Anna's Refuge

by Kerryn Reid

  A pause while Anna gnawed the inside of her cheek and fixed her gaze on the drizzle wetting the streets as they passed.

  “Mr. Aubrey seemed keen on getting his waltz with you when we saw him yesterday. Did he not come after all?”

  “He came.” As you would know, Mama, if you had done your duty. But perhaps it was better she had not. If Mama had been there when Gideon had appeared, Anna might have gotten one final waltz with him. It would not have changed the outcome.

  In any case, it was too late for Anna to wish for a proper chaperone. Two weeks ago, she’d been delighted to be left entirely alone with Gideon.

  The carriage stopped, the door opened. Despite the footman’s helping hand, Anna slipped as she set her foot on the wet step. Grasping for the edge of the doorway, she dropped her gloves into the muck.

  “You go ahead, miss,” said Putnam with a tsk of annoyance as she climbed down behind and then bent to retrieve them. Anna hurried to the house under cover of the footman’s umbrella.

  Mama followed her to her room, denying her even a moment alone. She began the inquisition as she undid Anna’s gown.

  “That was Mr. Aubrey’s dance. Why did he not see to your comfort rather than that brother of his?”

  “Mr. Aubrey cares nothing for my comfort.” Anna choked on the words.

  “What?” Mama yanked the gown off over her head and then tossed it across a chair. “Speak up, girl!”

  “Mr. Aubrey danced with someone else.” Anna’s voice sounded dull, inert, even as the shards of love and pride sliced her heart into mincemeat. To be treated with such contempt after all his declarations, his poetic recitations. “A lovelier flower on earth was never sown,” he’d quoted. “They sin who tell us love can die.”

  She would never trust poetry again. However deeply the poet might feel the words he wrote, the man reciting them need not feel anything. He might in fact feel quite the opposite. Mirth and mockery.

  “Someone else?” Mama snapped, her tone scalding. “And you did nothing?”

  “I reminded him, though I’m sure it was improper. But Miss… The other girl was on his arm.” Anna swallowed the anger boiling up in her throat. “He pretended he’d forgotten my name.”

  How could he be so insulting, so heartless? Her mother tugged at her stays, cutting off Anna’s sob. She clamped her lips tight and held her breath until Mama was finished.

  “And Mr. Lewis Aubrey? What had he to say to anything?”

  “He helped me avoid making a spectacle of myself.”

  “Humph. If he wanted to help, he should have brought you to me. I would have made sure Gideon Aubrey fulfilled his promise.”

  Oh, a marvelous sight that would have been. Her mother, torn from her card game, plowing her way through the dancers to drag Miss Landrum from Gideon’s arms. Maybe she would beat him with her reticule.

  “Now, let’s put our heads together and figure out how to get Mr. Aubrey back. He’s the best you’re likely to get.”

  “I don’t want him back.” Anna’s heart cried out that she lied, but it was the only possible decision. A man who would betray her after— No. She must not think of that until she was alone. She sat before the mirror but quickly averted her gaze, horrified at the face she saw there.

  “Nonsense,” said Mama, jerking the pins from her hair. “It was merely a ploy to make you jealous, I’m sure of it. Or a test to see how much you really want him. Or perhaps nothing more than a wager at one of his clubs. We just need to play our cards right.”

  Anna buried her head in her hands. She’d heard that men bet on all sorts of things. Had he wagered she was too love-struck to see through his charade? What if he’d wagered on how quickly he could…?

  She fought the panic smashing at the foundations of her sanity. Her problems went far beyond heartbreak. She must get rid of her mother, and then she must think.

  “How about Mr. Jack Wedbury, then? He’s nothing to look at, I grant you, but worth more, and a baronetcy into the bargain.”

  “No, Mama.” Anna groaned, lifting her head. It felt heavy, like a rock. Mr. Wedbury was nice enough, probably, but he’d left no impression whatsoever. Nor had he shown any interest in her.

  “So you admit defeat, girl?” her mother accused. “You’ll trudge home and marry Mr. Wexcombe? He has a grandchild nearly your age!”

  Anna’s hands shook with the compulsion to cover her ears. The words bit deep, bitter, and degrading. She had all but forgotten Mr. Wexcombe waiting in Bristol, drinking port with Papa as they discussed marriage settlements, waiting for her to fail. Mama had negotiated for this one Season, one chance for Anna to find someone better, a man who was both wealthy and youthful. Handsome too, if possible.

  And Anna had found the man of her dreams. Or so she had thought.

  “My God, Anna!” Mama’s gaze bored into Anna’s, her tone piercing. “Were I you, I would kiss Gideon Aubrey’s feet to get him back. Masculine perfection, or that old man? You just think about that, miss!”

  Oh yes, Anna thought long and hard after the door slammed shut, though there was not much that was rational about the process. Mr. Wexcombe! She had known the man all her life. He had brought her sweets when she was small, trinkets as she grew older. Now he carried liver spots on his hands and decay on his breath, but he was not a bad man. He would treat her well. At his age, why should he even care that she was no virgin, as long as she gave him what he wanted?

  But to have intimate relations with him? How could she bear the comparison with her memories of Gideon? His touch, his kiss, his murmured endearments. His hand slipping between her thighs, her heart soaring with the knowledge that he had chosen her to share his life. His plea that they should hold their love between themselves a short while, their own delicious secret.

  Ha! No wonder he wanted to keep it secret. If his brother was right, it had all been fiction. Only a game.

  Was it possible for a man to be so base? Was it possible for a girl to be so blind? Not only blind but stupid. All his talk of love, of their future together. He couldn’t live without her, couldn’t wait to make her his. Never once had he mentioned marriage, only implied it. And never once had she noticed! Why else should he visit her father, after all?

  He wouldn’t. He had lied. She had heard what she longed to hear.

  She dropped to her knees by the bed, but no prayer came, and no tears either. Fear stared her in the face with Gideon’s eyes, crinkled at the corners with the crooked smile that told her she was the most desirable woman in the world. The only woman he would ever love.

  Except he had not loved her at all. If his brother was right.

  Prove him wrong, Gideon, please prove him wrong!

  She would give him one day. If he came tomorrow and begged her pardon, and pledged his heart, and told Mama of his intentions… If he did those things, Mr. Wexcombe did not stand a chance.

  Chapter 2

  Lewis Aubrey had not come to London to dance. Nor was rescuing hapless damsels from his brother ever part of the plan.

  No, he and Jack Wedbury had taken the opportunity offered by Jack’s parents to visit the heart of business and government, art, and music. For two lads of twenty-two from an insignificant Yorkshire town, a stroll down St. James’s held more interest than a ball, fencing lessons more excitement than perfecting their dance steps. Seeing the Tower and the Thames, attending concerts and plays, maybe taking in a few lectures on science or art—though Lewis would have a hard time talking Jack into that—those were the entertainments that had drawn them.

  But they’d also come to see Cassie through her first Season, and dancing was part of the job. Lewis had grown up under the Wedburys’ roof as much as his own, and he’d come to London at their invitation and mostly at their expense. Gratitude and friendship both played a part in the enormous debt he owed the family. Had the great William Turner offered a private drawing lesson, and last night the only possible time, Lewis would not have missed Cassie’s coming-out ball.

&nb
sp; He’d expected to feel ill at ease, possibly bored. He had not expected rage. Gideon had moved to London two years ago, leaving Lewis blessedly free of his constant harassment. With all the city had to offer, surely he could have found some other victim.

  Instead he had used Miss Spain, a living, breathing human being, as his instrument of torture. Lewis should have hidden his attraction to her, or better yet, not felt it at all. Lewis could have saved himself a lot of frustration by staying in Wrackwater Bridge.

  When Miss Spain had joined them last night with her honey-gold hair and distracting curves, giving him that glowing smile and the tantalizing dimple that adorned it, he’d thought for one idiotic moment she’d realized her error. Did he have a chance, after all?

  But she’d only wanted to know if Gideon was coming, and he’d uttered God knows what inanities in reply. His brain shut off completely when she regarded him with those smoky-blue eyes, waiting in vain for his reply to a simple question.

  Soon after they met some weeks ago, she’d asked about his taste in literature. “Have you read Mr. Coleridge’s Christabel, Mr. Aubrey?” He could not say yes—it would be a lie—and he did not want to tell her no. He wanted to be the man she dreamed of, as he dreamed about her. He’d visited the lending library and borrowed Christabel. Read it, too, and wished he could like it.

  It didn’t matter, because they never discussed it. By then, his brother had stepped in to divert Miss Spain’s attention and usurp her smiles. Not because he wanted her, but to ensure that Lewis couldn’t have her.

  No doubt that waltz had been less harrowing for him than for Miss Spain. He’d been furious with his brother, then concerned for her—but the feel of her in his arms had been glorious. Close enough to measure her height against his, just to his chin. Close enough to caress the soft curve of her cheeks, if such a thing were permitted, and to wonder at the absence of colored flecks in her eyes. If only she would pay him a quarter of the same attention. But to a girl in love with his shameless mountebank of a brother, no man in the room would seem an acceptable substitute.

  Lewis had seen Miss Spain safely away from the ball last night and stayed to glower at Gideon. When Gideon had left, he’d stayed to fulfill his duty as an honorary member of the host family.

  Now, two short hours after finding his bed, he was torn from slumber by the unaccustomed racket of city streets. He found Jack awake too, complaining in a similar vein. “Why can’t those infernal peddlers wait for a decent hour to start caterwauling? Judging by your bloodshot eyes, you didn’t sleep either. Might as well have headed straight out for our ride after the ball last night.”

  “Hard to hire a horse at four in the morning.”

  “Could’ve just walked all night. Maybe some footpads would’ve robbed us and rolled us under the bushes to bleed to death.”

  “I’ve nothing worth stealing,” Lewis said. Certainly not Miss Spain, for she had never been his, even before Gideon set out to make sure of it. Now it seemed he was angling for Miss Landrum, the girl who had addled Jack’s brain. The familiar knot in Lewis’s gut tightened.

  When Jack had dressed, they rode to Hyde Park as they did most mornings. Jack complained all the way about Gideon and Miss Landrum. Brooding over his brother’s past and present malice, Lewis hardly listened. Possibly Gideon had not intended that Lewis’s puppy should die when he tied the wasp nest around its neck, but he’d laughed long and loud when it did. And tossing a sheaf of Lewis’s hard-wrought drawings into the midden heap had been no accident. Nor was breaking Miss Spain’s heart.

  A bird distracted his mount, bringing him back to his surroundings. The park was mighty poor country compared to the fells and brooks of the Yorkshire Dales where they’d spent all their lives, and God willing would spend the rest. How many times could a man ride up and down a single dirt track and pretend to enjoy it? But at least there were trees alongside, and hazy sunlight gleamed off the water.

  “I didn’t realize you were so besotted,” he said to Jack.

  “That waltz was supposed to be mine, but maybe Gideon did me a good turn. It ain’t like I’m ready to get hitched.”

  “Lord no. We’ve got years yet.” Lewis pressed a hand to the oddly hollow place in his chest. “And if you want to resume your flirtation, just give it a few weeks. Gideon never keeps ’em long.”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t think I’m interested in any chit who succumbs so easily to that jackanapes. Last week she was making sheep’s eyes at me.”

  Lewis had missed that sight, but he wasn’t going to quibble. “It’s like he has some sort of magic. Maybe it’s his name—lures them like bees to a gorse flower. I ask you, what woman would ever be attracted to Lewis?”

  Jack laughed, but Lewis wasn’t in the mood. “Come on!” He gave the nag a kick in the ribs and took off along Rotten Row. Though they were later than usual, it was early enough to be thin of other riders. They galloped until they ran out of track, and then they reversed direction and raced back before reining in.

  Yes, that was better. A good run always made the day just a little brighter, even if the hired hacks were inferior to the horses in their family stables. The Wedburys had brought only their carriage horses to London, much to Jack’s dismay.

  Lewis had no horse to bring. His inheritance from the Uncle Lewis he’d never met could be called an independence only by practicing strict economy. As long as he lived at home, he had access to a horse, and when he moved out, he would need far more than that. An income, for instance.

  Jack returned to the topic of the day. “You were taken with Miss Spain, weren’t you? Maybe Gideon’s brother would have an advantage over her other admirers. Why don’t you give it a try now that he’s dropped her?”

  “Seems to me Gideon’s brother is the last person she’d want around.”

  Nevertheless, that afternoon Lewis found himself plying the knocker at the house Mrs. Spain had rented for the Season. Clifford Street was a fashionable enough address, but this particular establishment boasted outdated furnishings and faded upholstery. No doubt the price had been right.

  Lewis had been there a few times during those first weeks in town, in company with Cassie and Jack. On the last occasion, they had found Gideon seated cozily on the sofa beside Miss Spain, smug as a toad with a big fat fly. Only in this case it was a slender young lady doomed to heartbreak. She had jumped to her feet when they arrived, blushing and stumbling a little over her greetings. Her mother was nowhere in sight, though an abigail trundled in a few minutes later, mighty surprised to see them all.

  None of them knew her well enough to warn her about Gideon—and why should she have believed them anyway, when he looked such a picture of honorable manhood?

  Today, females cluttered the drawing room—two other girls in their first Season with their mothers. Lewis would have walked right out the door again if it had been possible. But when the butler announced simply, “Mr. Aubrey,” Mrs. Spain unfolded her tall frame, a smile building on the angular countenance so different than her daughter’s. When she saw Lewis, the wrong Mr. Aubrey, the smile evaporated. She grew an extra inch and sniffed in disdain.

  “Ah. Mr. Lewis Aubrey. It’s good of you to call.” She sounded annoyed, as though it was his fault her butler had failed to disclose his given name.

  Well, he had not come to see Mrs. Spain, and he did not care what she thought. He made her a bow and directed another to the visiting ladies. The avid curiosity he had seen on their faces when he first entered the room had already degenerated into disappointment, mirroring Mrs. Spain’s.

  No doubt they had come to pry into the peculiar happenings of the night before. If he were Gideon, he might fall to his knees at Miss Spain’s feet with apologies and proclamations of undying love. Or she might faint, and the ladies could cluster round her and thrust their vinaigrettes under her nose, berating him for his insensitivity.

  They could expect no such entertainment from Lewis.

  Miss Spain must have suffered mos
t at the butler’s careless announcement. Yet she did not seem displeased to see him. Lewis hoped she had convinced the callers her pale cheeks and shadowed eyelids sprang from a headache, or too many late nights. He cast her one of those false grins they had shared last evening, and she called up a frail smile in return.

  He stood when the other ladies left some ten minutes later. Miss Spain sagged with relief at their departure; he would not outstay his own welcome. But while her mother was seeing them out, Miss Spain stood also and touched his sleeve fleetingly.

  “I hope you can stay a few minutes, Mr. Aubrey?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  He had hardly uttered a dozen words since he arrived, and now he merely nodded. She moved to the window that looked out over the street and sat on the cushioned bench beneath it. Lewis eyed the narrow space beside her. If he were Gideon, he would sit, though his leg must touch her skirts.

  Lewis remained standing. “I hope… I hope you do not think… I came with a message.” He cleared his throat. “From my brother, I mean.”

  She shook her head. “I did when you first arrived. But it was faint.” She looked away from him, out the window. “It is a relief, though, to see someone who knows what happened and is a little sympathetic.”

  “Your mother must… Surely your mother…?”

  “She wants to know what I did to give Gideon a disgust of me.” She fell quiet then, as Mrs. Spain returned to the room and moved toward them.

  Chapter 3

  It was past two o’clock that night when Lewis found his way back to the Wedburys’ house in Brook Street. Even drunk, he wasn’t so stupid as to try walking alone in the blighted neighborhood where he’d left Jack and the others. Once he reached the better part of town, though, he’d paid off the hackney and walked the last few blocks. He thought the exercise would clear his mind. Yet now he was not even sure he had the right house. He peered stupidly up at the façade in the gleam of the streetlights—the whole blasted row looked identical.