“Here you are, Annie. I’ve been looking for you.”
Her eyes closed of their own accord and more hot tears flooded them, even as a now familiar warmth settled in her stomach.
Duncan.
“Why are you sitting on the floor?” he asked, his voice nearly a laugh. “And away from anything?”
She inhaled slowly, wishing her tears would subside so she could respond without betraying her emotions.
But Duncan did not notice.
“Have you been in here all afternoon?” he continued, his footsteps sounding closer. “You should have… Annie, why is there no fire in that grate?”
She winced at the bite in his tone. “I…”
“It is freezing outside!” he scolded, moving around her to the empty fireplace, where the last of the small flames had gone out some time ago. “Did you not notice that it has snowed again? And you are in here with only that flimsy shawl and sitting on the floor. You only need to ask, and a fire would have been built for you!” He turned away from the fire and marched towards the door, still having yet to actually look at her.
He called for someone to build up a fire, then came back towards her. “Honestly, Annie, you are going to freeze if you don’t…”
Annie’s breath caught as she realized he had trailed off and was standing directly in front of her. And more horrifying, a pair of tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and made their way steadily down her cheeks. They dripped from her jaw and splashed helplessly onto the pages below.
“Annie,” he said softly, his voice as tender as a sigh.
More tears fell, helpless before his warmth and gentleness. She closed her eyes more firmly and tucked her chin down. Why must he always find her at her most vulnerable? Why could he never see her when she was strong?
Why was she never strong?
She heard him move, then nearly jumped at the soft pressure of his hand under her chin. He tilted her face up and against her will, her eyes fluttered open.
He gave her a small smile and his thumb stroked the side of her jaw. “What are these for, Annie? What has upset you so?”
“Nothing,” she managed, though her voice and fresh tears betrayed her. “Nothing, I’m… I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “No, you’re not. Annie, will you never trust me?”
“I hardly know you,” she whispered, another tear falling and landing on his hand.
“You know me,” he insisted, his words tinged with real feeling and warmth. “Not in ways words can yet describe, but you know me.” He left those words to hang in the air, their meaning as heavy as the feeling in her chest. Again, his thumb stroked her skin and she felt it like fire to her toes. “And you have trusted me thus far. Can you trust me again?”
Could she? Could she dare that far? Her heart yearned to tell him everything, to beg him to save her yet again.
But he was destined to be someone else’s hero. Someone else’s champion. Someone else’s future.
She opened her mouth to protest, but his eyes stopped her. They glanced down at her barely parted lips, then slowly dragged back to her eyes. But they had changed in those brief moments. They were no longer the calm, clear blue from before. Now they were as stormy as the sea and twice as dangerous, yet she felt no fear. She had never felt so safe, so well-guarded, so warm…
Too warm.
Too much.
Too…
“Annie…”
Something in his voice snapped her resolve and she released the sigh she did not know she had within her. “I don’t belong here.”
He tilted his head and his hand dropped to where hers rested in her lap. “I don’t understand. Are you unhappy?”
She instantly shook her head. “Your friends are wonderful and kind, and their wives are… They were so… I’ve never met women like them before.”
“No, and you never again will, I daresay,” he offered with a quick smile. Then he went back to being sober and attentive. “Go on.”
She swallowed hard and jerked when a servant entered and began building up the fire.
“Annie.” Duncan’s voice was firm, commanding her to focus back on him. He squeezed her hands, and her fingers twitched in his hold.
“I don’t belong here,” she repeated softly. “I shouldn’t be having such people call on me. Even if I were just Lady Raeburn’s companion, it wouldn’t be right. But I’m not.”
“Not what?” he asked, his expression furrowed.
She nearly huffed a frustrated sigh. Could he really not understand?
“I’m not her companion,” Annie said, her eyes dropping. “How can I be? I have no qualifications, no skills, I… I cannot be her companion.”
“Of course, you can,” Duncan insisted, his other hand coming to seize hers. “In case you have not noticed, Tibby is not your usual lady of Society. She does not have the same expectations that others would. I told you that you would suit her, and I stand by it. She adores you.”
His faith in her only made her feel worse and she would have looked away if she had the power.
“Why did you save me?” she whispered as another tear fell. “What could you possibly gain from bringing me here? Just… why, Duncan?”
He released a soft exhale as he reached up and smoothed the tear away with his thumb. “Honestly? I couldn’t help myself. I had to. Anything else was unthinkable and impossible.” His thumb moved across her cheek almost absently, as if it was involuntary. “So you see, you do belong here. Because I had no choice but to bring you here. That must mean something, right?”
Annie did not think she could breathe. She had felt the same way about coming with him. There was no reason she should, and yet she had no other choice. She had to.
That had to have meant something.
Didn’t it?
Again he stroked her cheek, and then he smiled a bit crookedly. “You belong, sweet. Trust me. And trust yourself.”
There it was again. Trust. If only she knew how.
But for him, she would try.
She glanced around and noticed that the servant had left, and they were alone again. Taking a chance with the fleeting burst of faith she suddenly had in him, she squeezed his hands in return. “I can’t read,” she murmured.
Either he was a really magnificent actor, or he actually had no reaction. “No?” he asked innocently, as if that was a normal statement to make.
She shook her head. “I have tried and tried all week and I remember almost nothing.”
“Why didn’t you come to me? I already promised I would help you.” His words were a scolding, but his voice was kindness itself. She was beginning to wonder if he was ever anything else.
“It’s hardly an easy thing to admit,” she told him. “And I didn’t want Tibby to regret her acceptance of me.”
“She wouldn’t,” he assured her with a firm shake of his head. “You should have heard her this morning, she is so delighted with you already.”
“But I haven’t done anything yet!” she protested, feeling sure he was lying.
He shrugged. “You have made an impression on her, it seems. You’ve impressed all of us.” He winked at her, then finally moved enough away that she could draw in a full breath. “Now, come away from that freezing window and sit by the fire with me. I will help you read.”
“Truly?”
He glanced back at her. “Yes, truly. Come here.”
She gave him a curious look. “You will sit on the floor by the fire and read with me?”
He grinned broadly, and she had learned enough about him recently to know that did not happen often. “There is no better way to do it. Now, come over here.”
She couldn’t help it; she grinned back and scrambled like a child to his side, that tiny spark of hope bursting into a flame that burned as brightly as the fire before her.
Duncan sat alone later that night, staring blankly at the fire.
“You know me,” he had said. Those words echoed through his mind again and a
gain. He had never thought of it before, but it did feel as though Annie knew him.
Tibby would say something at breakfast and Annie would get this look on her face that was so close to a smile he could almost see it, and she would meet his eyes, almost as if she knew he had also been amused by it. And he always had been. She always seemed to look at him right when he was looking at her, which was happening with a startling frequency of late. And she would smile that small, barely-there smile just when he needed reassurance.
It had been barely a week that she had been in his house and he already dreaded the day Tibby’s renovations would be complete.
He exhaled heavily as he considered the fire. He had not felt as contented in ages as he had when he and Annie had sat before the fire reading together only hours ago. She had not been so bad as she had led him to believe, and with his help and encouragement, she had improved greatly just in that one sitting.
He loved to hear her read. Her voice was filled with such wonder, so much light, that he was captivated by stories he had heard, and read, thousands of times before. It was as if he was hearing them for the first time. They had laughed over the antics of the characters, had drawn a bit closer when lovers were reunited, and he knew he could not have imagined the warmth that he felt between them as they took turns reading a page.
He could not explain it. How could he feel so much in so short a time?
But what exactly did he feel? He had a connection to Annie, that much was certain, but to what extent? She needed him, it was clear, but for how long? How much could he give her before she would find her wings and take flight?
His friends were curious about her, about him. How could they not be? He had hardly done anything this week that he was supposed to because he was too worried about how Annie would fare with the women and with her adjustment. It had taken every ounce of self-control he had possessed to remain in his study when she had returned instead of pouncing and interrogating her. He had to remember that she needed time and space to adjust, that it was not his place to become overly invested.
He was fooling himself.
He was overly invested.
Her success, her happiness, had become his primary goal. Everything was focused on that.
Why? What was it about her that drove him so?
He hardly knew how to respond when she had asked why he had saved her. He didn’t think he had saved her. He rather thought she had saved him.
He had been used to helping people his entire life. His parents had instilled it into him to reach out to others, to help whenever and wherever he could regardless of the personal cost. It was how he would be able to pay back the kindness he had received from others. He knew firsthand what it felt like to want, to need, and to not have. Not many people knew about his family’s true past or what they had endured before they had entered Society. Even less knew what they had endured when they had entered. It was not something to discuss openly.
But he was accustomed to service and charity. He always felt he would be less of a man if he did nothing. He was constantly trying to make up for where he had come from, to earn the position he now had.
Helping Annie was the first time he had ever felt he could be more than he already was. He had been completely truthful with her, but he could not have told her just how forceful the need to help her had been.
There had been no other choice.
He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned. Annie was partially right, though. She was to be his aunt’s companion, and he was taking a shocking amount of liberty with the attention he was ensuring she received. If any knew about it, rumors would undoubtedly fly. He could only imagine what the servants were saying below stairs.
Not that he cared so very much about that, but Annie would.
Annie.
What was he supposed to do with her?
“Duncan?”
Tibby’s voice broke into his reverie and he glanced towards the door. She was dressed far more simply than he had seen her recently, wearing a simple cap on her head, her gown plain and unadorned, with only a shawl wrapped around her. She looked more like the Tibby he had known in his youth, the one who had encouraged him so, nurtured him when others would not. The woman he had always thought of as his other mother. The one who had saved him first.
“Tibby,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than he had intended it to be. “What are you still doing up?”
A gentle smile lit her features. “I’ve been talking with my companion.”
He nodded absently, then realized what she had said. “Annie?”
She nodded as she approached and took the seat near him. “I thought it was high time she and I had a private conversation. I have sensed, as I am sure you have, that she was not quite comfortable. I think she is trying to find her place, where she fits in with all of us. She doesn’t, you know.”
“Doesn’t what?”
She gave him a look. “Fit in.”
He restrained a growl. “Tibby…”
“Duncan, I adore her. You know I do, and you know how rare it is for me to feel that way about anybody.” She reached out her hand and set it over his. “Annie is a special young woman. I am grateful you have brought her to me. But you must know she does not fit in. She has had such a hard life. She has suffered, Duncan. As much emotionally as physically.”
He swallowed hard and nodded. He knew that. He had seen that. And he ached because of it.
“You can introduce her to your friends all you like,” Tibby continued gently, rubbing his hand. “You can have Moira and Kate and Mary parade her around London if you wish it, but she will not fit.”
Her words struck something in him and he looked at her, feeling very much like the child he once was. “I know. But I want her to.” Then he shook his head and looked away. “But it isn’t about what I want.”
“No,” Tibby replied quietly. “No, it isn’t.” She hesitated a moment, then sighed. “Tomorrow Annie and I will begin in earnest, and I will help her where I can. Even if she is not my companion for long, Duncan, I want her to fit in as well. She deserves to. And I think one day she could.”
He suddenly had the urge to swallow again, but something blocked its way. His eyes burned a bit and he looked back at the fire, desperate to clear them.
“Duncan,” Tibby said, her voice tinged with a bit of amusement, “what do you want me to do with her?”
“Make her feel useful,” he replied. He cleared his throat. “Make her feel wanted. Give her no reason to fear the future. Let her see a brighter way to live. Make her feel…” He trailed off, unsure he could put words to what he wanted for her.
“Loved?” she prodded gently.
He nodded once, swallowing. “Make her feel loved. I don’t think she has ever had that.”
“And what about you?”
He glanced over at her. “What about me?”
Tibby considered him carefully. “What will you receive in return for all you have done?”
“That does not matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” She heaved a sigh and stood, still clutching his hand. “My darling boy, someday you will have to decide if you deserve the same happiness you insist on giving to others.” She squeezed his hand tightly, then left him alone with his thoughts once more.
Chapter Nine
Five days. How could it have only been five days? It might as well have been a lifetime.
Duncan was pacing in his study like a madman, knowing he deserved every jab his friends had leveled at him. They called him a loon, a mother hen, and dozens of other equally ridiculous names, and he had laughed them off. But inside each chipped away at him.
Because they were all true.
He was going crazy. How could he have seen her so little over the course of five days? What in the world were those women doing to her? Ever since Tibby said they would “begin” and Annie would start to fit in, they had all been as elusive as mist over the Thames.
It was driving him to complete and utte
r distraction.
What was even more maddening was the fact that he had seen her. Every day. Or evening, as it happened. Their reading in the library together had become ritual and he craved it. He loved being able to hear her improvements, which were significant and rapid. He cherished wandering the rows of books with her as they finished one after the other.
She was destined to be as avid a reader as he was, and he was utterly delighted by it. But their conversation did not stray far from the books. She remained aloof as to the dealings of her day and he did not pry. He wanted to, desperately. In fact he yearned to know everything. But he did, after all, possess some restraint.
He had only remained sane by forcing himself into activity with his friends. But one could only examine horses or advise on remodeling or admire infants for so long. Even Colin, his once trustworthy source of entertainment, was shockingly unhelpful. Colin had been as mulish as a bull of late and he suspected it was due to newfound rumors circulating about his brother Kit, but for one reason or another, Colin was not talking about it.
It was very unlike Colin.
But that only registered faintly in Duncan’s mind right now. A far more pleasant topic was entrapping him far more completely than he would dare fathom.
Today he had thought he would be able to distract himself once again with some sort of useful employment with them, but each had his own tasks to see to this morning. So Duncan was left to his own devices, none of which would be even remotely plausible in his current state. What he needed was to see Annie.
He glowered and sank into his chair. He had learned very early in the week to stop mentioning her name. Every time he did his friends would look at each other with the same amused, knowing smiles. He found it irritating beyond reason.
They did not know anything. They knew nothing about Annie, or even himself. Granted, they knew more than most people did about Duncan’s past and his family history, but he was not a man prone to sharing thoughts and emotions, even with his friends. His had always been more of a silent role, not for any particular reason, but merely because he had never felt a need to converse when conversation was not needed. Excessive vocalization irritated him.
The Dangers of Doing Good (Arrangements, Book 4) Page 11