Something Like a Lady

by Kay Springsteen

  ****

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Once again, Jon waited. From his vantage point near the window, he had a perfect view of the case clock on the mantle. Where in blazes had Annabella rushed off to? He hadn’t expected her to be waiting for him with open arms when he came in after securing the horses, but he hadn’t expected her to race out the back door, either. When he’d entered through the front and found her absent, the logical assumption had been that she’d run off to the kitchen to hide as had been her habit. But the room had been empty. He’d searched upstairs, even though he’d known she wouldn’t be there. Wasn’t, in fact, in the cottage at all.

  So where was his wild and willful wife? He turned to the window and thrust the curtain aside. The overcast sky had grown heavier. The air had thickened and stilled. Nothing moved — not so much as a leaf stirred. Dropping the curtain, he sighed. Then he sank onto the unbroken damask chair. Annabella, Annabella…

  Why had he done it? Why had he gone through with the wedding? He’d meant only to torment Annabella with doubt and teasing for jumping too quickly to an erroneous conclusion. And he would have corrected her notion at the brook had that idiot, lovesick vicar not shown up and been devil-bent on marrying her. Something about the man… the way he’d stared at Annabella, openly, as though he had the right…

  The way I look at her…

  No, he’d not take that path. Jon allowed his gaze to roam about the room. Opulence had never impressed him, and the tiny cottage was far from that. After the thorough cleaning, though, he could happily make his home in Rose Cottage with the woman he’d married. Annabella… He shook his head. She struck him as someone who appreciated fine things.

  Like those at Blackmoor Hall…

  An Oriental fan in dark blue and white silk rested atop the drum table, and he picked it up. As he weighed it in his palm, Jon struggled to recall if he’d seen her with it. Small and fragile in his hand, the fan was old and delicately crafted, but someone had taken care with it. He folded it closed and tapped it against his thigh in time with the clock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  The seconds mocked him. Restless and frustrated, he stood and paced to the mantle to stop the endless ticking. The blasted clock wasn’t keeping time anyway. No wonder it had been relegated to the dank old cottage.

  He almost didn’t hear the soft footfalls behind him. But the scents of rosemary and lilac reached out to him and he knew it was her. Slowly, he turned, unsure what he would see.

  Hands clasped in front of her, she lingered near the kitchen door, as if ensuring an avenue of escape. Her hair had been washed and arranged on top of her head — in one of those elaborate styles that he would find amusing to disturb. She’d scrubbed her face and while she still bore a bit of pallor, it wasn’t nearly as alarming as it had been at the church.

  Gone was the worn gray dress, replaced by a gown fit for… a lady. Lush black velvet embroidered with bright gold embraced her shoulders and accentuated her marble-fair skin. Soft folds of pale champagne sarcenet gathered below her bosom and hugged her rounded figure without shame, but the overlying veil of fine black lace subtly masked her curves. Her tentative half-step forward stirred the fabric about her feet and revealed black and gold slippers, the likely reason her steps had been so quiet.

  “You’re breathtaking.” He kept himself rooted where he stood. If he moved any closer, he’d not be responsible for his actions. Married or not, he desired a bride who was willing.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, dropping her arms to her sides. It seemed she didn’t know quite what to do with them. Her answering smile was demure, though she dipped her head so he couldn’t see what was in her eyes. When she looked up again, her expression was unreadable. “I… need to ask… what are your intentions as regards our marriage?”

  His intentions? To hold you and never let you go. To care for you. To worship you in every… He tamped down his baser urges.

  Pink flooded her cheeks as though she were aware of his thoughts. “That is… I understand the ways of marriage, but since ours was in such — haste… my family, my mother is unaware…”

  “You wish to send word to your mother?” Jon frowned. Was the duchess as spirited and temperamental as her daughter? Would she receive the news of her only child’s nuptials well?

  Annabella tensed and shook her head. “Please, no. Not — not just yet.” Her restless fingers plucked at the ribbon dangling from the front of her dress.

  She had something on her mind. Should he wait her out or—

  “My maid…” She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “The one you sent to your brother in your stead?”

  “Stepbrother,” she corrected softly. “And yes. I want to know — that is, I need to ascertain Ju— her welfare.”

  “I understand.” He let out a loud sigh.

  She nodded slowly. “And… I’ve been thinking… If — perhaps you believe our union has been a mistake… perhaps Mar— my stepbrother will assist us—”

  Do not finish that sentence! He sliced the air between them with the fan. Annabella fell into silence, but her eyes settled on the object in his hand and remained there. She appeared to be holding her breath. Irritated that she apparently was more fascinated with an old fan than she was interested in talking to him, Jon tossed the silly thing back onto the drum table and considered her through narrowed eyes.

  So that was her intent. Get to London and cry to Grey about the injustice of finding herself married. Not. Ruddy. Likely. He frowned. Ju… She’d stopped herself before finishing the name. The night before, she’d claimed someone named Juliet had taught her the bawdy songs. Ju… Juliet? “She’s me,” Annabella had whispered. A smile played with the corners of Jon’s lips. The mysteries of the Season appeared to be solved. Save one, of course.

  “You never answered me, you know.” He kept his tone even. “About why you sent someone to London in your place.”

  Annabella laced her fingers together and stared at the floor. “I was avoiding my stepbrother.”

  “Because of his perceived snub?” Jon chanced a step forward. When she didn’t retreat, he took another. “You accused him of giving your mother a social cut.” He softened his voice. “He didn’t, you know. Not by intent.”

  She loosened her hands and set them on her hips. “Then I’m to believe he’s particularly inept in the way he handles his affairs?”

  “Inept? No.” Jon shook his head and halted his advance. Those tiny hands could carry a hard punch. “Merely human. Why was your mother sending you off to London if she believed the two of you had been given the cut?”

  Annabella’s only answer was to roll her eyes and sigh impatiently.

  Jon rocked back on his heels. “Annabella?”

  She turned her head away and mumbled.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  Defiance sparked from her eyes as she met his gaze. “I said… she wanted the Duke of Wyndham to match me with a husband because she didn’t think I’d ever find one here in the country. I didn’t want any sort of match he might contrive, so I hid here.”

  Speechless at her announcement, Jon’s mouth fell open and he simply stared. Abruptly, everything fell into place. He threw his head back and hooted with laughter. “And look how ruddy well that turned out.” He couldn’t resist throwing her earlier words back at her.

  Her eyes narrowed into a fiery, emerald glare. “If you won’t take me to London, I shall make arrangements and go myself.”

  Jon hesitated. At which point, you will undoubtedly regale your stepbrother with stories of my wickedness. He released a slow breath. Many of them, unfortunately, accurate.

  “Truly?” He hedged. “And risk your cut being made obvious?”

  “Seabrook…” Her sharp tone mellowed. “Even you must agree that we married in haste. And I appreciate your protecting my
reputation as you did…” Annabella’s face lit with childlike excitement. “But don’t you see? If we go to London and confess we’ve made a mistake, Markwythe can fix this!”

  Jon’s throat tightened and he pulled at his cravat. Oh, indeed, his old mate “Markwythe” could most assuredly “fix” things. Likely by making his stepsister a young widow.

  Not to mention how his parents would react, immersed as they were in activities with Daphne’s debut. His heart squeezed with regret. Daphne didn’t deserve to have her coming out overshadowed by a rash act on his part.

  No, despite his making the offer, London was the last place Jon desired to be for any number of reasons.

  Annabella tapped her foot against the hardwood floor.

  He sighed. “We’ll have to take the mail coach. My carriage needs to be seen by a wheelwright, and we’ll be fortunate if the good vicar’s curricle carries us to the mail depot in Haselmere.”

  Annabella’s eyes widened. “You must be jesting. A mail coach?”

  Apparently he’d shocked her. Again. Jon shrugged. “It’s the quickest way, given I’ve no idea how long the wheelwright will take to fix my own coach. And the safest for traveling at night.”

  “At night!” She stared at him askance, as though trying to discern if he’d lost his faculties completely. “Travel at night?”

  “The sooner we leave to… handle our… unusual situation, the better, I should think.” Jon shrugged. “Unless your broth — stepbrother has another family coach.”

  “My mother took it to Bath,” whispered Annabella, her face pale. “Very well, I shall gather my luggage.”

  “Excellent. I have some matters to attend to myself. Oh, and…” He held up a hand to catch her attention. “Try to pack no more than two bags. Space will be limited.”

  ****

  “Is that the vicar’s carriage outside?” asked Abby, setting the wicker basket on the worktable. The aroma of freshly roasted meat wafted on the air. “Should I return to the main house for larger portions?” Her sharp gaze rolled over Annabella, and her eyes widened.

  “That will not be necessary.” Annabella slipped the black velvet bag that had once contained the French wine into the bottom of her valise and covered it with two of her folded gowns. “The vicar is not taking supper here.”

  Abby stared, quite obviously aware that something had changed.

  The maid had become nearly as dear a friend as Juliet, and Annabella sighed at the thought of leaving her. “I will miss you, I’m afraid. I’ve…” She sighed and swallowed hard. “I’ve been married and I shall be leaving posthaste for London with my — husband.”

  “Married!” Abby looked her up and down again and then sent a thoughtful gaze toward the front of the house. “Oh, my! But, m’lady… what about your — her grace?”

  Yes… what about Mother? Annabella forced a smile. “I believe her grace will be quite pleased with — with the way things have worked out.”

  “Shall I serve the meal, m’lady?” asked Abby.

  Already, Annabella could feel the renewed distance between them and she stifled a sob. “That won’t be necessary, Abby. But thank you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The mail coach careened sideways like a drunken harlot, sending Annabella bouncing into Seabrook. How fitting to find herself heading to the one place she didn’t want to go, had starved herself for days to avoid. London.

  And traveling by way of a mail coach that smelled of sweat and dirt.

  And married.

  To Seaside!

  “Blazes,” Annabella breathed softly. She’d made a mess of things.

  She swallowed hard as vivid memories filled her mind. Images of lurching about Rose Cottage, Seabrook’s face looming over her. Why had she not left the French wine alone? Moaning softly, she pushed the vision away. If ever a night should remain completely forgotten…

  The coach pitched again and for the third or fourth time, the stout woman on the seat next to her rolled against Annabella, who in turn fell against Seabrook. Again.

  Muttering, the old harridan patted her mostly white hair and glared at Annabella as though the rutted road were her fault. The woman didn’t seem inclined to right herself in the seat, so Annabella sent her a hard scowl — for all the good it did in the dim light. She tried to sit up, but her cloak was caught under the woman’s heavy frame. She gave a tug, then another one. The fabric wouldn’t budge, and the neck had grown tighter, slowly strangling Annabella with the woman’s weight.

  “What are you doing?” murmured Seabrook in her ear.

  “I can’t move,” Annabella replied through gritted teeth.

  “You aren’t supposed to move. We’re in a coach. The coach does the moving.” Ambient moonlight flickered through the window and played over his face. His mouth was drawn in a thin line, but a glint of laughter danced in his eyes.

  She wanted to smack the smugness from his attitude. Instead, she gestured at the hard wooden seats, overflowing with the dregs of smelly, unwashed humanity. “Well, you certainly know how to treat a lady with style, Seaside.”

  When he just continued to stare at her, she cursed, making him laugh.

  “Hrmph,” muttered the harpy beside her, and then she shifted, presenting Annabella with the close view of one meaty shoulder encased in sturdy brown wool.

  At least the movement freed her cloak. Annabella gathered the velvet material closer about her.

  “I shall ever strive to please you, my lovely wife.” Seabrook bowed his head with great flourish. “You should be content we aren’t riding on the roof like those two gentlemen who arrived late.”

  They hadn’t been late, though. Annabella had seen them hanging about when she and Seabrook had first arrived at the mail depot. She’d also seen Seabrook speaking with them, and she was fairly certain coins had slipped from his hands to theirs.

  He really had seen to her comfort in the best way he could at the moment. She should be grateful. But she wanted to claw his eyes out and burst into tears at the same time. “I should have run off and joined a religious order.”

  Seabrook chuckled.

  Devil’s foul breath! She’d spoken the thought aloud again.

  He leaned over, so close his warm breath tickled her ear. “Why don’t you try to sleep? ‘Twill make the miles of our journey pass more quickly.”

  Sleep? On what? The shoulder of the old woman seated next to her?

  The smelly man across from her shifted and stretched out his legs until the soles of his muddy boots met the toes of Annabella’s half-boots.

  “I beg your pardon!” she said to the uncouth stranger, and drew her feet back as far as they would go.

  Loud snores exploded through the coach, bringing with them the fusty stench of old ale.

  “Wonderful.” Annabella wrinkled her nose. “How far away is London?” she whispered to Seabrook.

  Their snoring companion snorted, struggled upright, and belched. “Huh? What? London?”

  “Lay yer ’ead down, y’old fool,” mumbled the man sitting next to him. He lifted one of his spider-like arms and swatted the drunken sot. “We’re nowhere near London.” The scrawny man’s glittery eyes reflected in the darkness as he gazed across the coach at Annabella.

  A shudder of revulsion rippled through her, and she pulled her cloak even closer. With surreptitious movements, she wrapped the handle of her valise more securely about her arm and pushed against Seabrook. “Better the devil you know than the one you don’t,” her father had always told her. Seabrook was a devil, but he’d not murder her.

  No, he just ruined you when you were sotted with too much drink.

  Raucous snores filled the tiny coach. Seabrook laid his arm around Annabella’s shoulder and drew her close. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat steady and sure. In spite of her determination to remain awake, her eyelids grew heavy.

  ****

  “Annabella…” The balmy summer breeze whispered her name. “Wake up, Annabella.”

  A
smile sprang to her lips. That was silly. Breezes didn’t whisper.

  “Annie.”

  Nor did they shake her by the shoulder and call her by the wrong name. She forced her eyes open. Her body ached from the roots of her hair to her toes. Warm softness beneath her cheek moved up and down and the thump of a drum beat a steady rhythm in her ear. Her fingers were fisted in heavy wool. She froze.

  Devil’s fire! That was Seabrook’s coat she was clutching. She pushed away from him and looked down at herself. At least she wasn’t in dishabille again.

  “Where are we?” The words slurred as they tumbled off her sleep-thickened tongue. Faint light spilled into the coach through the narrow door, now hanging open and flapping back and forth on rusty hinges. The coach! Oh, merciful angels! The blasted thing had stopped. She sat up and slid toward the door so eager to get out she could ignore her stiff, sore muscles. “Have we arrived?”

  Seabrook’s lips twitched. Then he climbed out first, turned, and held out a hand to assist her. On any other day, she’d have ignored him and shoved past the outstretched hand. But the snicker from the other side of the coach dictated that she at least try to behave according to her station — which was far, far above that of the drunken sot who’d shared a ride with them. Turning her face away from the offensive creature, she placed her hand in her… in Seabrook’s.

  “What part of Town are we in?” she asked, peering through the gloom of pre-dawn. A heavy yellow mist shrouded the squat two- and three-story buildings lining both sides of the road. With their bases planted against the cobblestones, the mushroom shape of the structures gave the illusion of leaning toward each other at the top, and the already narrow street appeared to close in on itself. A peculiar odor hung in the air and tickled the back of her throat. Annabella wrinkled her nose.

  “This is Fleet Street, near St. John’s Church,” murmured Seabrook, reaching for her valise.

  Annabella clutched the bag close and sent him an irritated scowl. “Fleet Street?” She leaned around him for a second look. Where were the market stalls? The blocky buildings? The merchants hurrying by to set up their shops for the day? Where were the street lamps? Where were the people? The carriages? She’d heard Fleet Street never completely slept. She performed a slow pirouette. The road behind the mail coach was more of the same. Buildings constructed of ancient fieldstone and brick crowded the deserted lane. The only movement came from the writhing yellow mist that drifted along the street. Never mind sleeping. Fleet Street was as dead as a miser’s doorknob.