Her head dropped and she shut her eyes, wondering why it was so difficult to shut out the memory of that night. But she could not forget his touch any more than she could forget to breathe.
Finally, exhausted from crying and from memories she could no longer endure, she collapsed on to the bed. Someday she would be over this. She had survived Fenwick-Clyde. She would survive Hugo Fitzsimmon.
Annabell woke the next morning to knocking. She felt groggy and disoriented, as though she had been the one consuming untold amounts of brandy. She didn’t remember falling asleep. Finally, when the knocking became louder, she sat up abruptly then had to stay still until her dizziness abated. She fingerbrushed the hair from her face. She was still fully clothed, wrinkles and all. She grimaced.
She pushed off the bed and made for the door, her path only a tiny crooked. She was exhausted.
She did not open the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Susan, Annabell. Let me in.’
Annabell groaned silently. Her companion’s voice sounded more frazzled than usual, if that were possible. She must know about Hugo.
Annabell was tempted to tell Susan to go away, but knew it would only postpone the inevitable. ‘Come in.’
She moved back to the bed and sat down. Her head ached and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Briefly, she wondered how Hugo felt, but quickly pushed that traitorous thought away. She could no longer afford to care how Hugo felt.
‘Annabell,’ Susan gushed, slipping into the room and closing the door solidly, ‘you’ll never guess who just arrived. I nearly fainted. I could not believe my eyes. You know my sight is failing. I just know it is, but there he was. The last person I ever expected to see here. I mean, who would have thought he and Lady Fitzsimmon even knew each other, let alone well enough for Sir Hugo to invite him to stay.’ She paused for a breath. ‘Why, I never. You will never believe—’
Annabell put her hand to her throbbing forehead and closed her eyes. The absolute last thing she needed this morning was this chattering on about something that very likely didn’t matter.
‘Susan, please. I have a splitting headache. Just tell me and be done.’
A sigh gusted from the other woman’s pinched mouth. ‘Lord Fenwick-Clyde. He’s here. Courting Lady Fitzsimmon, I swear, or I just fell off the turnip wagon, which I know isn’t so. I’m all of thirty and five.’
Annabell groaned. ‘Surely you’re mistaken, Susan. Timothy doesn’t know Lady Fitzsimmon. She is a widow of the utmost respectability. He is at least five years her junior, maybe more.’ She shook her head, only to gasp at the pain caused by the motion. ‘You must not have had your spectacles on.’
Susan sniffed. ‘I most assuredly did have my spectacles on, Annabell. As for Timothy being too young, he is so starched and pompous one would think him a hundred. He is high in the instep and looks down his long nose at everyone. It was his father who was a lecherous old sot, not him.’ She crossed herself. ‘Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but truth is truth.’
This couldn’t be happening. Annabell wondered if she had died from the agony of losing Hugo and was now torturing herself with even more difficulties. But she knew better.
She stood, keeping one palm on the high bed for balance. ‘When did Timothy get here?’
‘Not more than thirty minutes ago. Lady Fitzsimmon is with him. Sir Hugo isn’t to be found.’ She gave Annabell a speculative look, her eyes bright like a bird’s, but didn’t ask anything.
‘Does Timothy know we’re here?’
Susan shrugged. ‘Not unless he saw me or you told him.’ She giggled. ‘But I don’t think he came here for us. He was bowing over Lady Fitzsimmon’s hand when I saw him. The children were just going into the room, too.’
Annabell nearly smiled. She had never thought Timothy was taken with children, but it seemed he could be persuaded. The situation was nearly comical, but her head still ached and her entire body still felt as though she had abused it.
‘I had planned on our leaving today.’
‘Oh, no. Never say so.’ Susan’s voice was high and tight.
Annabell nodded and instantly regretted it. ‘I think it for the best. Or had thought so until this. Surely Timothy is not here to court Lady Fitzsimmon, but then why not?’
She needed more time to think things through. Her stepson was here. Before she knew it, Hugo’s future wife would be here. This was worse than any picture of Hades she could ever have created.
‘We were leaving?’ Susan sounded as though she fought back disappointment. ‘I thought you and Sir Hugo had come to an understanding.’
The woman looked frazzled. Her pale blonde hair, turning grey at the temples, was crimped around her narrow face. Her big blue eyes were wide and startled, seeming larger because of the spectacles she seldom wore. She looked as though someone had taken away her most prized possession. She reminded Annabell painfully of the way Hugo had looked last night.
Annabell sighed. ‘Is there something you wish to tell me, Susan…a reason you don’t wish to leave?’
Even though she asked the question, Annabell knew the answer. Mr Tatterly had been courting Susan since they first came here nearly three months before. Even Susan had finally realised what was happening and, it appeared, welcomed the attention. But Annabell wasn’t going to tell her companion she already knew what was happening. It wasn’t her place. Not yet.
Susan’s pale skin turned beet red. Her gaze fluttered away and she put one hand to her throat. ‘I…I am not sure, Annabell. That is, I think perhaps, but he has not said a word. I believe that just possibly.’ She paused and blushed even more if that were possible. ‘I don’t mean to sound vain, you understand. Ordinarily I would never say, never think such a thing. But I believe—just possibly—that, ahem…’
Annabell took pity on her companion of many years and said gently, ‘That Mr Tatterly is showing a marked interest in you?’
‘Yes.’ Susan pinched her lips together and collapsed on to the nearest chair, obviously overcome by the effort of being so concise. ‘I think.’
Annabell went to her and took her cold hands into her own. ‘My dear, he is besotted with you and makes no effort to hide his feelings.’
Susan looked up at her with eyes so full of longing that all Annabell could do was hope her friend would not be disillusioned and hurt. She knew how painful that was. She squeezed the other woman’s fingers and let go.
‘I wager that, given enough time to screw up his courage to the sticking point, to borrow one of my brother’s less ladylike sayings, Mr Tatterly will announce his intentions.’
‘Do you really think so?’
There was so much vulnerability in the question that Annabell’s heart went out to her friend. ‘Yes, my dear, I do.’
Even as she said the words, Annabell knew she could not move to the inn for she would have to take Susan with her. Mr Tatterly might call, and he might even still court Susan. But he was a timid man. He might just as easily think Susan did not care for his attentions if they moved. Mr Tatterly was nothing like his employer who would pursue the woman he loved to the ends of the earth. Would that Hugo had loved her. She chided herself for wanting, however briefly, something that was so impossible.
Annabell turned abruptly away, not wanting Susan to see the moisture threatening to spill from her eyes. Besides, how had she got from Susan’s possible happiness back to her misery? Her self-centred selfishness.
Then there was Timothy. Surely he wasn’t courting Hugo’s stepmother. But maybe he was. She had never known him well. He had already been on his own when she married Fenwick-Clyde. Timothy had visited infrequently, and it had been obvious that there was no affection lost between him and her father.
Her voice was heavy. ‘I think we will not move to the inn after all, Susan. Not today.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath and made herself smile. Nothing would come of this self-pity and moping. ‘Also, would you please have a servant bring up hot water so I can wash? I
think it best if we let Timothy know we are here sooner rather than later.’
‘Yes, yes, you are right, as usual.’ Susan stood and scurried to the door, her former despondency gone as though it had never existed. She paused with her hand on the knob. ‘Mr Tatterly has asked me to go into the village with him this afternoon. He has some errands to run for Sir Hugo and Lady Fitzsimmon. I did not think you would need me this morning. That is, I thought you would be at the villa, but that the village men would be there to help. If it is not convenient, then I will tell him no.’
Annabell blinked as she followed the rambling, contradictory words with an ease honed by experience. ‘No, Susan. You go with Mr Tatterly. It will be much more fun than digging around in the dirt. And I haven’t any new finds for you to draw.’
She gave Susan her best smile, knowing it didn’t reach her eyes but also knowing Susan would not notice it. The other woman was caught in the throes of her first love.
Better to keep her pain to herself.
Dressed in a very proper white muslin morning dress with blue ribbon trim and a deep flounce around the hem, Annabell descended the stairs and headed for the salon. She even wore her widow’s cap of white muslin trimmed with Brussels lace. Before last night, she would have gone to the library, hoping to see Hugo. Just the thought made her falter before she regained her composure. All she wanted to do now was avoid him, but she had to meet Timothy.
She slipped into the large, rectangular room and stopped to get her bearings. She had not been in here much. It was a cold room with two fireplaces that did little to ease the discomfort. The furniture was formal and grouped in precise little groupings. No, this had not the warm cosiness of the library, nor was Hugo here, she noted with a relief that seemed suspiciously like disappointment.
Juliet Fitzsimmon sat daintily on one of the bigger-than-life chintz-covered sofas with her hands folded demurely in her lap. As always, she was the height of fashion, from her Titian-red hair to the tips of her elegant little kid slippers.
Across from Juliet, in a stiff-backed wing chair, was Timothy Simon Fenwick-Clyde, the only son and heir of Annabell’s deceased husband. She studied him dispassionately.
He was pale and slim, with hair the colour of weak sunlight cut into a Brutus. His eyes were a light grey, his lashes lighter than his hair and his brows a startling contrast of deep brown. His mouth was thin, but finely formed. His chin had a cleft. His hands were long and elegant. He was much like his father physically.
He was immaculately dressed in a navy morning coat and grey pantaloons. Had it been evening he would be in breeches. He had always followed fashion, unlike Hugo. She sighed and continued her study of her stepson. Timothy’s boots were polished to a shine that reflected the nearby flames. He was never less than perfectly turned out. In this area he was totally at odds with Annabell’s dead husband. Fenwick-Clyde had been more interested in his pursuits than his person.
‘How do you do, Timothy?’ Annabell strode towards the couple.
Timothy, Lord Fenwick-Clyde, started and jumped to his feet. ‘Annabell.’ His fair complexion reddened. ‘I did not know you were acquainted with Lady Fitzsimmon.’
Annabell smiled and took the seat Juliet waved her to. ‘I was not until recently. I am here to excavate a Roman villa.’
‘Ah, I should have known.’ The present Lord Fenwick-Clyde barely concealed his disapproval as he sat back down. ‘You took up that hobby after my father died.’
Annabell nodded. ‘It harms no one, gives me great pleasure and preserves our history for posterity. What more could one want in a hobby?’ She was careful to keep her hackles over his attitude from showing in her voice.
As though sensing unease, Juliet waved one delicate white hand to indicate the tea table. ‘Would you care for something, Annabell?’
Annabell, not wishing to fight with her stepson or cause her hostess discomfort, accepted. ‘That would be wonderful, Juliet. I must confess that I have not broken my fast yet.’
‘Then you most definitely shall have something to eat,’ Juliet said in her light, clear soprano as she rang for a servant. ‘Hugo would be appalled to know a guest of his was going hungry.’
The last was said teasingly, but Annabell didn’t have the fortitude to smile. Just the mention of her former lover was enough to make her appetite flee.
‘So,’ Fenwick-Clyde said, ‘Sir Hugo is in residence.’ He cast a quick look at Annabell. ‘I had thought he was still on the Continent, particularly since my stepmother is here.’
Juliet sat a little straighter. ‘Annabell is my guest, Lord Fenwick-Clyde, and I imagine that I am ample chaperon for anyone and particularly for a widow.’
This time Annabell did smile. She had not thought Juliet Fitzsimmon had the wherewithal to speak her mind so forcefully. She was glad she had been wrong.
‘My pardons,’ Fenwick-Clyde said hastily. ‘I did not mean to imply anything out of the ordinary.’
Annabell gazed at him. Susan had been right when she had described him as high in the instep. There were times he was insufferable. This had boded ill to be one of those times. Fortunately, Juliet had nipped him in the bud. She stole a glance at her hostess. Juliet might be good for Timothy. The real question would be whether or not he was good for Juliet.
To turn the focus from proprieties, Annabell asked, ‘What brings you to Kent, Timothy? I don’t recall any property in this area.’
Her stepson flushed deep scarlet before seeming to regain his composure, yet during it all he kept his attention on Juliet. ‘I came to pay my respects to Lady Fitzsimmon. We met during the Season and have maintained a correspondence since then.’
Faint pink tinged Juliet’s cheeks. ‘Lord Fenwick-Clyde has been very generous with his time. I felt it only right that he be invited to visit. Hugo agreed.’
Annabell dropped her eyes to give the couple a moment of privacy and took a long drink of hot tea, laced with cream and sugar. It was hard not to smile at them. They were so obviously interested in each other and trying so very hard not to be obvious. Fortunately for them, nothing stood in their way. Timothy was too much of a prig to have had a mistress to get pregnant. He would be free to marry where he chose. And the age difference was not unheard of.
Not that she wanted to marry Hugo, she told herself sternly. She merely wished their relationship had not changed by his having to marry someone else. That was all. Nothing more.
She followed the tea with some toast just brought by a maid.
‘How long will you be staying?’ she asked her stepson.
Having never taken his attention from his hostess, he raised one sandy eyebrow. ‘I don’t know, Annabell.’
‘As long as he likes,’ Juliet said before he finished speaking. ‘The children adore him.’
Somehow, Annabell could not imagine her starched stepson gambolling with Joseph and Rosalie. She could barely picture him unbending enough to kiss Juliet. And she could never think of him as passionate, although he had had a wife and had got her in the family way. She said nothing.
‘Here you are,’ Hugo’s deep voice drawled. ‘Butterfield told me Fenwick-Clyde had arrived. I see you have been entertaining him.’ He strolled into the room. ‘How do you do.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry I missed you when I delivered the invitation.’
Fenwick-Clyde rose and extended his hand. ‘Sir Hugo.’
Annabell tried to surreptitiously study Hugo. He looked haggard, as though he had had a bad night. His hair was rumpled and his eyes were bloodshot. The lines around his beautiful mouth seemed deeper. His swarthy complexion looked sallow in the pale light coming from the many-paned floor-to-ceiling windows. She was not surprised to see him position himself close to the fire with just a barely perceptible hitch in his walk.
It hurt her to see that his thigh with the wound seemed to pain him, making him hesitate in his walk, although she doubted anyone else had noticed. He was a naturally graceful man, but she knew him intimately now, and could see he d
id not move with his usual smoothness.
She forced her attention back to the other couple. They were much safer to her emotional well-being.
‘Do you plan on staying long?’ Hugo asked.
His tone implied that he didn’t much care what Timothy intended to do, but Annabell knew better. She had learned that Hugo didn’t ask unless he was interested in the answer. Otherwise he would keep his own counsel. She wondered if he worried that the old adage, ‘like father like son’, held true for Timothy. She would have to reassure him, for Juliet’s sake, that to the best of her knowledge it did not. Timothy was the antithesis of his deceased father.
Again, Timothy hesitated as though he did not want to give the wrong response, and Juliet answered for him. ‘Lord Fenwick-Clyde is free to stay as long as he wishes. Did you not tell me that, Hugo?’
Annabell shifted her attention to Juliet, amazed. That was twice in a matter of only minutes that the normally reserved and utterly polite Juliet had spoken with the intention of setting the record straight, so to speak. She began to see Hugo’s stepmother in a new light.
‘Of, course,’ Hugo said. ‘I did not mean to imply anything different, Juliet. I merely inquired so that I could pass the information along to Butterfield.’
He spoke so innocently and his face was so bland that Annabell nearly believed him. But she saw the hand that he rested on the marble mantelpiece tense. He was definitely not comfortable with Timothy’s visit. The small frown on Juliet’s normally smooth brow told Annabell the other woman also realised Hugo was not perfectly sanguine. Timothy seemed unaware of any tension, but he did not know Hugo as the two women did.
‘If it is not convenient, Sir Hugo, I can stay at the inn in the nearby village.’
‘Not at all.’ Hugo pushed away from the mantel. His gaze roved over the three of them, lingering briefly on Annabell. ‘I hope to see you at dinner, Fenwick-Clyde. Right now, my estate manager is waiting.’
He made an inclusive bow and left. Annabell watched him, wishing she were going with him and knowing she never would. She turned back to the couple.
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