Annabelle’s resemblance to Matilda was remarkable, and he was certain that his enemies had noticed it too. He suppressed the stinging pain he felt at having to think of her name and of his enemy in the same thought. How Greywood and the man, whom he knew kept himself consistently in the background, must have laughed when they had found the perfect tool in Lady Annabelle to destroy Marcus once and for all. But were his arch enemies also smart enough to come up with a complicated plan that involved both Annabelle and her sister? After all, the intricate manoeuvre to include Lady Annabelle through her sister at least explained why the viscount had refrained from seducing Annabelle himself. He had wanted her to be pure when she entered Marcus’s bed so that no suspicion of a possible double play with his new wife came up. His instinct had told him, back then, that Annabelle was not a scorned lover of Greywood’s and most likely, he was right about that.
However, all theories led to one particular point where Marcus got stuck. Setting up the trap with the lovely Lady Annabelle Carlisle at the centre meant that Greywood knew of his, St. John’s, intentions. Marcus asked himself over and over again about when and how he had given them away, but he could not come up with anything satisfactory. Even Finch, his trusted servant and confidant, found no answer to the pressing question.
Therefore, he had no other choice but to make a virtue out of necessity and have Annabelle as his wife. In this way, Marcus believed he was one step ahead of Greywood. If Greywood believed that he had fallen into his trap, he would fall into a false sense of security, which in turn would cause him to lower his guard and he would no longer be as vigilant, which increased Marcus’s chances of getting to him via Annabelle – in case his other attempts failed. He had no intention of putting a woman in danger, even if she was an ally to the enemy, but desperate situations demanded desperate measures.
For the most part, the marriage with a spy inside his own home was a first-rate opportunity that Marcus wanted to take full advantage of. They wanted to lure him into a trap? He almost laughed out loud. He would show the bastard what he thought of his malicious plan. He, Marcus St. John, the last of the Grandover line, would turn the tables and laugh as he watched Greywood going down in flames. And not just the man alone, but also the one who held the strings, the faceless stranger, the mastermind behind the perfidious plans. It was only a question of time and patience before his identity would be revealed, and Marcus had plenty of both. In the end, the man would fall just as his henchman would.
Until then, Marcus intended to use his new wife as a means to an end. Since she and Greywood were in cahoots together, St. John was determined to make it as difficult as possible for Annabelle to gather information that she could relay to Greywood. It was up to him to take advantage of Greywood’s accomplice, whether she had agreed to it or not, and to incorporate her into his plans. After all, if one plays with fire, one runs the danger of getting burned.
Her horrified face, when he had told her father that he would take her as his wife, was something he would remember until the end of his days. He was convinced that this had taken the wind out of both of their sails, hers and Greywood’s. His own reputation remained that of a bon viveur, not that of a defamatory plunger, and thus, he could continue to move in the circles where his findings were pointing to so far. He did not believe that Lady Annabelle’s father was in league with Greywood, but he wanted to be vigilant all the same.
He looked at her, his newly wedded wife, and saw how she tried to press herself into the opposite corner of the carriage, in order to stay as far away from him as possible. A small seed of doubt as to his conviction that she was part of the game rose in him, and he pushed it aside with the utmost willpower. He had experienced first-hand just how well women could disguise themselves. She played her role of the anxious bride convincingly, but not well enough to fool him.
He watched as she leaned forward and pushed the curtain in front of the small window to the side to take a peek outside.
“Where are we going?” Her voice sounded calm and collected, but the rapid rise and fall of her breasts revealed her inner turmoil. She was still peering out into the street that led from the rural suburbs of the capital straight into the heart of London. “If I am not mistaken, we are driving back into the city.” It sounded like half a question, half a statement. Should he leave her in the dark a little while longer?
“Very well observed, indeed,” he said and reached over to close the curtain again. The temperature inside the dark carriage was unbearably warm, but the less comfortable his wife felt, the sooner she would become careless and make a mistake. She froze as his fingers brushed against hers and hastily withdrew her hand. With courteously folded hands in her lap, she truly offered the image of a virtuous debutante, but Marcus knew better. He had kissed her – and she had reciprocated the kiss with complete and utter unladylike passion.
“We are driving back to my townhouse. I have had a bedroom prepared for you, and you can do with it whatever you please.”
“I do not understand,” she said, looking at him with her expressive brown eyes. “I expected a man of your status to take his bride on a honeymoon, after we had visited your relatives.” Annabelle had assumed that they would, as it was customary, visit family members for whom the journey to the wedding had been too far or too arduous. She knew that his parents had both passed away, but he certainly had other relatives whom he intended to introduce her to, later.
“No,” he replied in such a cool tone that she became frightened. “I am the last surviving heir of the Grandovers. Besides, I have business to attend to, which will also keep you busy over the next few weeks, while we are in London,” he explained, looking at her unobtrusively. Annabelle nodded quietly, as if she had secretly expected it, or as if she had ticked off a point on an imaginary list.
“I beg your pardon…” she began but had to pause for a moment as the carriage rumbled over a pothole in the road, catapulting her towards the middle of the bench, before righting herself in her seat. “There are a few things I would like to address as soon as we have arrived at your townhouse. I did not want this marriage…” Marcus raised his hand to stop her in the midst of what she was about to say. Her audacious lie had instantly fuelled his rage to the point where he thought his chest would burst. “I am sorry…” she tried a second time, without finishing her sentence.
“We will talk about this as soon as we have arrived.” He wanted to let her suffer for a little while longer in the hellish heat of the summery August day. He noticed that some of her artfully pinned-up hair was beginning to come loose, and the soft pinkish colour of her décolletage spoke just as clearly of her discomfort as did her cheeks, which were blushing beneath the powder. Once more he felt the urge to be kinder to her, just as he had been when she had bid her family farewell. The spark of gratitude in her face had touched him – until he remembered who she was and his most important task, maybe even his life’s purpose.
She was not Matilda.
And he had to destroy the men who had taken everything away from him, just two years ago, and who had tried to ruin his life.
Chapter 3
The carriage dragged on in endless silence. Annabelle tried her best not to show her inner unease, but she was unable to silence the fearful voice inside her head. Thousands of questions hung unanswered over her, threatening like thick thunderclouds, and only part of them affected her future. What disconcerted her the most was that she was unable to make sense of Marcus St. John. She could interpret the body language of other people, but she failed miserably with him. He was so… withdrawn. Every now and then, when his feelings seemed to become too strong for him to control, Annabelle got a glimpse of what was going on in his head, but never more than that.
He was, and remained, a closed book to her.
When the horses finally slowed and ultimately stopped, she expected him to get up and leave her behind, but he surprised her yet again. Marcus St. John did not wait for his driver to open the door for him, but inst
ead held his hand out to her and helped her out. Annabelle had little opportunity to admire the townhouse of the Grandovers when the front door opened, and another servant appeared. Annabelle assumed that he had already passed the middle of his lifetime, but his posture was as straight as that of a young man. His livery, in the Grandover colours, was a splash of red against the softly gleaming, golden galloons in front of the dark entrance hall. The closer she stepped towards the door, the more certain Annabelle was that the house would swallow her whole and never release her again.
Where did these grim fantasies come from? She took a deep breath and ordered her feet to move forward. After all, she had never been a woman whose imagination cut disturbing capers such as these!
“Lord Grandover,” the butler intoned as St. John marched past him into the hall. He had a deep, composed voice that suited his dignified manner. “Lady Grandover, I would like to welcome you in the name of the servants.” He looked as though he was about to add something, but her husband gave him a scowl, which the man took without any outward sign of fear.
“There is plenty of time for that later, Wickham,” her husband stated, handing him his hat, cane, and coat. Then he moved his shoulders underneath his spencer and let his hand glide towards his collar, as if he was about to loosen his cravat and the buttons on his shirt. It was the first gesture that did not seem rehearsed in Annabelle’s eyes, she noted with some relief. Behind his handsome, cold face and restrained posture hid a man of flesh and blood after all.
“My Lady,” Wickham had already passed her husband’s belongings to a pale young boy that Annabelle had not noticed earlier. The butler held out his hands towards her, and she allowed him to help her out of the long coat. With unsteady hands, she released the pins from her veil before handing the fragrant fabric over to Wickham. It was all very unconventional. Not only did she not have a honeymoon, but she also did not have a maid to help her. Well then. This was yet another item on the list of things she and St. John had to discuss.
She felt warm. Her white bridal gown had been tied too tightly. She had married a man she hardly knew, just to protect her sister. She had been an obedient daughter and had kept silent, leaving everything up to her father – from the negotiations about her dowry to the date of the wedding. She would also be able to survive a conversation with St. John without changing her dress.
The front door closed with a faint clicking sound, starving Annabelle of most of the of light.
“Come,” he said and Annabelle, who just a moment ago had been convinced to remain silent, smile, and say ‘yes’ to everything, felt something in her head snap, as if a ribbon had been pulled too taut. If he said ‘come’ to her once more in that tone, she would… do what? Run away? Scream?
“I am not a dog that you can command,” she said. “A little courtesy from my husband is not too much to ask.” Her heart was beating so loud that she barely heard her own words. She did not even know whether he had heard her at all, for in the semi-darkness that was only lit by two candles, her dark-clad husband could no longer be seen.
Hesitantly, she padded forward. Where was he? Where had the butler and the boy gone? Annabelle let out her breath when a door some distance from her opened, letting a beam of warm light fall into the entrance hall, which suddenly did not seem as it had a few seconds ago. In the open doorway, she could make out St. John’s broad-shouldered figure. She saw now that he had half turned towards her. One half of his face was lit up by the light from the room, while the other half was still in mostly darkness. The man with two faces, it flashed across Annabelle’s mind.
“We will have tea in the parlour,” she heard him say, and for a moment Annabelle thought he instructed her to brew and serve tea.
“Very well, my Lord,” Wickham’s deep baritone voice sounded diagonally behind her. Hot blush coloured Annabelle’s cheeks when she realised that he had heard her words. Just so St. John would not say ‘come’ one more time, she hurried to follow behind him. She did not really know what she had expected, but most certainly not this state-of-the-art room in Chinese style. Lacquered inlaid furniture depicting animals and humans from a land far away had been carefully arranged in front of the bright blue wall coverings. The parlour was furnished sparingly, yet with exquisite taste. Who had chosen the furniture? Annabelle decided to have a closer look at the interior later, because she did not want to just stand there, in the middle of the room, staring at everything like a farmer’s daughter with eyes the size of saucers.
“Sit down,” came from St. John’s mouth. She pressed her lips together. “Please,” he added, soaking the single word with an ironic undertone. She chose an armchair with a straight back, which looked rather uncomfortable and fulfilled her expectations. Annabelle had not the slightest intention of relaxing, not right now. She had the uncertain feeling that she was not allowed to relax in her vigilance during this conversation.
Wickham entered the room without knocking, as was right and proper for a distinguished butler. He was followed by a young woman in plain clothes, carefully balancing a tea tray. Annabelle felt a surge of relief in her chest. She was not the only female in the earl’s household. The butler, whose red livery shone brightly against the dark blue, watched Argus-eyed as the maid put down the porcelain, giving Annabelle a shy glance.
“Thank you…” Annabelle said.
“Clarice,” Wickham supplied helpfully.
“Thank you, Clarice,” Annabelle repeated. “I will pour the tea. That is all.”
Clarice curtsied and disappeared, but Wickham waited until St. John released him with a nod. While Annabelle poured the fragrant, light brown liquid into the cup, she glanced at her husband from beneath half-lowered eyelids. He did not seem surprised that she appeared to fit seamlessly into the hierarchy that reigned in his house. After all, he had not been upset that she, as the lady of the house, had sent the maid away. Was that a good sign?
“Before Wickham shows you your rooms, I would like to talk to you about the rules of my house,” he began. “Firstly, I expect that you behave as one would await from the Countess of Grandover.”
Annabelle did not dare to bring her cup to her mouth, because her courage had once more dissolved into nothing, in the face of his icy tone. In no case did she want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her hands tremble. “What exactly do you mean by behaviour one would await?” Actually, she would have preferred to ask him why he had married her in the first place. Or why he had not at least tried to talk to her about it, let alone, ask about her wishes in all of this.
“You will accompany me to public gatherings and events,” he replied and leaned back in his chair, which looked at least well-cushioned. “You will not do anything that will harm the reputation of the House of Grandover. If you feel you need a man…” he paused as if to consider his words, “… for companionship…” he continued, “for goodness sake, be discreet.”
Annabelle drew in a sharp breath. Her cheeks burned, and his words felt like a slap to the face. But he still had not reached the end of his list.
“Secondly, you are free to move around this house as you wish, however, you are forbidden from entering the library and my private quarters. Do you understand?”
Numbness washed over her. She wanted to say something, but her throat was dry. She opened her eyes as far as she could, to prevent the tears from falling, and moved her head up and down just once.
“Thirdly, you are free to occupy yourself in whatever way you like, and you may entertain friends in my house, but should I ever find out that you have invited Greywood under my roof, I will file for divorce.”
This did not make any sense to Annabelle. Did he not know that divorce was next to impossible? Admittedly, apart from the inevitable ruin that she would have to face as a divorced woman, the procedure was possible, but it was costly, laborious, and went against everything that was custom. It was much less complicated to separate the house and the bed, but to remain married under the same name. And for him, as a Cath
olic, it was next to impossible to have his church grant him a dispensation, even if he was prepared to undertake every necessary step towards divorce. “What are you talking about? I do not understand–”
He interrupted her with just one movement of his hand and stood up from his chair. Unintentionally, Annabelle noticed how lithely her husband moved as he rose. One would think that a strong man like him would move less graciously, but that was not the case. Not in the slightest. It would be a mistake to underestimate his obvious strength… Enough! His physical elegance was the last thing to think about right now.
“Other than that, I am completely unconcerned about what you do with the rest of your life,” he dragged her back into the cruel reality, “and it should be clear to you that our so-called marriage only exists on paper. Do not assume that I would shy away from a divorce, no matter how complicated or dirty it may be.”
“Then why did you even marry me?” Annabelle whispered, but her question faded away unheard. Marcus St. John did what she thought he did best – he turned his back towards her and ignored her.
Maybe a divorce was not such a bad idea after all.
If he did not know better, he might almost believe that his wife was innocent.
St. John tightened his jaw as he called her his wife in his thoughts. He was in an exceptionally bad mood, even though he had tried to prepare for this moment when she would enter his house. He had tried to convince himself that he would not mind seeing her in a role which he still secretly saw as Matilda’s rightful place. Annabelle had accepted his rules without any further objections, even though she had turned pale at his rough words about a possible intrigue. Strange, he thought as he loosened his much too tight collar. The mention of Greywood had apparently hurt her much less than his indifference to her private life. He had the incredible urge to punch his pillow with his fists as if the fluffy object bore the face of his enemy.
The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy Page 4