brothers and Annabelle. “We need to leave.” He reached back to offer his hand.
She didn’t take it. “I think I’ll stay.”
The glower he shot over his shoulder nearly shriveled her bravado. But she couldn’t leave yet. Mr. Bentley might still be outside.
“Annabelle,” he growled. “This is about to turn violent. I’ll not have you in the middle of it.”
“I fail to see the point of violence or even of arguing. If these gentlemen wish to determine who owns the bigger cock, I should think objective measurements a more proper solution.”
Several sets of wide, disbelieving eyes turned in her direction. Had she spoken too loudly? And what had she said that was so outrageous? It was basic reasoning.
With a thunderous-yet-apprehensive expression, Robert’s eyes darted to the men then back to her. He rubbed his forehead between thumb and fingers then sighed. “Now you’ve done it, Bumblebee.”
“Don’t be silly. All I’ve done is suggest a solution.” She met the incredulous stare of the brothers. “If you wish to know for certain, you must first establish a mutually agreed standard,” she advised them. “Shall it be length? Oh, but where to start and where to finish? Perhaps girth is better. But, again, at what point should one measure to ensure an accurate comparison? Circumference varies widely by location upon the anatomy. I know—weight! A scale shouldn’t be hard to find. Covent Garden is nearby. Yes, surely weight is—”
“Enough,” Robert snapped, grasping her arm in one hand and his cane in the other. “Apologies, gentlemen. We’ll be leaving now.”
“No, no,” slurred the third brother as he lurched to his feet. “She ’as a fair point.”
“’Oo’s she, now?” asked the second brother.
“T’ain’t right. This here’s men’s business,” groused the first brother.
“Indeed,” she replied. “You shan’t find women arguing over the size of their cocks, that much is certain.”
“Bloody hell, Annabelle.”
Although Robert’s groan was rather amusing, she ignored it. “And if we did, we’d have the good sense to measure first. Resorting to violence over a matter that can be so easily settled is the height of foolishness—”
Robert yanked her into his side and covered her mouth with his palm before she could utter another word. “We’re leaving. Good day, gentlemen.” He dragged her through the door and several feet down the walk before she managed to yank free. She suspected she only succeeded because he allowed it.
“What do you think you are—”
“What the devil are you thinking—”
“I said I didn’t wish to leave.”
He pointed toward the dog-fish-snail tavern. “You have no business entering a place like that, let alone engaging in vulgar conversations with three drunken men.”
She frowned. “Vulgar? Sensible, you mean. I prevented them from coming to blows over a meaningless disparity.”
Jaw flexing, he glared at her with puzzling incredulity.
“Robert, this cannot be your first time discussing the proper measurement of livestock. You’ve managed Rivermore’s farms for the last seve
n years, and before that, you caught fish with your bare hands. You’re far from ignorant about such things.”
At her mention of livestock, Robert’s scowl cleared. By the time she’d finished, he was smiling. A relief, to be sure. She much preferred a smiling Robert.
He wiped a hand over his mouth. “You thought we were discussing livestock. As in, the male counterpart to chickens.”
“What else?”
Sighing, he started to chuckle. Which became laughter. Which soon had him bracing himself against his cane and shaking his head.
She took advantage of his distraction to glance toward D’Oyley’s Warehouse. Thank heaven Mr. Bentley was gone. The tension she’d been carrying all morning began to ease.
She turned back to Robert and raised a brow. “I am glad you find me so amusing.” She sniffed and smoothed her skirts. She’d worn leaf-green wool in deference to the early morning chill. “Now, I have errands to attend, and they do not involve you.”
“Annabelle.”
“I suggest you retrieve Dewdrop and return to—”
“I know your secret.”
Her earlier tension returned in a flood. With a fluttery blink, she tilted her chin. “Don’t be silly. I am not the sort to keep—”
He leaned into her, leaving scant inches between their mouths. “I know about the drawings. About Edward Yarrow Aimes.” His voice was soft and low. At this early hour, no one was around to hear, but she felt the impact of his words and the intensity in his eyes as a blow to her midsection.
“You—you know?”
A faint smile curled his lips. “You sent me dozens of sketches through the years. Did you suppose I wouldn’t recognize your pen at work?”
For a moment, all thought fled but one: He knew. Blast. Of course he knew. It must be why he’d been following her everywhere, why he’d known where she’d gone. Why he’d entered the snail-fish-dog tavern to retrieve her.
“It has not been my pen these past few—”
“I know that, too.”
“Well, if you know so much, then why haven’t you said anything?”
“I waited for you to trust me. I’m still waiting.”
Trust? What rot. Lying to a girl because he thought her too pathetic to see reason was a better foundation for lifelong loathing than trust. Add to that his following her because he thought she was too helpless to survive a routine meeting off the Strand and hiding his knowledge about Edward Yarrow Aimes, and she wanted to laugh. Instead, she blew out an exasperated breath and straightened her spine. “Regardless, I need to speak with my publisher, so I shall bid you good day.”
“Even for you, that is an exceptionally bad idea.”
Her eyes flared wide. Good God, did the man want to incite her temper? “Even for me?”
Seemingly realizing his error, his head snapped back. He rubbed at his nape. Glanced at her bodice then her chin. “I—that wasn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean, Robert?”
“I am not good with words.”
“I’ll save you the trouble, then. Go home. Leave me to bumble about and fall into unseen pits where I’ll surely languish helplessly for want of male guidance and good sense.” She waved her fingers at him in a queenly fashion. “I hereby absolve you of responsibility, Robert Conrad.” Spinning on her heel, she started toward Catherine Street. Once again, she’d taken no more than five steps when another obstacle appeared.
This time, it was the biggest of the three flat-nosed brothers. He stumbled through the door of the fish-dog-snail tavern just as she passed. She tried to leap out of the way, but he plowed into her with bruising force. Her bonnet flew despite its pins. Her ear, which had collided with the man’s thick arm, rang. Her forearm screamed pain where a hand seized hold of her.
“What’s this? Ah, the sweet li’l morsel. Want to measure who’s bigger now?”
A cloud of musty ale and sour sweat filled Annabelle’s nose. She tried to pull away, but he had hold of her. And he was listing badly.
“I’ve got a cock ye’ll not soon—oof!”
Abruptly, the sotted oaf loosed his hold when he needed both hands to clutch the spot below his sizable belly where a cane had struck with lightning force.
“Touch her again, and my target will be your throat. This blow was pain. The next is death.”
Annabelle rubbed her ringing ear and marveled at the man she’d known her entire life yet apparently had never seen before. At least, not like this.
He was calm. Utterly calm. Though his attack had been swift and brutal, he stood with deeply rooted assurance, as though similar tasks must be attended every day. Answer correspondence. Collect rents. Attack a drunkard’s nether regions with a cane. Threaten him with death. Review the accounts.
She shook her head. What a confounding, remarkable man.
When his gaze shifted to her, the only change was a familiar furrow of concern. “Are you all right, Bumblebee?”
She nodded. “Fine. He knocked me off balance, that’s all.”
Robert looked to where she cradled her arm. Then, his eyes narrowed with vicious intent upon the poor wretch huddled in the shadow of the unnamable tavern, emitting wheezing gasps and occasional whimpers.
She reached for Robert’s wrist. “Don’t,” she said softly. She didn’t have to say more.
He nodded and turned his hand to interlace his fingers with hers. “I cannot let anyone or anything hurt you.” Blue eyes met hers. “There is no absolving me of that. It is as much a part of me as my bones.”
Her hand tingled where he held it. Her chest ached. Her throat burned. God, how she loved him. Wanted him. How it hurt that he cared enough to watch over her yet could not love her as she wished.
With an effort, she looked away. Bent to retrieve her bonnet. Glanced down the length of the Strand. “I need to speak with him, Robert.” She didn’t have to mention Green’s name. Robert understood.
His hand tightened. “I cannot let you.”
“It is not your place to prevent it.”
A long silence. He tugged her away from the tavern toward the alley where, evidently, he’d left Dewdrop tied. “Have you told your father you’ve attempted to break the engagement?”
She closed her eyes. Damn and blast. “No.”
He took the bonnet from her fingers and placed it on her head. His fingers tickled her skin as he retied the silk ribbon. Brooding blue had gone dark and resolute. “Then nothing’s changed.”
She sighed. “Robert—”
“You will stay away from Green. And you will marry me.”
“Saying it does not make it so.”
The quirk of his lips was more ominous than amused. “But this does.” He lowered his head until her bonnet’s brim and his hat formed a shadowed canopy. “I will tell your father everything, Bumblebee. All about Edward Yarrow Aimes. The caricatures. How you kissed me in the Bentleys’ closet. Seduced me in your family’s parlor.”
Her cheeks prickled. “Seduced? I most certainly did not.”
The quirk grew into a grin. “Oh, I assure you, love, you most certainly did. Even now, I’m more intoxicated than those tavern vermin.”
“You’re blackmailing me again.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you find that scurrilous?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you care?”
His eyes blazed into hers. “No.”
She bit down on another protest. Blast. He had her cornered. If he told her father, Papa would insist they marry anyway. The only option was to play along, bide her time, and look for opportunities to contact Green. Keeping the betrothal intact … well, she suspected that would likewise be a waiting game. Right now, Robert was driven by his desire to protect her and his grandfather’s demand that he marry. But sooner or later, those two forces would ease, and he would come to the same conclusion he’d reached seven years ago—that keeping Annabelle Huxley in his life was asking for t
rouble.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Time wears away all disguises. The essential question is not what will be revealed but when.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock explaining the importance of timing in any deception.
*~*~*
Dearest Robert,
Mama has hired yet another dance tutor in anticipation of my debut. For an event which is at least a year away, she has beggared Papa and exhausted me. All this preparation for husband hunting makes my stomach hurt.
How can I contemplate marrying anyone but you?
Ever yours,
Annabelle
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated March 22, 1813
*~*~*
During the six weeks since Annabelle’s fake identity had been stolen, fifteen more inept-yet-cruel caricatures had been published. She’d sent eight more scathing letters to Mr. Green.
And Robert had not kissed her again. Not once. Not even her wrist or her cheek.
She glared at him now across Lady Darnham’s drawing room. He glared in return. Perhaps he was vexed that she’d spoken to Martin Standish earlier—her most casual greeting to the unremarkable captain seemed to set him off. Or, perhaps he was simply displeased to be standing next to Lady Wallingham. The dowager did go on in the most high-handed fashion.
Annabelle sipped Lady Darnham’s surprisingly palatable lemonade and fumed at Robert’s behavior. They were engaged to be married, for pity’s sake. He’d spoken to her father weeks ago. The settlements had been finalized. He’d dined with her family no fewer than eleven times.
In other words, the betrothal might as well be inked in the parish register. That’s how difficult it would be to undo. So, why in heaven’s name, hadn’t he kissed her? Had his prior kisses been mere ploys to compromise her judgment? If so, they had worked splendidly.
For all that he watched her like a wolf watched its next meal, they were never alone together. When they weren’t dining with her family or riding with Maureen and Jane or conversing with Lady Wallingham, they were drinking more-or-less palatable lemonade at yet another ton gathering.