Something Like a Lady

by Kay Springsteen

  “Come.” Seabrook stepped away from her and turned, carrying his electrifying intensity with him.

  Samuel entered slowly, his spine straight, chin tucked. “Begging your pardon, my lord. Her grace requests your presence at dinner along with your wife. The attire is to be formal.”

  Seabrook might have cursed under his breath, though Annabella couldn’t be certain, and the butler showed no indication in his stoic features.

  “Thank you, Samuel. You may inform her grace that we shall be there.”

  “Robert Carson has been assigned as your valet, my lord, and Marie Penny shall take on the responsibilities of Lady Seabrook’s maid.” With a quick nod, Samuel turned and walked from the room, closing the door with a soft click.

  Seabrook turned and held Annabella in his regard. “I assume you brought something suitable.”

  She shuddered. “I shall not be — joining you for dinner. I’m…” What excuse could she use? Perhaps the one her mother had often used when she was avoiding callers. “I fear I’m far too exhausted from traveling to accept an invitation to dinner.”

  Seabrook’s grin returned. “You misunderstand, Lady Seabrook. My grandmother was not issuing an invitation. That, my darling wife, was a summons from the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jon tugged at his cravat – he’d tied the blasted thing too tightly and already wanted only to remove it. Where was Annabella? Did she not understand the importance of presenting in a timely fashion?

  He’d no sooner thought her name when the door to the bedchamber opened and she stepped through, stealing his ability to breathe. Glorious curls adorned her head and framed her face like a golden crown. An arrangement of lace and pearls clung to the left side of her head. A few strands of hair had been allowed to fall along the back of her neck, and he longed to brush them aside and press kisses where her neck met her bare shoulders. Jon swallowed hard and forced his eyes to move on to the cream-colored puffed sleeves that held fast to her upper arms, the ivory silk gloves that slouched just below her elbow. The silk of her gown gathered about her womanly curves like a caress. Unbidden, his fingers stirred against his thumbs. A ribbon of rosebuds crafted from blush-colored silk circled her skirt about midway to the floor, and below that, three tiers of finely stitched lace overlapped one another, each darkening in hue. The lowest tier reminded him of the pink roses at the cottage. He shifted his eyes upward again. Their gazes met and the barest hint of a smile teased her lips as she performed a slow pirouette. Her gown flared outward, skimming the floor with her movement, revealing the tips of pale blue and silver slippers.

  When she stopped, she spread open the blue fan clasped in her slender fingers and raised it so only her eyes showed. Tipping her head to the left, her green gaze regarded him over the top. “Do you find my attire suitable enough for her grace’s formal dinner, Lord Seabrook?”

  Words failed him as he just stood gaping at his bride. What secrets had she hidden behind those emerald eyes?

  One sculpted tawny eyebrow raised.

  “It’s… quite appropriate,” he said softly, and held out his hand. “You’re lovely.”

  Annabella laid her fingers against his palm and he lightly grasped her hand. His heart leapt about in his chest like a deer crashing through a bramble patch.

  “Shall we go, then?” he asked, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  With Annabella gliding gracefully at his side, Jon hardly felt the floor beneath his feet. Their steps matched perfectly as they descended the main staircase from the galley to the salon. Midway down, he paused, unaccountably overcome with emotion at the familiar tableau before him.

  Annabella angled her head and smiled up at him. “I trust we won’t have to observe the evening’s festivities from the stairs.”

  Jon pulled in a deep breath and released it slowly. By evening’s end, she might well wish they’d remained on the grand staircase. He smiled, and they continued to the bottom.

  The butler appeared at Jon’s elbow.

  “Good evening, Samuel,” greeted Jon with a smile. “I see her grace has not yet come down. How many for dinner this evening?”

  The butler’s face took on a pinched expression. “Other than yourselves and her grace, the number is five, my lord.”

  Jon nodded as a caustic sensation invaded his belly. Five…

  Annabella tittered behind her fan. So she could behave like an insipid young lady after all. “To look at your face, one would think you are about to head for the gallows instead of a dinner party. Do you not like your grandmother’s guests?”

  It wasn’t his like or dislike Jon was concerned over. “Annie, there’s something I should—”

  “Gladys Cecily Siler Durham, the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor,” announced Samuel from the bottom of the stairway.

  Too late.

  Her face devoid of expression, Gran held her head with regal grace. Dressed in rich crimson velvet edged in gold, with a gossamer veil that cascaded from a jeweled head ornament and fell over her right shoulder, she looked more like a queen than a dowager duchess, and the glide in her step belied her true age. She halted at the base of the steps and waited.

  Jon’s breath backed up in his lungs. She hardly seemed to have aged in the time he’d been away. Her dark hair had been shot with streaks of gray for as long as he could recall. In contrast to Annabella’s elaborate style, Gran’s tresses were pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck from which not a single strand dared escape. Her gaze touched on him briefly before moving on to Annabella, and then to the butler, to whom she gave a barely perceptible nod.

  Samuel’s voice rang across the salon. “Announcing Queen Dorothea.”

  Annabella turned her head toward the doorway then looked up at Jon, confusion pinching her forehead the tiniest bit.

  Resigned, he inclined his head toward his grandmother. Though the dowager made no movement, her gown fluttered near her feet. A sleek gray-and-brown striped figure emerged from behind her, nose in the air. Her slanted green eyes seemed to survey the room as she struck an aristocratic pose and remained perfectly still except for the tip of her tail, which waved back and forth like a miniature flag.

  Annabella tensed and curled her fingers, digging painfully into the tender part of Jon’s inner elbow. “That’s a cat!” she accused, her whisper sounding amazingly like a hissing feline.

  “Correction, Lady Seabrook.” Jon patted her hand with his until she loosened her grip. “That… is my grandmother’s favorite cat. So smile and—”

  “If you finish that statement with the word ‘curtsey,’ I shall kick you,” Annabella said through gritted teeth. She lifted her lips into a stiff, forced smile and added a little too sweetly. “My lord.”

  “Lord Felix and Princess Tabitha,” intoned Samuel.

  Two footmen appeared at the top of the staircase. Each cradled a fat black feline against his chest. The animals seemed content to be carried down the steps.

  Annabella dug her fingers into his arm once more, and Jon winced. “Those are cats,” she whispered again.

  “I had no idea what an astute judge of the obvious you can be,” murmured Jon through a smile that had become excruciating to maintain. He wasn’t certain who he wanted to choke more — his verbose wife or his unconventional grandmother.

  “Sir Julius and Miss Celia,” announced Samuel.

  Two more footmen appeared. The marmalade tabby on the left had bright orange eyes that darted about the room, clearly marking his means of escape. Poor sot. He hadn’t a chance of leaving before the end of the evening. The cat on the right lounged uncaring as the footman trotted down the steps. Long blue-gray fur stuck out at angles, lending the illusion of a badly-combed, misplaced wig.

  “I am not socializing with a pack of cats,” said Annabella quietly, her voice dripping with derision.

  “Don’t fret, my darling. They don’t wish to take their meal with you, either.” Seabrook gave her hand another pat. “
They have their own table.”

  “What are you whispering about over there?” demanded Gran, waving her arm in an imperious gesture. “You know I detest rudeness. Won’t tolerate it in my home.”

  Jon stepped forward, tugging a reluctant Annabella with him. He nodded his head in acknowledgment of the flashing dark glare his grandmother bestowed on them. “Your grace… Grandmother, may I present my… wife, the former Annabella Mary Lysandra Price. Now Lady Seabrook.”

  Annabella surprised him by slipping her hand from his arm and falling into a deep curtsey. “Your grace,” she said in a softly modulated tone. “I am honored to meet you.”

  Realizing his mouth had fallen open, Jon closed it and firmed his jaw. He tensed, ready to place himself between the dowager and the new bride. At any moment, Annabella was likely to aim one of her customary barbs at his grandmother, at which point the devil might indeed climb out of the fiery pit to enjoy the performance.

  Leaning forward and peering through narrowed eyes, Gran subjected Annabella to a head-to-toe inspection. With a curt nod, she straightened and stepped back. Annabella didn’t so much as flinch. Then his grandmother turned to Jon and withered him with a hard stare.

  He knew that look. It said without a doubt, she’d have a question or two for him later… and his answers had better measure up. With a satisfied nod that silently told him she was anything but, merely too polite to say so, his grandmother motioned for Samuel. “We shall take dinner now.”

  ****

  Annabella kept herself rigid in her seat. She couldn’t remember feeling less comfortable in a room since her arrival at Wyndham Green when she’d been a child. And that included the time she’d spent at Rose Cottage. The dining room was huge, ornate, and nearly overwhelming with its ostentatious display. The carved mahogany table — the one at which the people sat — could easily have served thirty. The matching chairs were large enough to be thrones.

  Her gaze kept straying to her left, seeking the portrait that hung behind the dowager. The dashing gentleman in blue stared out at her with flashing black eyes from his seat on the giant white horse. His skin was darker, but his black hair and eyes reminded her of Seabrook’s, though she dared not aim so much as a fleeting look toward the seat across the table to compare lest her attention be noticed. Was this yet another portrait of some distant ancestor? Why was it so huge? The ruddy thing dominated the wall, hanging from the ceiling to within inches of the floor. Why, the horse in the picture was larger than it would have been in real life. And the pair looked as though they would leap off the canvas at any moment and raise merry mayhem in the hall. Suppressing a shudder, Annabella again avoided a glance across the table, forcing her attention back to her plate as she lifted the fork to her mouth.

  It was the lemon all over again.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the sour taste assailing her mouth, moving down her throat, making her stomach roil, was that foul fruit and not the boiled cabbage she was trying to force down. Devil’s fire! Had the cook drowned the stuff in onions? Her eyes watered from the pungent smell. And the taste! She’d never get the bitterness off her tongue.

  Annabella grabbed the glass of wine to help wash the bite down. Her mistake became all too obvious in an instant. Instead of the slightly sweet, dry flavor she’d expected, the liquid that hit her palate was the most sour, tart wine she’d ever tasted. It took all her willpower not to spit the swill all over the table. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she tried several times to use her tongue to help force the wine down. What she wouldn’t give for that weak, syrupy lemonade she’d made for Seabrook.

  “That’s elderberry wine, dear. Goes wonderfully with the lamb and mint sauce. Is it not to your liking?” the dowager duchess asked.

  Mention of the roasted meat sent Annabella’s glance across the room at the miniature copy of the dining table that rested against the far wall. The five cats crouched over white china plates, greedily feasting on the same meal. Annabella would happily contribute her plate for their evening’s pleasure. She grabbed the napkin from her lap to cover her mouth. Holding it firmly against her lips, she finally forced the wretched, bitter wine down.

  Pity the wine she’d found hadn’t tasted as awful — she’d certainly not be in her current circumstance if it had.

  “I say, Jonathan, the chit’s gone quite pale.”

  Seabrook muttered something that might have been a curse.

  The dowager leaned forward. “Are you unwell, dear?”

  Annabella stared at Seabrook’s grandmother. Where did she start? The cats? The overcooked, mushy cabbage that tasted of onions? The horrid bitter wine that tasted of cedar bark? And the lamb! She detested the thought of consuming a baby animal. At Wyndham Green, Juliet or Patricia had always ensured that Cook prepared at least two of Annabella’s favorite dishes with each meal. This was almost worse than the miniscule amount of food she’d eaten in the cottage.

  Heat rose in Annabella’s cheeks as she realized the dowager had stopped eating and awaited an answer. She cleared her throat. “My apologies, your grace. But I find the fare a bit different from that to which I’m accustomed. And forgive me for saying so, but the only thing slightly worse than the taste of the wine is the smell. I’m afraid it has made me quite nauseous.”

  The dowager straightened her back. “I beg your pardon? The wine— By my word, you—”

  “Come now, Grandmother…” Seabrook’s smooth tones washed over the room, a welcome interruption. “If memory serves, Mother tended to suffer the same affliction when she was carrying Daphne and then Edith.” He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “As do many women. Lady Seabrook meant no offense.”

  His grandmother gasped.

  Humiliation washed over Annabella and she stared at a tiny greenish brown droplet of sauce that had seeped into the white linen mat in front of her and followed the fibers to form a cross. Why couldn’t she have just starved to death alone in the cottage? How could Seabrook confess such a private thing to his grandmother? The dowager had already made it clear with her silent inspection in the salon that she thought her grandson had married below his status.

  “With child?” Glaring at her grandson, the dowager spat the words. “I hope you aren’t trying to tell me you were forced to marry this chit because she’s with child.” She narrowed her eyes and stared across the table, her gaze dipping and lingering near Annabella’s middle.

  Annabella had grown beyond weary of those particular glances from people who had no business speculating about such matters. She glanced at Seabrook, who lifted an eyebrow and stared back… but remained silent.

  Say something, you dolt.

  One of the cats growled and hissed. A footman stepped forward and moved several dishes about on the felines’ table.

  Annabella sucked in a breath. Surely Seabrook didn’t want the dowager to believe she was carrying his child! The heavy thumping of her heart grew faster as she stared at him in disbelief. Say something, Seaside.

  The insufferable man brought his wine glass to his lips and took a drink.

  You lowlife Lucifer! He had no intention of intervening. Well, Seaside, two can play that game.

  Annabella turned to the dowager duchess. “I’m afraid Lord Seabrook doesn’t care much for my frankness, your grace. And it was quite awful of me to be so blunt. I do apologize. But in all honesty, I prefer French wine. So much so that I find all other wines… lacking.”

  Seaside definitely cursed that time.

  The dowager’s eyes went wide and she let out a gasp. “F-F-F-French! Did she say French?” She slammed her palms on the table. “Samuel! Samuel! Bring me my pistol!”

  The startled butler jumped to attention and hurried to the door. “Right away, your grace.”

  Annabella’s heart hit her stomach with a thud. A pistol? Was the old lady daft? She jerked her head around and looked at Seabrook. He stared straight ahead, a dark and sinister fire burning in his eyes, jaw clenching and unclenching.

  Onc
e again, Annabella, you’ve taken things too far.

  She turned back to face Seabrook’s grandmother. “Your grace, I—”

  The door swung open and the butler returned… with a large and very lethal appearing pistol.

  “Here you are, your grace.” With great flourish, he presented the pistol to the dowager. Candlelight from the chandelier danced along the steel barrel and sparkled off the polished silver inlay on the handle.

  Annabella blinked, momentarily mesmerized by the weapon. Did the butt form a silver heart?

  Then her grace swiped the pistol from the butler’s outstretched hands, mumbling, “I’ll have no traitors living under my roof.”

  Devil’s fire! The old woman actually did intend to shoot her. Panic rooted Annabella to her chair and stole her next breath. She wanted to run, to hide, to duck down under the table… anything to get away from the crazy old woman. She looked at Seabrook. The man was eating! Her life was in peril, and he was eating!

  “Blasted servants can’t do anything right,” muttered the dowager, stroking a loving finger along the barrel of the pistol. “Samuel! How am I to defend England with no bullets? Off with you, man, and hurry. Fetch me some balls.”

  The butler’s face went ashen and he started wringing his hands. His eyes beseeched Seabrook to save him.

  Seabrook shrugged and took a bite of lamb.

  “Don’t just stand there. Do as I — oh, never mind, I’ll get them myself.” The dowager pushed back her chair and the butler pitched forward to assist her up.

  Annabella jumped to her feet, prepared to make a hasty exit once the dowager was out of the room.

  Seabrook stood as well. “I believe Grandfather’s dueling pistols are in the sideboard in the study, Grandmother.”

  “My own pistol will do just fine. You just keep that traitor here until I get back,” she snapped as she sailed through the door in a flurry of crimson and gold, her veil trailing behind her.

  Oh heavens! The old woman was serious. Annabella tossed the napkin on the table. I have to get out of here.