Annabelle, The American

by Lavinia Kent

It was impossible to tell. He kept his gaze on the horses, his eyes straight ahead. Traffic bustled and pedestrians strolled with little direction, so his attention was needed. But did it truly require his whole focus?

  Should she speak?

  “We seem to be the center of attention.” There, that left things open.

  “Are we?” He glanced at her quickly and then back to the road.

  What did she say next? She’d never felt so awkward talking with Thomas. “Yes, a great many eyes seem to be aimed in our direction.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Really? She stared at him, trying to find any hint of betraying emotion. “Yes, I do believe Mrs. Wattington wants to steal a carriage so she can follow us and keep watching. She’s almost running to keep up.”

  “We are not going fast. The traffic is too dense. I am sure she can keep up.”

  Did he mean that to be humorous? Annabelle turned her head and stared back at Mrs. Wattington, who truly was prancing along at an astounding pace, her mouth moving almost as quickly as her feet as she talked to a tall, thin woman who Annabelle did not recognize.

  Annabelle swallowed, feeling as if her throat were one large, fuzzy lump. She blinked quickly, banishing sudden tears. She hated this. She wanted to go home, go back to Boston.

  As if sensing her emotion, Thomas turned his face more toward her, his glance moving between her and the road. “I am sure it’s your imagination. We are not so newsworthy.”

  “Are we not?” Again, she gave him an opening, prayed for him to say something, to tell her about the cartoon, and then to explain how it was all a lie.

  He did not answer.

  “I have not been stared at this much since I first arrived. That first month we were here, I was convinced that I had my dress on inside out or that I was wearing a fruit bowl on my head. I could continually hear whispers about how I just wasn’t right for a marquess.”

  His eyes stopped roaming and held hers for a moment. She could read emotion in them, but it was unclear what. “I did not know that. I am sorry. I was not a marquess when I asked you to marry me.”

  “No, but you were when we wed. I should have cried off, granted you the chance to come back and choose an appropriate wife.”

  Thomas’s gaze went back to the road, his eyes fastened on the reins. “I did not want that. I told you so at the time.”

  “Still, it is what I should have done.”

  “I could have had a wife here if I had wanted. I wanted you.”

  “Why?”

  “The usual reasons, I suppose.”

  “Money.” She said it flatly. She would not deny the truth.

  His chest rose and fell, and she could hear him exhale even over the pounding of hooves and the clatter of wheels. “I have never denied that was part of it—perhaps even a large part. Do you wish I had, that I had not told you the truth?”

  Did she? It was easy to pretend. She did wish she had not known it was her fortune her husband desired. But even if he had not told her, if he had lied, she would have known. She was practical. The world worked the way it did and all the dreams in a young woman’s heart would not change that. Still, it would have been nice to imagine that he cared, truly cared. “No, I am glad you told me the truth. I was merely stating it again.”

  “There was more to it than that. I could have married a fortune in England if that is what I wanted.”

  “Then what is that more? I believe you wanted the freedom of Massachusetts, that you liked being away from all of this.” She swung her arm wide, gesturing at the crowds of well-dressed ladies. “But you didn’t get that. You got called back here.”

  “You are correct. I would have stayed in America for further decades if I could have. I did intend to raise my family there, to let my children grow without the pressure of being the duke’s grandchildren.”

  Children. She pushed the thought away. There was too much unsettled to even think about children.

  “But now you are back—and saddled with me for a wife.”

  “I have never considered myself saddled. I will say again, if I had wanted a society wife, I would have taken one.” He snapped the whip over the horses’ backs even though they were moving along at an even clip. “Even as a second son, there were many who would have had me. My father would have seen to that.”

  Did she detect bitterness in his tone? She knew that his relationship with his father was not easy. She’d only met the duke a dozen or so times in the year they had been back and those had all held a sharp degree of formality. The duke was not happy with his American daughter-in-law and did not bother to hide the fact. But she’d never realized that he was unhappy with Thomas, as well. What father would not be proud of the man that her husband had become? “Why didn’t you?”

  “How many times must I say that I did not want to?” He swatted angrily at a fly that buzzed by his face.

  Her gaze dropped to her hands, to the kidskin gloves that hid her fingers. She rubbed the leather back and forth, trying not to betray emotion. Her mind filled suddenly with the cruel cartoon, with the sweet young girl clinging to his arm, the small baby in her arms, the younger girl by her side.

  Thomas might not have wanted a society wife, but did that actually mean he’d wanted her? It seemed not.

  “If you had known you would inherit—that you would one day be duke, would you still have chosen me? If you hadn’t already asked me, that is?” That was the question she really wanted the answer to, the question she could ask. It was time to be honest—or at least more so.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He was waiting too long to answer. He should have spit out a “yes” before she’d even finished the question. Thomas focused his eyes on the backs of his horses. They were stepping well, their gate smooth.

  He considered carefully, too carefully. He could feel her body shrinking away from him, her shoulders drawing back and tight. “I always knew that I might inherit someday.”

  “Someday is very different than now. If we had been married for years, had a passel of children, all this might be different—but it is not someday. It is now. If you had known how things would turn out, would you have married me?”

  “I did know how things had turned out when I married you. My brother died well before our wedding.” He bit out the last words.

  “Semantics.” She was not giving up. “Would you have asked me to marry you, if you had known then, when you asked, what would happen?”

  He was thinking too hard again. He did not want to lie, but “I don’t know” did not seem an adequate answer.

  “Are you going to answer me?” Her voice sounded flat rather than cross, almost as if she were already defeated.

  “Yes. I would marry you now.” He hoped he sounded more definite than he felt. He believed that he had chosen the right wife, but the world had taught him that you could not predict the future until you lived it. He wished he could explain it all to her, but they had never had such a discussion.

  It was her turn not to answer. She turned her head more firmly away, staring at the flowers that filled the park’s formal garden. “Your father does not think so.”

  That was true, but how did she know? The duke would never have said anything to her. “I am not my father. It was me who asked you, not him.”

  “I know. I am sounding ungrateful.”

  “It is not gratitude I want.”

  That brought her face turning back to him. “Then what do you want?”

  Why could she not let things be? It came to him again that he should just raise the blasted cartoon, bring it all out in the open, surely that was better than sniping at each other for no reason. “Have you seen your friends recently?”

  “Do you mean, Kathryn, Linnette, Elizabeth, and Annie?”

  “Yes.” He hoped that mentioning the other women who had been involved in the series of cartoons would cause her to bring them up. “I do think it’s wonderful that you have come to know them so well.”

  “Yes,
it is nice. I do thank you for arranging for me to have tea with Kathryn when the first cartoon came out.”

  There she had mentioned the cartoons. “It was the least I could do. I knew you needed friends.”

  Her shoulders pulled back stiffly. What had he said wrong?

  She looked forward again, staring off over the trees. “I was not aware that I seemed friendless. I have Lucille.”

  “I did not mean that at all. I merely meant that you were new in England; I thought you might be lonely. It is wonderful that you have your sister with you, but I thought you could use more . . .” God, he didn’t even know what he was saying.

  “Lucille has always been a good friend to me.” Annabelle was sounding more and more tense by the moment.

  “I did not mean that she was not.”

  “Lucille would never do anything to hurt me.”

  “Of course, she would not.”

  “I am glad you realize that. Lucille is a very loyal person.”

  Why were they arguing about Lucille? He knew that Annabelle’s sister was always helpful and kind. She’d come with them from Boston to keep her sister company, hadn’t she? And how had they gotten so far from the cartoons again? It was hard to tell if she was avoiding discussing them or truly didn’t know about them. “Should I turn for home? I do not know what your plans are for this evening.”

  Was he so ready to be rid of her? Annabelle knew she was not acting well, but who would be under the circumstances? Between Lucille’s revelations, the cartoons, and Thomas’s stubborn oblivion it was a wonder she wasn’t running down the road screaming.

  One of the horses blew out a long, snuffling sigh and she was tempted to repeat the sound along with the lip-shuddering motion. That would get his attention—and that of everybody else in the park. She held still and quiet.

  “I do not have any plans for this evening. I was thinking about a quiet dinner and then my needlework. Perhaps I will practice the pianoforte. Lucille will be out. She is performing on her flute this evening at Lady Smythe-Burke’s and has spent the afternoon there practicing—and don’t say anything about how you are glad she is not practicing at home.”

  “I was not going to say anything.”

  She’d seen his grimace, but did not force the issue. “If you wish to return now, we may. I am sure that everybody has seen us sitting beside each other acting civil.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “Don’t you?” This had to be the most awkward conversation she’d had in her entire life. If she could go back in time, she would have confronted him about the cartoon immediately, not spent all this time avoiding the subject. But why didn’t he bring it up? He must know she knew.

  “No, actually I don’t.” There was an angry tone to his voice. “I am turning the horses.”

  “Fine.” They were going to have a civilized argument. She’d seen her parents have them, but had always thought that she and Thomas would avoid such things.

  “I had thought to stay in tonight, myself. But perhaps I should go to my club.”

  This was the moment. What did she want? “No.”

  “No?”

  “I would like you to stay home, to spend the evening with me.”

  It took a moment to turn the horses on the busy street and they did not speak. Annabelle knew better than to bother a man at such a moment. Once turned, she waited for him to start the conversation again, but he did not. He gave a quick jerk to the reins, starting them off in a homeward direction and still he did not say anything.

  She kept herself straight, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands. How could one morning tire her out so?

  Lucille. She’d felt her hackles rise when they’d discussed her sister a moment ago. She still didn’t know how to deal with what her sister had done, didn’t know what to believe or how to understand. It did seem likely that Lucille had only drawn the first couple of cartoons. But how could her sister not have considered that even they might cause trouble?

  None of this would have happened if Lucille had not started it all.

  Her mind went back to that first moment that she’d seen the cartoon of Thomas and the other woman.

  Thomas. She peered at him out of the corner of her eye and then turned away to stare at the crowds they were slowly passing.

  How in the space of one morning could she be so betrayed by the two people she trusted the most in the world, the two people she relied on for support?

  They were almost home. Thomas knew the streets well. One more turn and they would be there. He had never spent a more uncomfortable morning and he was eager for it to be over.

  A hundred yards to the house. Fifty. Twenty-five.

  He pulled the horses to a stop and jumped down, moving quickly around the curricle to reach a hand up to Annabelle. Her body brushed against his as she descended and despite all else he felt himself respond—he’d always responded.

  It was part of why he’d asked her to marry him, only part—but an important part.

  Why did she have to be so beautiful? He was confused and angry—at himself, at her—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the feelings were there. So why was he so caught by the way the sun glinted upon her hair, casting it in glistening gold? So caught by eyes as clear a blue as the streams running through his boyhood home, eyes that could fill with warmth or freeze with ice.

  And her body. There was not a woman alive with a more perfect body than Annabelle’s, lush full breasts and hips, a curved-in waist that needed no help—and her skin. Skin could be compared to cream, to velvet, to silk. There was no comparison to her skin. It was like nothing else he had ever known.

  She stepped away, the scent of lilacs following her. She wore a different scent everyday, and he had not even realized it was her he smelled and not the flowers in the park until she moved.

  He shook his head, forcing himself into the moment and away from that wonderful place where thoughts of Annabelle’s body always took him.

  She stepped back, further back, and he realized she’d seen his gesture and interpreted it as something negative, something aimed at her.

  He would have closed his eyes and tried to marshal his thoughts, but he was afraid she’d misinterpret that too. “I’ll be heading back out. I have things to do.”

  “Of course.” She turned toward the house.

  “A moment.” He reached out and grabbed her arm, his fingers reaching completely about it. “I will return for dinner, if that is what you still wish.” Perhaps by then he would have figured out what to say—or she would be forced to admit that she already knew.

  She looked up into his eyes, stared into them. Her lips tightened and he was afraid that she would turn away, say she no longer wished his company. Then they relaxed. She did not smile. She remained serious, but he could see that she was still willing to think, to try—that she also was ready for a chance to decide what to say. “Yes, I would like that.”

  Her glance dropped to his fingers and he released his grip, let her turn away and walk to the house, back straight, but hips swaying in a siren’s call.

  He felt himself deflate as soon as the door closed behind her. It felt as if he’d just returned from battle, not from a quiet ride with his wife.

  He pulled a deep breath in and swung back into the curricle. He would not stand here and stew. He was a man—and men took action.

  A miserable afternoon—and a miserable dinner—and now there was the evening to endure.

  Why had she ever said she wanted him home? She had spoken the truth at the time. It was impossible to think they’d ever get past this point if they did not speak, but it did not stop the pain of being here in this moment.

  Pushing the needle back and forth in her embroidery, Annabelle tried to ignore the mess she was making of it—and of everything. Thomas sat across the room from her, a newspaper spread before him, but he seemed to be no more effectively concentrating on it than she was on her needlework. He kept shifting i
n his chair and he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

  Enough was enough.

  She dropped her needlework into the basket beside her. Thomas did not stir or glance up. Had he not heard it drop or was he trying to ignore her? Her emotions were worn with trying to guess what the man was thinking.

  She stood, shaking her skirts as she rose, forcing his attention to her.

  “Are you retiring?” he asked, his gaze skimming over her, his deep voice and accent raising shivers deep in her gut.

  She stood still, feeling the rise and fall of her chest beneath his gaze, wishing herself strong. “No.”

  “Then . . .” His voice trailed off and the heat in his glance grew.

  Men. She was mad—mad and scared—and his mind could turn to sex in a matter of seconds. “I think we need to talk.”

  “I am waiting.” He folded the paper with a loud crackle, then lowered it, and stared at her, his face calm.

  Damn him. Did he want a replay of this afternoon? Of dinner?

  She filled her lungs, watched his gaze drop to the rise of her chest. “You know,” is all she said.

  “I know what?”

  “Do we really need to play this game as we played it all afternoon?” She reached forward and plucked the paper from his hands, tossing it on the table. “You know and I know and neither wants to be the first to speak of it, but we can think of nothing else.”

  His gaze moved all the way down to her slippers and focused there. “Yes, I know. I saw it in a window this morning. And you?”

  “Lucille showed me.” She did not wish to say more.

  “And then she left you?”

  “I wished to be alone. I sent her away. And her afternoon and evening were already planned—and I did not wish her to be here when we talked.”

  “That I can understand.”

  Was he actually going to say anything of substance? She was not the one who had done anything wrong. She turned her back to him and paced toward the mantel, and then the window, and then back. She stopped directly before him, her skirts falling about his knees. She stared down at him, waited.