by Elisa Braden
She sighed into her cup and took another drink. At least she’d found him a competent tailor. His new coat—black wool lovingly fitted to those broad, broad shoulders—made her want to cross the room and kiss him in full view of everyone from Lady Wallingham to Matilda Bentley. Particularly the latter.
Frowning, she rolled her shoulders against the surge of possessive lust. Of late, every dream plaguing her sleep involved some variation of Robert being naked and demanding to touch her. Every waking fantasy, meanwhile, involved her making shocking demands of him—namely that he disrobe and touch her with those large, competent hands. Or those delicious lips. Either would work, really.
Good heavens, his thighs were thick. Like dashed tree trunks. She sighed again as she examined them inside black breeches.
Perhaps she should agree to a July wedding, after all.
Perhaps she should have brought her fan.
Lady Darnham, whose wrinkles curved upward in a permanent smile, appeared in front of her, breaking her concentration. Despite the interruption, Annabelle greeted the delightful old woman warmly and complimented her lemonade.
“I add a bit of orange and a dash of honey,” Lady Darnham whispered. “Don’t tell Lady Wallingham. She is forever after my secret.”
Beside Annabelle, Jane protested, “Oh, but you never mentioned the honey.” Jane had long ago forgotten her shyness around Lady Darnham, who frequently kept company with the wallflowers at society functions.
Lady Darnham giggled and gave Jane a conspiratorial wink. “Better to throw the dragon off the scent.” She returned her attention to Annabelle. “What is this I hear about you and the Conrad boy?”
Annabelle raised a wry brow. “Apparently, we are to be married. A shocking turn of events.”
“Only to those who haven’t known you both since you were infants,” the lady said. “That boy never could keep his eyes off you.”
“Little has changed in that regard,” Jane interjected.
Annabelle blinked, a bit perplexed by their observations. Robert watched her now, yes, for reasons she found infuriating. But when they were children, she’d always done the chasing. He’d tolerated her, taken care of her when necessary, but to imply he’d felt the same obsessive devotion as she … well, that was simply wrong.
If he’d loved her as she loved him, he could not have banished her from his life.
She met his eyes over Lady Darnham’s shoulder. Brooding blue had riveted upon her. Over the past several weeks, she’d chafed beneath its weight—she could not very well confront Mr. Green while Robert watched her every move.
Yet now, she wondered if she’d been unfair. Perhaps he was doing as he’d done before the accident—standing sentry between her and danger.
If trouble dogs your heels, so shall I.
While Jane and Lady Darnham discussed the dreadful weather, Annabelle looked upon Robert with new eyes. He’d followed her everywhere—to her Bond Street modiste, to Jane’s favorite Piccadilly bookshop, to the Covent Garden Theatre and Lady Wallingham’s Park Lane parlor. None of those places were Robert’s sort of entertainments. London itself could disappear into the Thames, for all it mattered to him. Yet, like a soldier performing his duty, he’d kept his vigil.
What if he really did want this marriage? What if he wanted her?
The mere thought filled her with heat. It flushed her skin, fired her belly, and quickened her breath. It incubated a seed of hope inside her heart, where she’d long ago ripped away every trace of that poisonous weed.
She mustn’t let it prosper. She must remember what she knew—that he’d found her love pitiful. That he’d been hurt and broken because of her. That he’d demanded never to see her face again.
That he hadn’t kissed her in weeks.
“… Matilda Bentley?”
Annabelle turned a questioning glance toward Jane.
Her sister arched a brow and cast a wry grin between her and Robert before repeating, “I asked why it seems ages since you’ve spoken to Matilda Bentley.”
Rather than lie, Annabelle shrugged. “The Bentleys arrived late. I’ve not yet had the chance to speak with her.” It was true, so far as it went. Mr. Bentley had entered Lady Darnham’s drawing room an hour after the fete had begun. In contrast to his usual demeanor, he’d looked red and agitated. Mrs. Bentley and Matilda had been calmer, though stiff and unsmiling.
“So, it’s nothing to do with her seeking Mr. Conrad’s notice at every opportunity,” Jane said.
Annabelle noted the willowy blonde stood a few feet away from him—much too close for her liking. “Perhaps she enjoys making a cake of herself. Who am I to stop her?”
Lady Darnham clicked her tongue. “Poor Mr. Bentley. I had no idea he’d suffered such losses. The family must be reeling.”
It was another Edward Yarrow Aimes fiction, published only yesterday. The caricature had suggested Mr. Bentley was on the brink of bankruptcy, an outrageous falsehood. According to Annabelle’s sources—Matilda among them—his finances were quite robust, despite losing a fair bit in the investment scheme that had ruined several prominent men the previous winter.
The man responsible, Zachariah Bickerstaff, had persuaded dozens of gentlemen to invest in a series of depleted coal mines on the promise of a “marvelous machine” capable of locating vast new veins where easier bounty had run dry. It had all been a lie, of course, sold by actors Bickerstaff had hired to portray seasoned colliers and a pair of “inventors.” Suspicions had fallen on Bickerstaff after one of his actors was spotted on stage at the York Theatre Royal. Bickerstaff had fled to the Continent shortly thereafter, leaving his investors with emptier pockets and shares in a handful of worthless mines.
He’d also left them humiliated, a fact the person posing as Edward Yarrow Aimes seemed to relish. So far, nine of the talentless wretch’s prints had been in some way related to the Bickerstaff swindle.
She wanted to know why. She wanted to give Mr. Green the scathing set-down he deserved. She wanted to demand he cease publishing a talentless wretch’s work under her nom de plume.
But to do any of that, she must speak with the publisher in person. Thus, she needed to escape Robert Conrad’s relentless surveillance.
Easier said than done.
She met his eyes again. Shivered at the intensity of his regard. And took a deep breath as she reviewed her plan for the evening.
Step one: distract.
Step two: plead a headache.
Step three: leave Robert Conrad behind and do what must be done.
*~*~*
“Captain Standish!” Like the caw of a crow, Lady Wallingham’s voice echoed across the expanse of Lady Darnham’s drawing room. “I scarcely recognized you without your uniform, young man!”
Robert winced and ground his teeth as Martin Standish—garbed in black rather than scarlet, for once—headed reluctantly in their direction.
“Explains why he appears so much smaller,” the dowager muttered. “His shoulders aren’t half the width of his epaulets.”
The old woman had spent the past hour opining about the ubiquity of rosewood settees in Mayfair drawing rooms. “Perhaps if they bothered to glance at their ormolu clocks, they might notice when a fashion’s time has passed,” she’d groused before sipping her lemonade and complaining that Lady Darnham guarded the beverage’s formulation “with the fervor of a nun guarding her virtue.”
He hadn’t bothered to reply, instead focusing on Annabelle. She was even lovelier than usual this evening, glowing and flushed in the candlelight, her rose silk gown clinging to her hips and bosom.
Despite his inattention, Lady Wallingham had nattered on, her trumpeting voice and superior manner wearing on his nerves until he’d contemplated tossing Annabelle over his good shoulder and abducting her to Nottinghamshire.
It was a sad state of affairs when not even Martin Standish could make a conversation more tedious.
Standish approached
them with a cautious air. “Good evening, my lady.” His narrow nose curled into a sneer as he eyed Robert. “Conrad.”
The dowager offered minor pleasantries before launching into tart castigation. “If you are avoiding Miss Bentley because of those scurrilous rumors, Captain Standish, might I remind you your own father’s reputation was similarly besmirched.”
Standish wilted beneath the woman’s sharp green gaze. His father, Sir Harold Standish, had, indeed, been publicly humiliated. Unlike Bentley, however, he hadn’t the funds to sue Green for libel.
Green had made numerous errors over the past month. His first had been engaging Annabelle in a dangerous ruse. That alone had earned Robert’s wrath. But before Robert had a chance to confront the man, the caricatures had changed in ways Robert noticed immediately. Green obviously had hired someone else to produce the sketches. Then, he’d begun publishing dubious accusations about powerful men. The new caricatures were largely rubbish, so the risk Green was running could only result in short-term gains before he was sued into oblivion. Annabelle was lucky to have been cut out of such an enterprise before it collapsed.
Robert knew she was distressed about Green’s actions. He also knew that, if he relaxed his guard for even a moment, she would rush to confront the publisher, and damn the consequences. He could not allow that to happen.
He would have married her a month ago, would have absconded to Nottinghamshire or the nearest church or even to Gretna Green if he’d thought her father would consent. But Lord Berne adored his daughter, and she’d convinced him they must remain in London for the remainder of the season.
So, rather than fight both her and her family, he’d watched her and waited. The distance he’d kept between them had been agonizing but necessary.
He couldn’t possibly touch her and not take her.
Gradually, his desire for her had grown from confusing longing into lustful madness. His dreams were nightly riptides of eroticism. He’d never do half the things his mind conjured. Not with his Bumblebee. She deserved better.
Yet, looking at her now, the chocolate swirls of her hair brushing lightly along her nape, the round swell of her hips begging for his hands to grip and squeeze, he was tempted to try everything. To push her the way she liked to push him.
Tearing his gaze from her, he drank his lemonade and gritted his teeth.
God, the hunger was killing him. The season could not end soon enough.
Lady Wallingham’s plumes brushed his shoulder as she continued her set-down of Martin Standish. “Your father’s baronetcy may grant you a title one day, Captain Standish, but if you wish to possess more than your uniform for clothing and more than gruel for sustenance, you will have to marry a well-dowered girl.” She nodded toward Mr. Bentley, who bristled in a corner of the room, tossing back a swig of brandy. “Matilda Bentley is your best hope, and you have just given her father the cut direct. Perhaps you’ve misplaced your good sense along with your epaulets.”
His cowardly gaze slid away. “I assure you, madam, I bear no ill feeling toward Mr. Bentley or his daughter.” His shoulders twitched and his chin tilted to a pompous angle. “My uniform is being laundered.”
“Hmmph.” She arched white brows. “A uniform is not required for honorable conduct, young man.”
Was it Robert’s imagination, or had the other man’s skin gone whiter? Perhaps it was the change of coat. Standish’s cravat bobbed as he swallowed. He turned to address Robert. “How is your mount, Conrad?” A petty smile curled thin lips. “On his last legs, I trust. Like his master.”
“On the contrary. The hunter I purchased from Tannenbrook proved well worth the price.”
After a spark of surprise, Standish’s sneer returned with a bitter twist. “Tannenbrook sold, did he? Well, I reckon he did me the favor. Only a man of your … limitations would need a horse so slow one could mistake him for a trestle.”
Robert resisted the urge to shut the other man’s mouth with his fist. Standish was goading him, probably to distract Lady Wallingham from offering further critique.
The dragon was not so easily distracted. “Now that Mr. Conrad and Lady Annabelle Huxley are betrothed, I daresay the field is wide open for less impressive gentlemen to partake of the season’s remainders.” She blinked calmly at Standish. “A prime opportunity for one such as yourself, Captain.”
Never one to fight when he could slither away instead, Standish took his leave, tight-lipped and stiff as he bowed to Lady Wallingham and ignored Robert.
“Why does he spew such venom toward you, dear boy?” she asked as Standish exited the drawing room. “Apart from venom being the natural weapon of snakes, I mean.”
Robert shook his head. “It has been this way since Eton. Whatever I had, he wanted. Whatever he could not steal for himself, he sought to poison. He even attempted to turn John Huxley against me once.” Robert gave her a small smile. “That went poorly for him.” Huxley had pummeled Standish in front of forty other boys. Standish’s aggressions had quieted afterward—until recently.
“Ah, yes. Sir Harold owns a hunting lodge near Rivermore Abbey, if I recall.”
“I suppose.”
“Two adjacent properties, one large and impressive while the other … well, let us say the contrast is unflattering. Much like the two of you.”
Robert frowned into Lady Wallingham’s sharp, green gaze. “You think he is jealous of me.” He tapped his cane against his right boot. “Of this.”
“I think it is fortuitous you took my advice and secured Lady Annabelle’s hand.” She tapped his arm with her fan. “Wouldn’t you agree?” Lady Wallingham enjoyed nothing better than being told she was right—repeatedly.
“Yes, my lady. Fortuitous.”
The mention of Annabelle sent his gaze automatically searching for her again. It seemed he could not stop himself. But she wasn’t where she’d been. Jane and Lady Darnham were there, sipping their lemonade and chatting. But no Annabelle.
“Ah, Meredith!” Lady Wallingham’s fan tapped his arm again as Lady Berne and Lord Berne approached. “Mr. Conrad was just telling me how beneficial my advice has been.”
Lady Berne grinned and rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “If your advice led him to join our family at long last, then I must agree.”
“As must I,” concurred Lord Berne, shaking his hand and patting his shoulder. “We’ve been trying to persuade Annabelle to marry you before we leave London, son. I’m afraid she insists the wedding be held at Rivermore Abbey.”
“But that does not mean she cannot be persuaded,” assured Lady Berne, her eyes twinkling. “If anyone can convince her, it is you.”
Lord Berne invited him for dinner the following evening while Lady Berne went on and on about how thrilled John would be when he learned of the match. Meanwhile, Robert listened with half an ear while he searched the room for his intended bride.
She was nowhere to be found.
“… do hope John makes as auspicious a match as—”
He interrupted his future mother-in-law as his gut grew cold. “I beg your pardon, my lady—”
“Meredith,” she corrected pertly. “Or, better yet, Mama. You have long been a son to me. It is past time you called me by my proper title.”
His heart squeezed as he gazed into the merry eyes of the woman who had, indeed, lavished him with motherly kindness from the moment John had dragged him home for Christmas pudding. He smiled and bent to kiss her cheek, as she had earlier kissed his. “Mama.”
Her eyes glossed with tears. “Oh, that sounds splendid, Robert.”
“And I am Papa from now on, son,” added Berne, clapping his shoulder.
Robert grinned and nodded to them both. “Mama and Papa.” He met Berne’s lively hazel gaze, his grin fading. “Now, I hope you’ll forgive me, but where the devil is Annabelle?”
Lady Berne—or, rather, Mama—blinked and sniffed and glanced up at her husband. “Oh! Well, she said she had a headac
he.” Together, Mama and Papa looked at him. “Poor dear. A footman summoned a hack to take her home. I am certain she’ll feel better after a lie-down.”
He was not. Darkness and urgency were a gathering storm inside him. Without another word, he stalked out of the drawing room, down the stairs, and outside to the center of the quiet Mayfair street as swiftly as his blasted leg would allow.
“Bloody hell, Annabelle,” he growled through gritted teeth as he searched the dark, empty street. No hack. No Bumblebee.
But he knew where she was going—straight into trouble. Which meant he knew where he was going—to stop his future wife from risking her neck yet again.
*~*~*
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Daring is no great feat. Countless fools have dared and lost. The test is not whether you can plunge headlong into dark waters, but whether you have exhausted superior strategies before risking both your head and your dignity.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock reflecting upon the valorous legacy of said gentleman’s bloodline.
*~*~*
Dearest Robert,
Do you remember the great thunderstorm that felled the ancient oak near the churchyard? That night, we were caught out after dark. I feared we might never find our way. Yet, you held my hand and made me believe you could see everything, do anything.
That is how this feels. Except that you are gone. And I am lost.
Ever yours,
Annabelle
—Letter to Robert Conrad dated July 30, 1813
*~*~*
Rain began soaking up whatever meager light could be had before Annabelle’s hack left Mayfair. Now, as she stepped down onto the north side of the Strand, she felt the damp seeping into her skin.
“If you wait here until I return,” she told the driver, nodding to the stretch of walk in front of D’Oyley’s Warehouse, “I shall give you an extra shilling.”